“Shall I push your wheelchair, or will you push mine?”
That’s how my Sunday began — not with a profound thought, but with a belly laugh during a lakeside walk in Lalbagh.
One moment we were talking about deadlines and coffee cravings, and the next we were visualizing ourselves in our 80s — still showing up for each other, creaking joints, stubborn knees, and all. The conversation had aged like fine wine. Funnier, warmer, and surprisingly… wiser.
We’ve walked this path — both literally around the lake, and metaphorically through life — for years now. What began as small talk has grown into these comforting weekend rituals. Our kids, both on unique journeys, walk ahead — sometimes side by side, sometimes in their own bubbles, but always in sync. And we follow behind, sipping chai, sharing stories, and joking about therapy fails and bedtime negotiations.
But this Sunday, something hit differently. As we joked about wheelchairs and old-age plans, I caught myself smiling — not nervously, but with a kind of strange peace.
Because I knew — our idea of retirement will never be conventional. And surprisingly, I’m okay with that.
Parenting Without a Blueprint
Parenting rewires you. Parenting a child who doesn’t fit the conventional mold? That rewires you in 4D.
When I first stepped into this world of therapy appointments, milestone charts, and constant questions, I was overwhelmed. But somewhere along the way, something beautiful started happening. I stopped trying to fit my child — or myself — into a box.
And slowly, I started seeing just how many boxes we all live in.
Unboxing the World
Everywhere I turned, people were clinging to identities like armor. Their city, their caste, their school of thought, their food choices, even their Netflix preferences. It wasn’t just pride — it was defense.
Conversations weren’t conversations anymore. They were mini-battles to prove who’s right. Opinions became performance art. And don’t even get me started on WhatsApp groups — the breeding grounds of unsolicited ideology.
But when you’re parenting on a path filled with uncertainty, you learn something rare: flexibility. And with that comes empathy. With every tantrum in a public place, every awkward birthday party exit, I dropped a little more of my ego… and a lot of my judgments.
Finding My Kind of Ease
Typical social events? I love them. But let’s be real — they come with baggage.
I’m constantly alert, managing my son’s comfort, politely smiling through well-meaning stares, explaining why he doesn’t like certain sounds, or why we’re leaving early. It’s not that people are unkind — it’s just lack of understanding and curiosity. And explaining becomes a second job.
But with families who’ve walked this road? It’s bliss.
No explanations needed. No apologies. No labeling — just knowing.
We sit, we joke, we laugh at the absurdity of our lives, and we savor our chai like it’s champagne. The freedom is not just in the understanding — it’s in not having to perform. It’s the rarest kind of ease.
Not a Club. A Realization.
At first glance, it may seem like we’re just another “category” — the so-called “special parents.” But I don’t see myself that way.
If anything, this journey has been about letting go of categories altogether. It has stripped away the layers I didn’t even know I was wearing.
Life didn’t hand me a special child.
It handed me a different lens. One that made the world clearer, kinder, messier, and far more honest.
I still love my people, my stories, my quirks — but I’m no longer attached to being a certain kind of anything. I’m learning to simply be. And to let others be.
Letting Go (Even a Little)
I’m still human. I still overthink, still cling to my favorite shows, still judge myself on bad days. I haven’t reached any mountaintop of detachment.
But I have started letting go of this constant urge to define and be defined.
And let me tell you — letting go, even a little, is liberating. It’s like taking off shoes that were always too tight.
Final Thought
So yes, maybe someday, one of us will be pushing the other in a wheelchair, still chatting, still laughing about the chaos of life.
But between now and then, I’ll walk these lakeside loops, shedding a little more of the “shoulds,” holding onto the “is,” and celebrating the now.
Because right now — in this laugh, this chai, this walk — there is everything.
