I’m a 30-something Punjabi American woman living in Los Angeles, California.
I write about love, divorce, race, trauma, heartbreak, self improvement, and personal development. I grew up straddling two worlds: my hyper-conservative and traditional Punjabi world and the white, American world outside my home.
I’ve been writing since I was a young girl. When I was four, I would scribble on pieces of paper, pretending I was writing books and newsletters. Writing is how I survived every trial and tribulation I’ve ever faced. …
I am a Punjabi woman in a relationship with a black man. I say “black” because he prefers that term to “African American.”
Before meeting my boyfriend, I always felt slightly awkward using the term “black” to describe anyone. In my language, we refer to a person of African descent as “kala,” which literally translates into the English word “black.” Growing up, kala was always used in a slightly pejorative manner, so as an adult, I always felt uncomfortable calling black people . . . black people.
Through my relationship, I’ve learned that “black” is actually a political…
Though I grew up in the Los Angeles area of Southern California, my world as a child was very much contained within the tight-knit Punjabi community within the San Fernando Valley.
As a result, my first language was Punjabi, the foods I grew up eating were Punjabi, and the majority of the music I danced to was Punjabi (bhangra) music. Of course, I would watch non-Punjabi shows like The Power Rangers and X-Men as well as movies like Mrs. Doubtfire and Hook. …
I want to first acknowledge that this piece is written from a point of privilege. I have a roof over my head, I have food in my fridge, and I have clothes that keep my body warm.
This pandemic hit my family hard — my younger cousin committed suicide over the summer, my parents lost a 20-year business, I lost my job in April, and both my parents and my partner are in industries that are struggling incredibly hard right now.
Despite this, my loved ones and I are safe and healthy, while millions are not. I am aware of…
I remember sweetness. The soft scent of sugar and musk as I nuzzled my tiny face into her warm neck.
I remember beauty. Standing on the tips of my toes to peer over the bathroom counter as I watched her reflection, mesmerized as she smeared black eyeliner over large brown eyes.
I remember comfort. The heat emanating from her womanhood as I burrowed into her legs while she cooked and rolled out dough, slapping rotis back and forth between her hands, turning her body smoothly to stir the dhaal. I was too small to see over the kitchen counter, but…
It was a fight we’ve had too many times to count.
“You don’t know how to support me emotionally.”
“Babe, I’m trying. I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
“I’m tired of this. You’re like a broken record. You never show up for me the way I need you to. I’m always there for you, and you just can’t seem to be there for me.”
The silent treatment usually follows, building for a day or two before I crack and tell him that I forgive him, I know he’s still learning, and I love him and will be patient as he continues…
Over the summer, I stepped back from my relationship with my boyfriend of 16 months.
Our differences were too stark, and I struggled with my own sense of value as I learned more and more about his past. After I discovered yet another secret he’d kept from me, I left Los Angeles to stay with my mother in Phoenix.
A few weeks later, I decided to find a therapist to help me process the separation from my boyfriend. …
So I’m doing a 90-day writing challenge but decided to not write Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday.
That might seem counter-intuitive, but it was something I did with purpose. My neuroses and my history with OCD and eating disorders means as soon as I feel obsession kick in, I need to step back and clear my head before something that’s supposed to help me ends up hurting me.
I began to get obsessive with Medium and writing — I would think about it all day and give myself a headache trying to figure out how to honor the “3 hours a…
I was journaling this morning, and I thought of someone who I missed on a deep level — she was my best friend for over 12 years, the woman I went to for everything.
She knew every nook and cranny of my flawed and imperfect self; and she loved me in my totality.
2020 marked the end of our friendship, for a variety of reasons. …
*In my exhaustion, I didn’t hit publish last night, so this is being posted on Sunday but was written on Saturday!! This does not, in my mind, break my writing streak please and thank you*
I started my period last night and was in agony, and today started off no better.
I spent half the day curled up on the sofa, under a blanket, trying not to let my emotions dive me into a pit of hopelessness. The news is terrifying, especially living in Los Angeles. COVID-19 has taken over the city, and there are still people who just don’t…
Living life on my own terms & writing to tell about it.