14.05.25

Who is going to pause for a moment and gently tell the woman in the house—

That it’s okay if today she didn’t feel like waking up early. If all she did was sit quietly on the swing, getting to see the new day she just begin, smile with those flowers in her garden, that is still something beautiful.

That those extra 10 minutes of silent sleep after the alarm—those didn’t throw her day off. Life won’t fall apart. The people she loves will carry on, just as she always does for them.

Who will tell her—

It’s not a rule that she has to cook everyone’s favorite meal every single day. That once in a while, it’s okay to think about what she craves, how she likes her food. To cook for herself, the way she used to. To remember—this kitchen belongs to the whole home, also her.

Who will sit beside her and say—

It’s not the end of the world if she forgot the groceries this week or the laundry was not done. No one is judging her role as a caretaker of the house for it.

That it’s alright if no one can find their belongings—someone else can look for them too.

And if the curry has too little salt today—he will still eat it. He’ll still carry her care in his tiffin, even if the taste is a bit off.

She needs someone to softly say—

It’s okay if she wasn’t in the mood today. If she had a hard time at work and- she felt tired to make a perfect meal. The day wasn’t seamless. That not everyday is perfect and she can let loose- Today, also on all such days.

That saying “no” doesn’t make her rude or less loving—it makes her human.

Who will remind her—

That it’s okay to miss a Saturday night at home. That Sunday morning can still flow without her on-call presence. Her family will manage, and she can too—on her own terms, in her own rhythm.

She deserves to know—

That she can take a pause. That she doesn’t have to hold the entire house together every moment.

That she’s not a machine, ticking through tasks flawlessly.

That she fights quiet battles—to be there for others, and still remember herself.

That sometimes, she does everything and yet feels like nothing—and even that is okay.

She needs someone—maybe herself—to whisper:

Doing nothing is okay.

Breathing slowly is okay.

Taking space, choosing herself, honoring her comfort—yes, all of that is more than okay.

She matters too. Not just as a caretaker. But as a whole person, with needs, with feelings, with worth.