Some People Leave Twice

 Some People Leave Twice

Some people leave twice.

The first time, death takes them.

The second time, acceptance takes them.

And I don't think we talk enough about the second goodbye.

When my parents died, I thought the worst part would be the moment they were gone.

It wasn't.

The worst part was everything that came after.

The first death is loud.

There are people around you. Phones ringing. Relatives arriving. Rituals to perform. Condolences to receive. Food to organize. Documents to sign. A thousand things that keep your hands busy while your heart is quietly collapsing.

You survive the first few days because you have no choice.

Then everybody goes home.

And life has the audacity to continue.

The milkman still comes.

The sun still rises.

People still complain about traffic.

Someone sends a funny WhatsApp message.

Your children need dinner.

And you suddenly realize—

the world has not stopped just because yours has.

That is when grief really begins.

You reach for the phone before remembering.

You see something and think, I must tell Mom.

You accomplish something and instinctively think, Dad would have been so proud.

And then comes that horrible little pause.

Oh.

They are not there.

Not anymore.

You think you are grieving their death.

But actually, you are grieving a thousand tiny deaths.

The death of being someone's child.

The death of having a place where you could still be small.

The death of hearing, Have you eaten?

The death of knowing that somewhere in this world, two people existed who were emotionally programmed to care about whether you were okay.

And then there comes the second leaving.

It happens much later.

Quietly.

Almost cruelly.

One day, you realize you are beginning to live without them.

You don't cry every morning.

You stop expecting their phone call.

You make decisions without imagining their opinion.

You laugh—and don't immediately feel guilty for laughing.

You celebrate something without that sharp ache in your chest.

And that is when acceptance walks into the room.

And acceptance is not peaceful.

Not initially.

Because accepting that they are gone feels, strangely, like losing them again.

As if by accepting their absence, you are agreeing to their death.

As if moving forward means leaving them behind.

So you resist.

You keep the photographs.

The clothes.

The little objects nobody else would understand.

You keep their voice recordings.

Their handwriting.

Their recipes.

Their favourite chair.

You keep anything that makes the sentence they are gone feel slightly less final.

But eventually, you learn something heartbreaking and beautiful.

Acceptance does not mean forgetting.

It means you stop negotiating with reality.

You stop asking, Why did this happen?

You stop waiting for the impossible.

You stop wishing for one more conversation.

And instead, you begin carrying them.

Not in your hands.

In your habits.

In your language.

In your temper.

In your kindness.

In the way you worry about your children.

In the things you say exactly like them without even realizing it.

You discover that your parents have left fingerprints all over your personality.

They are in the food you cook.

The values you defend.

The stories you tell.

The way you love.

The way you survive.

Maybe that is the cruelest joke of death.

We spend our lives thinking our parents are the people we go back to.

And then one day, there is nowhere to go back to.

So we become the place they live.

Some people leave twice.

The first time, they leave the world.

The second time, we finally stop waiting for them to return.

And perhaps that second goodbye is not really goodbye.

Perhaps it is the moment grief finally changes shape.

From I want you back

to

I am grateful you were here.

From How will I live without you?

to

Let me live in a way that makes your life matter.

That is the only kind of acceptance I understand now.

Not forgetting.

Not moving on.

Moving forward—with them.

Because parents may leave our hands.

They may leave our homes.

They may even leave our photographs one day.

But if we have loved them deeply enough,

they never really leave us.

They become the quietest, most permanent part of who we are.

And perhaps that is the final pearl:

Some people leave twice.

But the ones who gave us life—

leave pieces of themselves behind,

so that they never have to leave completely.

 

”Sometimes the woman you are searching for is the woman you abandoned while trying to keep everybody else happy “.Juju’s Pearls

 

Midlife Crisis or Awakening?

Midlife Crisis or Awakening?

Perhaps the most dangerous thing a woman can do in midlife is to become honest with herself.

Because once you begin asking the questions you have spent decades avoiding, there is no easy way back.

I know.

I have started asking them.

Not the polite questions.

Not the ones that make everyone comfortable.

The uncomfortable ones.

Is this the life I chose—or the life I slowly settled into?

When did I become so good at being needed that I forgot what it felt like to be wanted?

How much of me did I give away in the name of love, responsibility, duty, motherhood, marriage, success… and being “the strong one”?

For years, I wore my identities like medals.

Doctor.
Mother.
Wife.
Daughter.
Teacher.
Caregiver.
Achiever.

I showed up.

Again and again.

Even when I was exhausted.

Even when I was hurting.

Even when a small, rebellious voice inside me whispered, What about you?

I silenced that voice.

There was always something more important.

Someone who needed me.

A responsibility waiting.

A deadline.

A family.

A profession.

A life.

And then, somewhere in the middle of all that living, something inside me changed.

Not dramatically.

There was no thunderclap.

No cinematic moment.

Just a quiet realization that arrived one morning and refused to leave:

I cannot spend the rest of my life being a version of myself that keeps everyone else comfortable.

That realization frightened me.

Because awakening doesn't always feel like freedom.

Sometimes it feels like grief.

You grieve the years you cannot retrieve.

The dreams you postponed.

The woman you once were.

The woman you might have become.

You grieve people.

Places.

Versions of home.

Versions of yourself.

And sometimes, inexplicably, you grieve even while sitting inside a life that looks perfectly fine from the outside.

Perhaps that is what people call a midlife crisis.

The sudden restlessness.

The questioning.

The desire to change things.

The inexplicable urge to begin again.

But what if it isn't a crisis?

What if it is simply clarity arriving late?

What if the discomfort isn't because your life is falling apart?

What if it is because the life you built can no longer contain the woman you have become?

I don't have neat answers.

I still have days when I feel lost.

Days when I am angry.

Days when I am tired of being brave.

Days when I want to disappear—not from life, but from expectations.

And then there are other days.

Days when I write.

When I laugh.

When an idea excites me.

When I say no without writing an apology in my head.

When I catch a glimpse of that girl I once was—the one who believed life could be bigger, wilder, more meaningful.

And I realize she never really disappeared.

She was waiting.

Waiting for me to stop being so busy surviving everyone else's expectations that I could finally hear her.

Maybe that is what midlife gives us.

Not a crisis.

A reckoning.

A chance to look at the life we have lived and ask, with tenderness rather than regret:

What do I want the remaining chapters to feel like?

I don't want to spend the rest of my life proving that I can endure.

I want to experience.

To create.

To teach.

To write.

To love without losing myself.

To give without emptying myself.

To grow older without becoming smaller.

I want fewer performances and more presence.

Less approval.

More truth.

Less should.

More want.

And perhaps, after decades of becoming who I needed to be for everyone else, I am finally learning the most difficult role of all:

becoming myself.

So, is this a midlife crisis?

Maybe.

But I prefer another word.

Awakening.

Because a crisis makes you believe something is ending.

An awakening makes you wonder what might finally begin.

And perhaps that is where I am standing today—

somewhere between everything I have been and everything I am still becoming.

Older, yes.

Wiser, I hope.

A little bruised.

A little rebellious.

A lot more honest.

And wonderfully, gloriously—

not done yet.

Because fifties isn't the epilogue.

It is not the quiet settling down after the interesting parts are over.

It is not a full stop.

It is a comma.

A breath.

A pause before the next sentence.

I’m not done yet.

I’ve just begun.

— Juju’s Pearls
From the pages of Momsie Popsie Diary 5.0

 

Maybe you are not falling apart. Maybe you are finally waking up to yourself.

- Juju’s Pearls

 

 

 

At the Crossroads? Don't Change Your Life. Change Your Relationship with It.

"Do I need a new life, or do I simply need more room to be myself within the life I already have?"

It is a question many women quietly ask themselves—but few dare to say aloud.

When life delivers multiple losses and transitions in a short span of time, the instinct is often to change everything. We think a new city, a new career, a new relationship, or a new beginning will somehow silence the restlessness within.

Sometimes that instinct is wisdom.

Sometimes it is simply exhaustion looking for an escape hatch.

The challenge is knowing the difference.

So before making life-altering decisions, pause and ask yourself:

Is my problem temporary, or is it structural?

Explore before you decide.

Make one small change before making a dramatic one.

Instead of trying to rewrite the best version of yourself, create the truest version of yourself.

For decades, many accomplished women spend their lives becoming everything everyone else needs them to be.

The ideal daughter.

The ideal wife.

The ideal mother.

The dependable sister.

The reliable professional.

And somewhere along the way, they forget to ask the most important question:

"What do I want?"

Not what is expected.

Not what is admired.

But what is authentic.

When a woman feels she is falling apart, she is often not breaking down.

She is standing at a crossroads.

The grief is real.

The loneliness is real.

The challenges in marriage are real.

The uncertainty about career is real.

The shifting identity after fifty is real.

Many times, the problem is not an undisciplined mind.

It is simply a mind trying to process grief, uncertainty, financial stress, career transitions, marital strain, aging, identity shifts, and loneliness—all at once.

That would overwhelm almost anyone.

What we need is not tighter control.

We need greater compassion.

Greater acceptance.

Start small.

Say no to one unreasonable expectation.

Reconnect with an old friend.

Rediscover a forgotten passion.

Explore a new opportunity.

Cry a little less.

Laugh a little more.

Life rarely changes through one grand decision.

It changes through a series of small, courageous choices.

For many women, especially after children leave home and aging parents pass away, a different question begins to emerge:

"Where is my space?"

Not physically.

Emotionally.

Creatively.

Spiritually.

Personally.

Living in someone else's home—even when it is family—can quietly create another question:

"Where do I truly belong?"

Sometimes the deepest longing is not for a different house.

It is for a sense of ownership over one's own life.

Crossroads feel confusing because we assume we must decide our entire future in one moment.

We don't.

We only need to choose the next step.

What if the next chapter is not about becoming better?

What if it is about becoming lighter?

Lighter from other people's expectations.

Lighter from old disappointments.

Lighter from the constant need to prove yourself.

Lighter from the exhausting pressure to always appear strong.

Perhaps after decades of achieving, the second half of life is inviting us to simply be.

Ask yourself:

What expectations can I put down?

What guilt can I release?

What old arguments no longer deserve my energy?

What responsibilities no longer belong to me?

What version of myself am I still trying to satisfy?

Sometimes the second half of life is not about adding more.

It is about releasing what has become too heavy to carry.

That is the quiet freedom that comes with fifty.

The freedom to say:

"This matters."

"This doesn't."

"I choose this."

"I no longer choose that."

That is not selfishness.

That is wisdom.

Lightness is not weakness.

It is what allows us to carry what truly matters.

Loss changes us.

But over time, something unexpected begins to happen.

The safe place we once searched for outside ourselves slowly begins to grow within us.

Not because we stop missing the people we have lost.

But because we begin carrying forward the love, the wisdom, and the strength they spent a lifetime giving us.

Popsie, My father may no longer be the comforting voice at the other end of the phone.

But perhaps the strength I am searching for today is the very strength he spent a lifetime helping me build.

And perhaps this next chapter is not about rising like a phoenix.

Perhaps it is about becoming a tree.

Rooted.

Lighter.

Wiser.

Still growing.

And very much not done yet.

Coming Soon

Momsie Popsie Diary 5.0

I'm Not Done Yet. I've Just Begun.

Stay tuned... because some of life's most beautiful chapters begin after we believe the story is already written.

Juju's Pearls 

FOG PART 2 Learning to step out of FOG

Living in the Fog: Fear, Obligation, and Guilt — and the Courage to See Clearly

We all walk through FOG at some point in life.

Not the weather outside. The weather within.

FOG — Fear. Obligation. Guilt.

Three quiet forces that shape our decisions, silence our voices, and sometimes redirect the course of our lives without our consent.

The most dangerous thing about FOG is not that it exists. It’s that we often don’t realize we are inside it.

 When visibility drops, direction disappears.

---

What is FOG, really?

FOG is an emotional state where our choices are driven less by clarity and more by invisible pressure.

· Fear whispers: What if they reject me?

· Obligation insists: I must do this. They expect it.

· Guilt reminds: If I don’t, I am a bad person.

And slowly, silently, our authentic voice steps back.

We comply. We adjust. We sacrifice.

Not because we want to.

Because we feel we should.

---

How FOG enters our lives

FOG rarely arrives dramatically. It seeps in quietly through relationships, traditions, expectations, and sometimes even love.

It shows up when:

· we say yes while meaning no

· we stay silent to keep peace

· we carry responsibilities that were never ours

· we confuse kindness with self-erasure

Sometimes FOG is inherited.

Passed through generations as duty.

Sometimes it is cultural.

Sometimes emotional.

Sometimes deeply personal.

And often — invisible.

---

The surprising truth: FOG is not always the enemy

This may sound unexpected.

But FOG is not always harmful.

Fear can protect us. Obligation can build discipline. Guilt can strengthen conscience.

These emotions are not villains.

They are signals.

Problems begin when signals become prisons.

When fear stops growth. When obligation replaces choice. When guilt replaces self-respect.

That is when clarity disappears.

---

How do we recognize we are living in FOG?

Ask yourself three gentle questions:

Am I doing this because I truly want to? or Because I am afraid not to?

Am I choosing this? or Am I carrying this?

Would I still do this if nobody expected it from me?

If the answers feel uncomfortable, you are not weak.

You are becoming aware.

And awareness is the first step out of the fog.

---

Learning to step out of FOG

Clarity does not arrive overnight.

It arrives through small courageous decisions.

Here are a few powerful ways to begin:

1. Name the emotion

Say it honestly:

“I am afraid.” “I feel obligated.” “I am feeling guilty.”

Naming dissolves confusion.

Unspoken emotions control us. Spoken emotions guide us.

---

2. Replace “should” with “choose”

Watch how your language changes your life.

Instead of:

“I should do this.”

Try:

“I choose to do this.”

Or

“I choose not to do this.”

Choice restores dignity.

---

3. Understand that boundaries are not disrespect

Many people remain in FOG because they confuse boundaries with selfishness.

But boundaries are not rejection.

They are clarity with compassion.

They protect relationships from silent resentment.

---

4. Accept that growth disappoints people sometimes

This is difficult.

But true.

When you begin living authentically:

Some expectations break. Some patterns shift. Some people feel uncomfortable.

And that is okay.

Because clarity always feels uncomfortable before it feels freeing.

---

Using FOG wisely in our lives

Instead of running away from Fear, Obligation, and Guilt, we can learn to listen to them differently.

Fear can become preparation. Obligation can become responsibility with choice. Guilt can become moral awareness without self-punishment.

FOG is not meant to trap us.

It is meant to test our alignment with who we truly are.

---

The moment clarity returns

The day you begin asking:

“Is this my decision?”

Something shifts.

The fog doesn’t disappear immediately.

But light enters.

And once light enters, direction follows.

Because the goal of life is not to avoid responsibility.

It is to live consciously inside it.

Not controlled by Fear. Not burdened by Obligation. Not weighed down by Guilt.

But guided by awareness.

And that is when we stop surviving inside the fog—and begin walking with vision. 

Love Juju 

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