And Then, There Was a New Morning

 And Then, There Was a New Morning

Today, I closed my second ultrasound centre. And for a moment, I just stood there. Looking around. Twenty-seven years of my life seemed to be stitched into those walls.Twenty-seven years of patients, scans, reports, laughter, exhaustion, cups of tea, celebrations, disappointments—and a younger me who had once believed that this was how life would always be. But life, I have learnt, has its own way of turning pages.

Last September, I closed my first centre. And then, something rather beautiful happened. I joined a medical college as Faculty in Radiology. Not because I had no choice. Not because life had cornered me. But because I had always wanted to teach in a medical college. Twenty-seven years ago, when I was beginning my journey, there was no medical college in my city. Today, there are…

And suddenly, a dream I had carried quietly for almost three decades was standing right in front of me. So I chose it. Consciously. Happily. Perhaps that is what makes this journey so strange. While I was busy building my practice, raising a family, writing books, living a thousand lives within one life—and later saying goodbye to my Momsie 11 years ago and my Popsie 10 months ago—I had forgotten that some dreams don't disappear. They simply wait.

And life has been so busy that I haven't really had the luxury to grieve properly. Momsie left, Popsie left. I kept going. I closed my first centre.  I kept going. A new professional chapter began. I kept going. And today, I closed my second centre too. And somewhere amidst all these endings, I realise I have been learning something I never consciously set out to learn—detachment. Not the cold kind. Not the I don't care anymore kind. The kind that says: I loved this deeply. It mattered enormously. And I can still let it go.

Because letting go does not erase what we lived. The machines may stop humming. The familiar rooms may no longer be mine. The keys may change hands. But the woman who stood behind those machines for 27 years?

She comes with me. Her experience comes with her. Her stories come with her. Her patients' blessings come with her. Her laughter, her mistakes, her exhaustion, her courage—all of it. Nothing is really lost. It has simply become part of who I am.

And perhaps that is what Popsie's departure began teaching me.

Life is not about holding everything forever. It is about loving what comes, living it fully, and when its time comes, having the courage to release it.

Today, I am sad. But I am also strangely excited. Because this is not the end of my story. It feels more like a morning. A new morning. A new classroom. New students. New conversations. New dreams. And perhaps, finally, a little more time to discover the woman behind all the roles I have played. 

I spent 27 years building a professional life. Now, I think I am learning to build a life around myself. And the most beautiful part? I am not walking into an unknown future. I am walking into a dream I had once thought might never happen. A medical college. Teaching. Mentoring. Living the dream I carried for 27 years.

So yes, today I closed a door. But perhaps every once in a while, a closed door is simply life's way of saying— "Look up, Juju. The morning has already begun." And I think I am ready.

Love Juju.