I didn’t plan this life. And yet, here I am.

Sometimes life doesn’t ask for permission.

It takes you—quietly, abruptly—into a job, a city, a journey you never imagined for yourself. No roadmap. No warning. Just movement.

If you had asked me 35 years ago where I saw myself, I would have answered without hesitation:

A lawyer. Delhi High Court. Absolutely certain.

Certainty used to come easily to me.

And yet, here I am—18 years into running a restaurant—designing menus, curating plates, and making Instagram reels for food outlets in Amritsar. A life I never envisioned, yet one I somehow built with my own hands.

But sometimes I pause and wonder:

Where did that girl go?

The one who was so sure of herself.

The one who loved art as fiercely as she trusted logic.

The one who was unstoppable—ready to fly, unafraid of falling.

In her place, I see a woman who measures her own worth again and again.

A woman who questions herself at every level.

Who wonders if what she does is enough. If she is enough.

And then I remember something God teaches us again and again:

Destiny is like sand held in a tight fist.

No matter how hard you grip it, you never truly know what will spill out when you open your hand.

I’m not writing this to mourn unfinished dreams.

I’m not complaining about where life placed me.

I am deeply grateful—for what life has given me, for what it has taught me, for who it has shaped me into.

But there is one thing I want back.

Not the Delhi life 

Not the titles.

Not the versions of success I once imagined.

I want my self-worth back.

The quiet, unshakeable kind.

The kind that doesn’t depend on roles, outcomes, or applause.

The kind that reminds you that even when the plan changes, you are still enough.

Maybe this is what growth looks like.

Not becoming someone new—but remembering who you were before the world taught you to doubt yourself.

And maybe… that girl was never lost at all.

Maybe she’s just waiting for me to claim her again.