I was born and raised in a small town in North-Eastern India, where life is slow, peaceful—at least on the outside.

  Growing up, I was “the kid with no dad.” My father passed away when I was nine, and that loss changed everything. In our small community, everyone knew each other, but they also knew how to stay silent when it came to personal tragedy. It was just me and my mum after that, and she did her best to keep things together. But grief does strange things to people. My mum became anxious, overprotective, always worrying about everything—from how we’d manage financially to whether I’d come home on time. She told me we had to “be strong,” that we only had each other now.

  I became the “man of the house” before I even knew what that meant. I felt like I had to keep everything inside, to stay strong for her. But as I hit my teenage years, something inside me started shifting. My emotions were like tides—one moment high, the next low, and I had no control over when they’d turn. Some days, I’d feel unstoppable, like I could take on the world. I’d stay up all night with this energy buzzing inside me, thinking about all the things I was going to do, all the big dreams I’d chase. But just as quickly, that high would vanish, and I’d crash hard. It felt like falling into a dark pit with no way out.

  I didn’t talk to anyone about it. In my town, mental health isn’t something people understand, let alone discuss. You don’t go to a doctor for “feeling off.” You just keep going, pretend everything’s fine, and hope it’ll pass. So I learned to keep it hidden, even when I felt like I was falling apart inside.