Sakshi is a writer, mother, coach, and observer of the human condition, born in a small Indian town where life was defined not by abundance but by scarcity—of opportunities, exposure, and the freedom to dream. Her work explores identity, motherhood, emotional healing, personal growth, conscious parenting, and self-discovery, sharing intimate stories of life, resilience, and transformation.

I come from a place where dreams rarely have room to breathe. A small town in India where education for girls was uncertain, ambitions were whispers, and the idea of living a life beyond survival felt almost mythical. I grew up without many things: electricity, proper schooling, and exposure. I was not raised to imagine music, art, travel, or the world. I was raised to endure.

For more than three decades, I carried a belief that shaped everything: “I don’t know anything.”

It made me quiet. Invisible. Unsure of every step. I learned early to keep the peace, to please others, and to take care of everyone except myself. I believed that was my purpose—to be small enough that I wouldn’t disappoint anyone.

At 14, my mother made a decision that altered the direction of my life: she sent me to school. Suddenly, I was traveling alone, afraid and unprepared, yet moving toward something I didn’t yet understand. I walked into classrooms where I was years behind, where questions felt like threats, and where laughter bruised the confidence I barely had. And so I learned to shrink further, to blend in, to make myself unnoticed.

This sense of smallness followed me into adulthood. Into college. Into job interviews, twelve rejections before the thirteenth “yes.” Into marriage, which I entered with a suitcase full of unworthiness and emotional weight I couldn’t name at the time. Into arguments and wounds that left me feeling alone inside a relationship I had once hoped would be my home.

Life changed rapidly when I moved through Singapore, Dubai, and Germany because of my corporate life—three countries, three cultures, each one demanding courage I did not believe I possessed. The girl who once feared traveling 300 km from her town was suddenly navigating global cities, yet inside she still felt the same: uncertain, apologetic, and trying to belong.

Motherhood came at 31, and in many ways, it was my second birth.

I had imagined it as beautifully soft mornings, warm moments, and calm routines. But reality was louder, harder, and sharper. Sleepless nights, endless crying, confusion, irritation, and guilt. I was raising not the fantasy child I had pictured for nine months, but the real one standing before me.

The gap between fantasy and reality broke something inside me. But it also began repairing something else.

When I returned to work just three months after giving birth, guilt became my constant companion. It lived in my chest, in my breath, in every decision. The only thing that saved me was learning to be fully present: at work, I worked. With my son, I stayed only with him. No multitasking. No endless self-judgment.

Tiny practices held me together, like 10 minutes of yoga, walking with the stroller, simple breathing, eating together, and playing together. My world became small again, but this time by choice: me, my son, my work, and a home we were trying to rebuild.

There were difficult moments, too: burnout. Being the “fixer” for my child. I fed him with my hand until he was four. He felt like a failure the first time he lied to me. Repeating patterns I promised myself I would never repeat. Watching my own triggers spill into motherhood. And sensing parts of myself collapsing under pressure.

A turning point arrived quietly, not in a dramatic moment, but in an ordinary one. The day I threw away my son’s yogurt in frustration made me confront something: I wasn’t angry at him. I was angry at myself, at my unprocessed emotions, and at the mismatch between the mother I wanted to be and the mother I was.

Another moment came when I said, “My son will never do this,” and days later, I watched him do exactly that. Everything I judged had lived in me too. Everything I feared was reflected back to me in the smallest hands.

This realization changed everything. It pushed me toward accountability, self-awareness, conscious parenting, emotional healing, somatic work, and the slow shedding of the inner voice that had always whispered, “You’re not enough.”

Starting my coaching work—and now writing—required a kind of courage I didn’t believe I had. To share my story publicly when I had grown up believing I knew nothing… felt almost impossible.

But I write anyway. Not as an expert. Not as a perfect mother or perfect woman. I write as someone becoming.

My work now explores the intersections of culture, identity, motherhood, emotional inheritance, healing, conscious parenting, and the quiet power of everyday life. I write for the woman who feels unseen, for the mother who feels overwhelmed, and for anyone who has ever wondered if their story matters.

Because it does. Because I believe we grow not by pretending to be perfect, but by telling the truth about who we are.

If my journey resonates with yours—even a little—then perhaps we will walk this path together. One story at a time. One seed at a time. One honest moment at a time.