There is a reason I insist on being myself.

Not because I think I am exceptionally wise, balanced, evolved, spiritual, zen, or because I am one of those women who wake up at 5 am drinking warm lemon water while journaling about gratitude and inner peace.

Absolutely not.

I insist on being myself because if I stop doing that, this entire household, ecosystem, emotional support group, wildlife sanctuary, and unofficial rehabilitation center for eccentric personalities will collapse like badly assembled IKEA furniture.

You see, in this house, authenticity is not just encouraged.

It is practically a constitutional right.

The dog, for example, firmly believes in freedom of expression.

Especially when the harness appears.

Now most dogs either wag their tails politely or stand quietly while being strapped into their walking gear. Not ours. No. Loki considers the harness a direct attack on democracy. The moment he sees it, he growls theatrically as if we are asking him to file income tax returns manually from 1987.

And yet – he is allowed this outrage.

Why?

Because he is being himself.

He growls.
We roll our eyes.
He sulks.
Then five minutes later he is sprinting around the colony like an athlete training for the Olympics while pretending he was never upset in the first place.

Freedom.

The turkeys, meanwhile, are union leaders.

They have standards.

If the staff are lazy, sloppy, inattentive, or fail to perform duties with military precision, the turkeys immediately intervene by jumping straight into people’s chests like feathery projectiles launched by divine judgment.

Honestly, they are more efficient than HR departments.

And no one really gets angry with them because somewhere deep down we all know the turkeys are not entirely wrong.

The bunny department is even more emotionally complicated.

Bunnies, contrary to public belief, are not soft little clouds of sweetness floating through life nibbling carrots while violin music plays in the background.

No.

They are tiny furry dictators.

If the greens are not fresh enough?
THUMP.

If someone dares pick them up too often?
THUMP THUMP.

If the weather is slightly offensive?
THUMP.

If Mercury is in retrograde?
THUMP.

Their communication system is basically passive-aggressive percussion.

And yet, we allow it.

Because imagine living in a world where even a bunny cannot express disappointment over coriander quality.

What is civilization then?

My husband too occasionally exercises his right to grouchiness.

Though, to be fair, his permissions are heavily regulated because that liberty is usually reserved for me.

But once in a while some fellow at work irritates him beyond human tolerance, and he returns home muttering things under his breath while removing his shoes with the emotional energy of a retired freedom fighter betrayed by the nation.

We let him have his moment.

He deserves it.

Especially because he otherwise possesses the patience of a saint trapped in the body of a middle-class Indian husband who has survived decades of my ideas, projects, workshops, rescued animals, educational revolutions, last-minute plans, and random philosophical discussions at 11:43 pm.

Then comes my son.

Ah yes.

A beautiful blend of intelligence, logic, sarcasm, affection, and dramatic disappointment.

Especially when Indian internet speeds interfere with online gaming.

Nothing tests family values like buffering during a crucial game.

Suddenly the WiFi becomes a national issue.
The router becomes a personal enemy.
And electricity cuts become an international conspiracy.

Or heaven forbid the power disappears during his favourite film.

The expression on his face makes it look as though civilization itself has failed him personally.

And yet – he too is allowed these emotions.

Because being yourself means you are allowed to react honestly to life’s absurdities.

Even if those absurdities involve broadband connectivity.

And then…

There is my beloved tribe.

The glorious, chaotic, emotionally vibrant collection of personalities called the WANDERING DREAMERS.

Honestly, if you gathered them all in one room and asked them to form a parliament, every existing parliament across the world would immediately look dull and underperforming.

Each one is magnificently unique.

One overthinks professionally.
One speaks before the brain receives clearance.
One mothers everybody.
One disappears emotionally and resurfaces with memes.
One gives TED Talks nobody requested.
One has enough emotional depth to write poetry in thunderstorms.
One will support you fiercely but also roast you publicly for your terrible life choices.

Together, they are magnificent.

Unfiltered.
Messy.
Loyal.
Exhausting.
Wonderful.

And because I insist on being fully myself with them – loud, emotional, overenthusiastic, dramatic, thoughtful, occasionally cranky, deeply affectionate, absurdly philosophical, and permanently distracted by animals – they feel free to be themselves too.

That is the magic.

When one person stops pretending, others slowly put down their masks too.

It is contagious.

One honest laugh leads to another.
One vulnerable confession opens ten more.
One weird habit becomes acceptable.
One emotional outburst becomes survivable.

Suddenly nobody has to act polished all the time.

And frankly, what a relief that is.

Because adulthood is already exhausting enough.

We spend half our lives behaving professionally, diplomatically, appropriately, socially acceptably, emotionally regulated, and psychologically composed while internally wondering if we remembered to switch off the geyser.

So when people find spaces where they can simply exist as themselves – without fear, performance, or judgment – something beautiful happens.

They breathe easier.

The dog growls.
The bunny thumps.
The turkey attacks incompetence.
My son protests WiFi injustice.
My husband sighs dramatically at corporate foolishness.
My friends become their wonderfully eccentric selves.

And I?

I remain gloriously, unapologetically me.

Some days thoughtful.
Some days hilarious.
Some days overwhelmed.
Some days inspired.
Some days capable of changing the world.
Some days incapable of locating my own glasses while wearing them.

But always real.

And perhaps that is the greatest gift we can give the people we love.

Not perfection.

Not motivational speeches.

Not curated versions of ourselves.

Just permission.

Permission to be human.
Permission to be strange.
Permission to be emotional.
Permission to be annoyed.
Permission to laugh too loudly.
Permission to have bad moods.
Permission to love deeply.
Permission to exist exactly as they are.

Because in the end, the world already has enough polished performances.

What it desperately needs are more people brave enough to say:

“This is me.
Slightly chaotic.
Occasionally unreasonable.
Emotionally overinvested in animals.
Deeply attached to tea.
And fully alive.”

Honestly?

That sounds far more interesting anyway.

# WanderingDreamers

#LifeInMyHouse

#ChaoticButHappy

#BeYourself

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#TurkeyPolitics

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#MiddleClassMadness

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#IndianHomes

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