Chai Was Never Just a Drink

In my family, chai was a daily ritual.

Mornings began with it. Afternoons paused for it. Evenings ended beside it.

My dad used to hand me a cup and say,

"Slow down, beta. Take a sip. Breathe."

It wasn’t just chai. It was care. Presence. Connection.

I didn’t know then how much I’d need to hold onto that.

I lost my mother at 16. My brother a year later. My father just before my 19th birthday. In just three years, I went from daughter to orphan to caretaker — for my youngest brother, who was only 14.

There was no roadmap for that. Just survival. As a child of immigrants, working hard isn’t just a coping mechanism — it’s practically written into your DNA. So I buried myself in ambition, running on willpower and resilience, and full trauma response to keep “doing”.

Oddly enough here’s what I didn’t expect: somewhere inside all that loss, I felt free. Living through your worst nightmare gives you a strange gift.

Suddenly, there’s nothing left to fear. Grief and relief arrive together. Sadness and freedom share the same breath.

Chai stayed with me through all of it — not as nostalgia, but as a practice. A return. A reason to pause when everything else was asking me to run.