Hiding in the Shadows

There was a time when I moved through each day on autopilot, doing exactly as I was told, never stopping to think or ask why, and trying to fit into roles and expectations that never really felt like mine. I learnt quite early to measure my worth through the opinions, comparisons, and expectations of others, rather than through my own sense of truth.

For much of my life, I grew up in the shadow of constant comparison. My older sister’s grades often became the standard against which I was measured. For years I assumed she had a gift I simply wasn’t born with - until she told me a primary school teacher had seen her academic potential and helped her believe in herself, and suddenly I saw it differently.
That simple story made me realise that sometimes it only takes one person to see our potential - and that single moment of being seen can help with awakening a drive within us we never knew we had.
While my sister found her academic spark through encouragement, I was often steered toward responsibility, like being the caretaker for my younger brother (even when it came with its own difficulties) to taking on a much larger share of household chores than either of my siblings. Sometimes, I even leaned into those responsibilities willingly, because a part of me wanted to ease my mum's workload, and the other part of me hoped that doing more would somehow earn me love or approval. But in reality, it left little time and energy for myself.

Back then, there wasn’t much room for my voice or my perspective, so I stayed quiet, choosing peace over conflict, even when silence cost me parts of myself. And so when my grades began to slip, it wasn’t seen as a sign of imbalance - it was seen as a flaw. The comparisons returned, louder than ever, and so over time, I internalised the belief that I wasn’t enough. That belief settled quietly but deeply, shaping years of self-doubt, where I questioned my voice, my decisions, and even who I was at my core. It felt like carrying an invisible weight, and eventually I slipped into a kind of learned helplessness - believing my efforts wouldn’t make a difference, no matter how hard I tried. There were nights before exams when my books stayed closed on the desk because I’d already told myself it wouldn’t matter, because “I’m just not smart enough”. Slowly, I stopped asking questions, stopped exploring, stopped trusting my own curiosity. It was as though the curious child I once was had dimmed her light to survive the environment around her.

But little did she know, life had a way of surprising her.
A way of guiding her back to everything she thought she had lost...

The Moment Someone Truly Saw Me

Everything began to slowly shift when I met someone who saw me - not through the usual lenses of comparison or expectation, but through genuine presence and kindness.
My partner believed in me in a way that gently reawakened my own belief in myself. He showed me something I had never known until then: that love isn’t something you have to earn - it’s given, freely and wholeheartedly. For so long I carried the weight of trying to earn what could never be earned, but with him, I was slowly starting to learn that love doesn’t ask you to perform, that love sees you in your mess and still chooses you even when life is unbearably hard.
Through his love, I came to understand that I was never too broken to be whole.

But our journey together was far from simple. In Sri Lanka, like much of South Asia, high school relationships are treated as taboo, almost criminalised, so just wanting to be with each other came with constant obstacles. At home, my brother tried to expose us, so even the little ways I could communicate with my partner were taken away from me; at school, teachers and prefects would go out of their way to keep us apart. From the beginning, it felt like the odds were stacked against us.

And yet, through all of it, we held on. Our connection became a mirror, reflecting back parts of me I had forgotten: my curiosity, my independence, my voice. For the first time, I had the space and safety to ask: Who am I - beyond all these roles I’ve been given? What do I want my life to look like?
These questions were new and daunting, but also full of possibility.

The Beginning of Questioning Everything I Was Taught

One random afternoon, a short video changed everything.
I came across footage from a slaughterhouse, and for a moment, I couldn’t move. It was confronting, but more than that, it awakened something in me.

Around the same time, my partner stumbled upon Philip Wollen’s famous debate, “Animals Should Be Off the Menu” . It moved him so much that he later sent it to me, and it stirred something in me too. It was as though the walls of what we’d both grown up believing began to crack.

For the first time, we began to truly reflect on the things we’d grown up accepting, the traditions we’d inherited without reflection, and the habits that didn’t align with what we felt in our hearts. That’s when we decided to explore a vegan lifestyle – not as a fad, not even for health, but as a way of choosing compassion where we could.

Growing up with pets, I always saw animals as individuals – with quirks, feelings, and their own little ways of showing love. That connection made it impossible to turn away from what I’d seen.

The transition, however, came with its own challenges. At home, I was mocked almost daily by my brother; outside, traditional voices questioned and criticised me. There were several moments when it felt simpler just to give in - to blend back into what was familiar. But whenever we felt tired, we’d remind ourselves why we started - the animals who never get a choice in how they’re treated. It wasn’t always easy or convenient, and we stumbled plenty along the way, but slowly, we began to understand that maybe compassion isn’t about perfection - it’s about trying to do a little less harm each day, in whatever ways we can.

This journey became less about food and more about consciousness - about pausing before each decision and asking: Is there a kinder, more conscious way to live?  
For us, the answer was yes. And ever since, it’s been a path of deep alignment - one where awareness, compassion, and integrity guide the way forward.

A Setback That Changed My Life Forever

In 2019, I moved to Australia to pursue my Bachelor’s degree in IT - a new chapter filled with independence, possibility, and growth.
Back in Sri Lanka, netball had been a part of my life for nearly a decade. It wasn’t just a sport - it was a space where I felt most alive, connected, and in flow. After three years away from the game, I missed that part of myself, so I joined my university’s indoor netball team, hoping to reconnect with something I had once loved deeply.

For a while, it felt like coming home. But life, in its mysterious ways, had other plans.

During a final match in 2022, I had an unexpected accident and I fractured my femur.
The doctors ran countless tests: blood work, x-rays, even a bone density scan. Ironically, my bone density results came back unusually high for my gender (right in the range reported for high-bone-mass male populations): 1.3 g/cm², with a T-score of +2.2 and a Z-score of +1.8. With no underlying weakness or medical explanation, it was concluded to be a freak accident - one of those moments life throws at you without warning or reason.

What felt like a setback slowly became a turning point. I didn’t know it then, but that fracture would open doors to healing and transformation I never would’ve found otherwise. It seemed like life was quietly guiding me - not away from purpose, but closer to it.

Stepping Out of the Shadows

Leaving Sri Lanka marked the beginning of a quiet, powerful shift within me. For the first time, I felt a kind of freedom I’d never known before - a freedom to simply be. Away from the familiar roles and expectations that had once defined me, I was no longer just someone’s sister, daughter, or caretaker. I was finally beginning to meet myself.

At university, I began to see how deeply environment shapes identity. Without the constant comparisons or the pressure to care for everyone else, I suddenly had room to breathe - to learn, to explore, and to rediscover my own rhythm. My uni professors noticed academic potential I had never been encouraged to see before. And in that space of support, something beautiful happened: the spark to learn - the one I thought I had lost long ago - returned.

For the first time, learning didn’t feel like a burden. It felt like coming home to my mind. I found myself eager to question, to understand, and to grow in ways I never imagined possible.

Around that same time, I also began to heal my relationship with parts of myself I had once rejected. I learned how to care for my natural curly hair (something I was taught to despise growing up) and I began to embrace my skin tone, which I had also been conditioned to see as less-than. And ironically, it was this fracture - this painful, unexpected moment - that brought me even closer to my true self.

Instead of breaking me, it woke me up. It empowered me.
After years of being told to follow someone else’s footsteps, I was finally walking my own path - even if I had to limp for a while to get there.

The Sound of Coming Home

Being bedridden brought an unexpected kind of stillness - one I had never given myself before. Most days were spent attending university lectures online, completing assignments, doing gentle rehabilitation for my leg, and learning to adapt to a life at a slower, more mindful pace. As a break from study, I would turn to the digital piano my partner gifted me - a gesture that became one of the greatest catalysts for my healing.

I let go of everything I’d been taught years ago - the theory, the structure, the need to play “correctly” - and returned to the way I played as a child: by ear, by heart, by feeling. At first, I treated it like a game, challenging myself to figure out songs by ear as quickly as possible. But over time, something deeper began to unfold. I started experimenting with sounds, layering emotions into melodies, and expressing feelings I didn’t yet have words for.

Slowly, original music began to flow. From that space of stillness and vulnerability, came my first piano composition, Featherfall - a piece born from healing and rebirth.

Strength in Stillness

The stillness my injury brought became an unexpected teacher.
It not only gave me the space to reconnect with the piano but also opened the door to training my upper body more often, since I had to slow down and ease off lower-body training.
That’s when I stumbled into the world of calisthenics - a discovery that completely reshaped how I saw fitness.

As I moved through rehab, I began to understand that healing isn’t only physical - it’s deeply mental and emotional too. The injury became a pivotal turning point in my life, one that could have easily sent me into a spiral. But in that quiet space, I realised I had a choice: I could either nurture my body with patience and consistency, or let frustration and resentment wear me down.

Choosing the first path revealed something profound - the extraordinary power that lives within both the body and the mind when they work in harmony.

Being bedridden for a week also reminded me just how much of a privilege movement truly is - a gift we so often overlook, until it’s no longer ours.

That lesson has stayed with me. Ever since, I try to move with more intention and awareness of what my body’s asking for. Some days that means training hard; other days it means slowing down or doing nothing at all. Gratitude for my body comes easier now, but I still remind myself not to tie my worth to progress. Every rep, every stretch, every breath is how I honour that gift.