One thing you should probably know about me: I treat dogs better than most people, and honestly, I say that without hesitation or apology. 

My dogs have been with me through every version of myself. They’ve seen the nights I couldn’t sleep, when I had no words left and no energy to pretend I was okay. And they stayed. Quiet. Present. Steady. 

They rested their heads on my chest like they knew my heart needed something solid to hold onto. They nudged my hand when I didn’t even know I needed comfort. Curled up beside me without asking for anything. No one taught them how to do that. They just knew.

I’ve canceled plans because I didn’t want to leave them alone. Skipped vacations. Rearranged entire days around their routines. I’ve turned down invites because the thought of leaving their side didn’t feel right. 

I would rather sit beside them watching them breathe peacefully than be stuck in a room full of forced conversations.

If my dog doesn’t warm up to someone, I take that seriously. Dogs pick up on energy in a way people don’t. No pretending, no second-guessing. If they keep their distance, there’s usually a reason—and I trust that more than any polite smile or charming words.

I remember the first toy they carried around like it was gold. The little sounds they make in their sleep. The way they sit closer when I’m anxious like they feel it too. 

I’ve shared meals with them, let them sprawl across the bed, handed over my favorite blanket, and talked to them like they understand every word I say—because deep down, I know they do.

They’ve been with me when people disappeared. When I got heartbroken without warning. When I lost people I never thought I’d lose. When I couldn’t explain the grief sitting in my chest. They didn’t run. They didn’t ask me to be okay. They just stayed. Fully. Gently. Without conditions.

That kind of love deserves the softest corners of my life. The last bite of food. The coziest spot on the sofa. Every bit of tenderness I’ve got left to give. 

Because when I felt hard to be around, they curled up beside me like I was the safest place. When I had nothing to give, they didn’t ask for more. And when I didn’t feel like myself, they still looked at me like I was theirs—no questions, just constant love in the middle of everything.

So yes, I treat dogs better. Because their love has been there in the silence, in the mess, in the moments when I didn’t even know what I needed. They never asked me to explain or be anyone other than exactly who I was in that moment. They just stayed close.

That kind of loyalty, that kind of presence, is rare—and it deserves to be honored. So I give them the best of me, because that’s exactly what they’ve always given to me.

absent fathers

I read this and somehow it made sense?

Women with absent fathers often become beggars for love, safety, and security.

It’s heartbreaking how deeply they invest themselves in others, hoping that their love will be returned, hoping to finally feel chosen, protected, and seen.

They carry a silent ache—an invisible wound that whispers....Maybe if I give more, they’ll stay. Maybe if I’m good enough, they’ll love me.

This voice doesn’t come from who they are today, but from the little girl inside them who kept looking out the window, waiting for someone who never came.

Their love becomes a currency—they trade affection, loyalty, and even their own boundaries just to feel held.

They over-give, over-function, and over-apologize, hoping that one day, someone will finally choose to stay without conditions.

The absence of a father doesn’t just leave a physical void—it creates emotional gaps that women often try to fill with partners, friends, or even strangers.

But what’s missing isn’t just a person—it’s the early belief that they are inherently worthy of love without having to earn it.

She often becomes hyper-independent, saying she doesn’t need anyone.

But behind that strength is exhaustion—from carrying her own pain, from pretending she’s okay, from surviving in a world that never taught her how to receive.

When she finally does meet love, she may not know how to trust it.

Her nervous system doesn’t recognize consistency. It feels foreign. Unsafe even. She might push it away before it has a chance to hold her.

This woman is not broken.

She is someone who has been asked to mother herself before she was ever truly mothered. She’s someone who has built a heart out of scars and silence.

Healing for her doesn’t come from finding the perfect partner. It comes from finding herself. From meeting the little girl within and telling her, “You don’t have to beg anymore. You are already enough.”

When a woman with an absent father begins to reclaim her worth, she stops performing for love and starts attracting it from a place of truth.

Her healing isn’t just hers—it becomes a ripple that touches every generation after her.

And maybe for the first time, she finally breathes deeply… not because someone stayed, but because she stopped abandoning herself.

If you belong to this story, know that healing is possible. I’m here to help you on this journey—just reach out to me.

- Abhikesh

grief and it's effect

Grief changed me.

Not all at once…

Not in a way you could see from the outside.

It was a quiet shift—

a slow, aching rearrangement of my heart,

unfolding in the quiet moments when I realized they weren’t there anymore.

I don’t laugh as easily as I used to.

I hesitate when making plans, because I’ve learned that life doesn’t always go the way we hope.

And sometimes—without even thinking—I still reach for the leash,

expecting to hear the jingle of a collar, the familiar thump of a wagging tail.

But the leash stays quiet now.

And that silence?

It feels different. Heavier. A quiet that hums with love, but also with absence.

Yet, somehow… they’re still with me.

I see them in the way I love—deeper, more fiercely.

In the way I pause to notice the little things:

the warmth of the sun on my face,

the softness of the grass beneath my feet,

the way the wind feels when it brushes against my skin—

because they taught me to slow down, to feel, to appreciate.

They’re there in my favorite songs,

in the worn-out blanket they loved to curl up in,

in the way I sometimes catch myself tilting my head—

just like they used to.

Grief didn’t just break my heart.

It changed it.

It made me see how fragile life is,

and how sacred every heartbeat, every moment, truly is.

This isn’t the life I planned.

It’s not the one I imagined—full of walks in the park, sunny afternoons chasing tennis balls, and quiet evenings with a head resting in my lap.

But it’s the life I’m learning to live.

With one hand still reaching for what I lost—

the memories, the love, the moments we’ll never get back…

And the other hand holding tight to what remains:

the love they gave me, the lessons they taught me,

the silent promise that I will carry them with me, always.

This is what healing looks like.

Not forgetting… but remembering with love.

Not moving on… but moving forward, holding them close in my heart, forever a part of me.

💔