All Things Cannot Be Fixed... Some Need Healing

 When something breaks, our first instinct is to fix it. A broken chair can be repaired. A broken appliance can be replaced. But life doesn't always work that way. Some things cannot be fixed. They need healing.

It took me many years to understand the difference. There were relationships that did not become what I hoped they would be. There were words spoken that could never be taken back. There were disappointments that quietly chipped away at my confidence. There were decisions—some mine, some made for me—that changed the direction of my life forever. For a long time, I kept trying to fix everything. I wanted people to change. I wanted circumstances to improve. I wanted life to become fair. I wanted the pain to disappear. But healing taught me that not everything is meant to be fixed. Sometimes the relationship doesn't return to what it once was. Sometimes the apology never comes. Sometimes life takes away the future you had carefully planned. And sometimes, you have no choice but to stop trying to repair the past and start healing yourself instead.

One of my greatest teachers in this journey was my daughter. Raising a child with special needs was not something I had prepared for. Like many parents, I began with expectations about how life would unfold. Life had different plans. There were challenges I could not fix, struggles I could not make disappear, and days filled with worry, exhaustion, guilt, and uncertainty. Slowly, I learned that my role was not to fix everything. My role was to love, support, adapt, and grow. In that process, I discovered that healing often begins when we stop fighting reality and start embracing it.

Then cancer arrived. At 29, I was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer. Once again, life presented me with something I could not simply fix. The surgery could remove a tumour. The treatment could fight the disease. But neither could instantly heal the fear, the grief, the loss of confidence, or the emotional scars that followed. Those things required patience, time, and compassion toward myself. For years, I believed strength meant pushing through pain. Today, I think strength is something gentler. Strength is allowing yourself to heal. It is understanding that healing is not forgetting what happened; it is learning how to carry what happened without letting it carry you.

Looking back, I realise I did not fix my life—I healed it. Piece by piece. I healed from disappointments, fear, self-doubt, and the belief that my worth depended on other people's approval. As I healed, something unexpected happened. Joy returned. Confidence returned. Purpose returned. Not because life became perfect, but because I stopped waiting for perfection before allowing myself to live.

Today, when I look at the woman I have become, I do not see someone whose life was fixed. I see someone who healed. Someone who learned that broken things can still be beautiful. Someone who discovered that scars do not make us weaker—they remind us of how much we survived.

Because all things cannot be fixed. Some need healing.

— Farida ❤️

I Couldn’t Stop the Rain, So I Held an Umbrella!

Cancer did not arrive alone. It came carrying fear, pain, exhaustion, and responsibilities that did not pause simply because I was sick. At 29, after my mastectomy, I still had a special needs child who needed me every single day. There were no breaks from motherhood. No pause button for caregiving. My body was weak, stitched together physically and emotionally, yet life still expected me to show up—and I did.

Some days, even lifting my arm felt painful. Yet I had to lift a child, comfort a child, care for a child. I often wondered how a body that hurt so much was still expected to carry so much love.

Then came the financial struggles. Cancer is expensive. Survival is expensive. And when you are already emotionally exhausted, financial uncertainty quietly eats away at your dignity too. There were moments I felt guilty—not because I was weak, but because illness made me feel like a burden. That guilt hurt almost as much as the surgery itself.

And then there was loneliness—the kind that exists even when people are physically around you. One of the deepest wounds during that time came from feeling emotionally unsupported by the person I expected would stand beside me through it all. Fear changes people. Sometimes it makes them kinder. Sometimes it makes them distant. There were moments when even simple human closeness disappeared because of irrational fears that illness could somehow “spread.” Imagine surviving cancer while also carrying the pain of feeling untouchable. But perhaps that is also where my transformation began.

Because slowly, I realised something important: if life was going to continue being difficult, then I had to become stronger than the difficulty itself.

I could not stop the rain.

I could not stop cancer from entering my life. I could not stop financial hardship. I could not stop disappointment. I could not stop exhaustion.

But I could hold an umbrella.

So I learned. I learned how to survive one difficult day at a time. How to mother through pain. How to smile through uncertainty. How to rebuild myself emotionally, financially, and spiritually.

And over time, something extraordinary happened.

The woman who once felt helpless became the woman others leaned on. I stopped seeing myself as broken. I started seeing myself as capable.

Today, when people see strength in me, they see the laughter, the confidence, the humour, and the resilience. But what they don’t always see is the woman walking through the storm carrying children in one hand and holding her umbrella with the other.

And maybe that is what courage truly looks like—not someone untouched by pain, but someone who keeps walking anyway. ❤️

Not Just Surviving — Soaring

 Cancer forced me to discover parts of myself I never knew existed.At first, I was simply trying to survive—trying to care for my special needs daughter while fighting for my own life at the same time. There were days I felt broken by fear, responsibility, exhaustion, and uncertainty.But somewhere along the journey from the nest to the sky, something changed.I stopped waiting for someone else to rescue me.The woman who once quietly depended on others slowly became the woman others depended on.As I learned to fly, I wasn’t flying alone—I was carrying my children with me.

Every small step I took toward strength became a safer ground for them to stand on. Every time I rebuilt myself, I was also building security, stability, and hope for my family.And over time, the same woman who once questioned her own strength began helping other women discover theirs.I found myself encouraging women to study again, work again, believe in themselves again. To stop shrinking their dreams. To stop believing they must remain trapped in unhappy nests simply because they had forgotten they were born with wings too.

My preschool became more than a workplace—it became a space built on compassion, inclusion, independence, and acceptance. A place where children felt seen, and where mothers often left feeling a little stronger too.Looking back now, I realise something beautiful:

Cancer did not merely teach me how to survive.

It taught me how to rise.

And once I discovered my wings, I spent the rest of my life helping others believe in theirs. 

Die or Dye? The Confusion That Motivated Me!

 There’s an old story about a group of frogs climbing a tall tower in the middle of a forest. Apparently, frogs are very ambitious creatures. As the frogs began climbing, crowds gathered below to watch. But instead of cheering, the audience behaved exactly like social media comment sections in human form.

“You’ll never make it!”
“That tower is impossible!”
“Turn back before you fall!”

One by one, the frogs started listening. Some fell down and died. Some got injured. And one by one, they gave up. Except for one little frog. This frog kept climbing. No matter how loud the crowd became, no matter how impossible the climb looked, the frog just kept going. Slowly. Steadily. Determined. And finally… against all odds… it reached the top. The other frogs were shocked. 

“How did you do it?” they asked. 

That’s when they discovered the truth:

The frog was deaf. 

It had no idea everyone was discouraging it. The poor thing thought they were cheering. 😄

Honestly, I think I may have been that frog.When I was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer at 29, people suddenly became experts on my future.

Some spoke in whispers.
Some spoke in statistics.
Some spoke in sympathy so dramatic you’d think they were auditioning for a tragic television serial.

And then there were the people who discussed death right in front of me.

“Oh, even people with the best treatment don’t survive cancer sometimes…”
“I knew someone who had exactly this…”
“It’s very difficult…”

Thank you, motivational committee. ❤️

But somewhere between chemotherapy, surgeries, fear, and survival mode, I think my brain accidentally became selective in what it heard. Because while people kept saying “die, die,” I apparently heard “dye, dye.” 💇‍♀️

So I carried on.

Then chemotherapy took away every strand of my hair.

And I remember looking at my bald head thinking,
“Well… this is awkward. How exactly am I supposed to dye THIS?” 😄

But life, thankfully, had other plans. The hair came back. Dark. Thick. Completely black. Of course it did—I was only 29. So I made a decision. I would wait. One day, when life gave me grey hair, I would dye it. And that became my tiny, silly, secret promise to myself:

Live long enough to complain about grey hair.

Years passed.

I survived.

But more importantly, I lived.Somewhere along the way, I stopped merely surviving cancer and started fully living life.

And one day, many years later, I stood in front of a mirror with hair dye in my hand and realised something beautiful:

I had become the deaf frog.

The world may have expected me to stop climbing long ago.

But I kept going because somewhere deep inside, I chose hope over noise. I did not stop after reaching the tower. 

I studied further.
I worked and built a career.
I rebuilt my confidence.
I became emotionally and financially independent.
I started a preschool filled with children, laughter, noise, crayons, chaos, and joy.

And moreover, just like that frog reaching the top of the tower…I lived long enough to dye my hair. ❤️

Cancer at 29. Driving license at 59!

 

Cancer at 29. Driving license at 59.

That says a lot about life.

At 29, I was fighting Stage 3 breast cancer, sitting in hospital corridors wondering if I would even have a future. People spoke about cancer like it was the end. Some even spoke right in front of me about those who had “everything” and still didn’t survive.But somewhere deep inside, I decided cancer may visit my life… but it would never own it.

So I kept going.

I studied again.
I worked.

I rebuilt myself.
I learned to put myself on my own priority list for the very first time.

And at 59, I finally got my driving license, sat behind the wheel of my Windsor, and drove into a life I once thought I might never get to live.

Life tried to stop me at 29.
I hit the accelerator at 59. ❤️