The Layers We Leave Behind

The Layers We Leave Behind

By Dasari Brinda Nagaraju

Lately, I’ve been thinking about life— my best friends tell me it’s a clear sign of aging. I realise I am made of places and people that once felt so familiar, mine, but now feel distant. They belong to versions of me that no longer exist. A scent here, a smile there, even the colour of a ribbon evokes such a sense of loss.

“Celebrate the empty nest,” they say. “Rejoice in the freedom and independence.” I tell myself I’ve long waited for this juncture in life, where I can pack a bag and whisk myself away from Singapore to anywhere. No questions, no responsibilities, no invisible shackles. Isn’t that what I longed for—too long and too earnestly?

Yes. But the journey, oh the journey to this point matters more than I thought. I find myself mourning those lost versions of me: the blushing teenager, the new mother, the inexperienced teacher—and the moments that shaped them — the thrill of the first crush, the wonder of my baby’s first cry, the joy of the first thank you note from a student, and the ache of my first true grief. These are pages in my life book, but I mourn their passing. I am still infinitely curious, but my smile is no longer wondrous—it is seasoned with time. And I grieve that change.

I sit in a café near the Registry of Marriages as I write, looking at the radiant brides. At the threshold of life, joyful, eager, bursting with joy. And I smile. You have miles to go, I think. I smile and wish them light and love, knowing the journey ahead will change them in ways they cannot yet imagine.

And then I realize, as I look back at the versions of myself, that what I truly mourn is the idea of becoming. Now I am content with being. There was a time when my identity felt expansive, when I believed I could be anyone, anything. Now, I see more clearly that some paths have closed, some choices are irreversible. Perhaps I could reinvent myself, who knows? But it feels different now.

I am learning, slowly, to shift from becoming to being. And perhaps that is its own kind of arrival.