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The Unheard Sacrifice - By Romal Surana

Of all the goodbyes in my final week as a school counsellor, one conversation with three girls—Riya, Priya, and Siya—etched itself deeply into my heart.


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It was after a mental health session for the seventh graders. The classroom was empty except for the three of them, huddled together, their bravery masking a well of unspoken hurt.


"Ma'am," Riya began, her voice trembling slightly. "Why don't parents understand us?"


I asked them to explain, and the floodgates opened.


Riya spoke of the perpetual burden of being the "elder one," a title she'd worn since she was five. "My brother is eight, and he's still 'small.' But I, at twelve, have been 'mature' for years. Why am I the one who always has to understand? Why are my sacrifices expected?" Her voice cracked as she confessed, "When I say they're partial, they don't listen. Where am I wrong?"


Priya nodded vigorously, adding her piece. "And then they say, 'You have changed.' Ma'am, haven't they changed a lot? They only see my frustration and my back-answers, but they never see my loneliness or my helplessness."


Siya jumped in, her words tumbling out. "And when we try to cope, when we talk to our friends or go out, they complain that we're always busy with friends! That we have no time for them. Is that fair, Ma'am?"


Then, they fell silent. Three young girls, standing before me, with tears glistening in their eyes, carrying a weight they were too young to bear so silently.


In that moment, I saw it clearly. We always speak of parental sacrifice, but children, too, make silent, unacknowledged sacrifices every day.


I leaned forward. "One question," I said softly. "Have you ever tried talking to your parents about these feelings without blaming them or answering back?"


A unanimous "No" was their reply.


"Then that is your first step," I said. "I want you to share your true feelings with them, just as you shared with me. Tell them how much you miss them. Explain that your frustration and back answers are often just a cry for their attention. But here is the most important part: you must also listen to their story. You don't know their pressures, and they don't know the depth of your hurt. Communication is the bridge."


Priya looked doubtful. "We will try, Ma'am. But I feel they will just judge and blame me again. They'll say we scold you because you don't do your work."


"Then, let's change the starting point," I suggested. "If you want to be understood, try to understand them first. Without being asked, finish your chores. Keep your things in place. Help your mother with a small task. Show them you are trying. A relationship is a two-way street. First, communicate. Then, take responsibility for your part. I promise you, things will begin to change."


I saw a flicker of hope in their eyes, a fragile but determined light. It was my last lesson in that school—not one I had planned, but perhaps the most meaningful one. It wasn't about who was right or wrong, but about building a bridge of understanding, one honest conversation, one small act of responsibility at a time.


By Romal Surana

Founder and director of Nanhaagyan Foundation, TedxSpeaker Author, and Child and Adolescent counsellor


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