The Untold Side of Parenting
By Jaya Pandey
A recent conversation with my dad brought up an interesting topic—parenting in this era. I’m discovering new ways to connect with him. Earlier, I always spoke to my mother about the world, but now papa has taken over that role.
The end of August is always an interesting time. In our state, with over 110 universities and colleges, moving-in days and graduations are huge events. Some of the most prestigious universities attract many immigrant students, which gives these weeks—two in August and two in May—a unique kind of energy. You can’t find a single spot without a moving van in our city.
Over the last 15 years, I’ve seen countless friends’ kids stopping by our house during this time. Through them, I witness different relationships, new ways of communicating, and varied parenting styles. Some parents are “helicopter parents,” while others are far more liberal. Each has its own way of celebrating and struggling. I also see this diversity in my own group—Desi Moms Network. Parenting always involves sacrifice, but for families with special needs children, it is a whole different level.
Many mothers—and a few fathers—sacrifice their careers to raise their children. But it’s not only the visible sacrifices. It’s also the hidden layers: the agony, the anxiety, the hope, the disappointment, the joy, the endless adjustments, and at times, the numbing of oneself to cope with it all. Raising children becomes the central focus. Over time, people stop being seen as individuals or partners—they become only “parents.”
I had never heard the term “empty nester syndrome” while growing up in India. Many people have no idea who they are once their children leave home. All the struggles and turbulence that follow are often called a midlife crisis, but in my mind, it’s really connected to where parents are in life once their children move on.
I once heard a psychologist say that parents are different with each of their children—their parenting style depends on age, financial situation, and even the number of children they have. I meet so many mothers in their 50s who feel they haven’t done much for themselves. They gave up their careers, their ambitions, even their dreams to support their husbands’ careers and manage all the family responsibilities. But the real question is—does that truly make them happy, or have they been conditioned to believe that everything they do for their children should be enough?
Do we always question ourselves? Will we always ask—what did we do wrong—when things don’t work out?
When I went to the old age home for Amma’s death anniversary, I met so many parents. It was both intriguing and mind-boggling to think about what was going on in their minds. My in-laws definitely had a different vision than my parents did. Both had their own values and parenting styles. But the truth is, there is no absolute right or wrong. Sometimes it’s simply the circumstances—many relationships are situational.
My husband and I often talk about our childhood in a small town in India—the circumstances we grew up with—and how, compared to that, our children’s lives are so much more privileged.
Parenting is tough—it affects every part of your life, including your marriage. Marriage itself takes hard work, and parenting makes it even more complicated. I wish someone had given me this advice at the beginning of my parenting years. We often throw ourselves into being 100% parents, but in the process we forget to be partners, lovers, and most importantly, the individuals we are meant to be.
Everyone has plenty of advice on how to raise a “perfect” child, but how many talk about the importance of balance? How to balance parenthood with work, household duties, and personal needs? I don’t think I ever heard the word self-care when my kids were young.
Even when I wasn’t working outside the home, I took everything on myself when it came to the household. It wasn’t my husband’s fault—we just fell into that system because I wasn’t earning an income. The unspoken rule became: since I wasn’t making money, I would take care of everything else.
Parenting has long been glorified. Marriage is often seen as the ultimate goal, and having children as the way to make life complete—these are the beliefs many women are raised with. Mythological stories, folk tales, and Bollywood movies all highlight the sacrifices women make for their families. Unknowingly, this narrative stops us from thinking about ourselves.
In most households, women carry the weight of invisible labor. I believe that needs to change. I grew up watching my mother work while also managing most of the household responsibilities. My dad did a lot, and everyone praised him for being “so helpful,” but it was never seen as equal responsibility. He did so many things around the house that I never thought of it as him “helping my mother.” For us, it was simply how things were supposed to be.
For the past eight years, my life has revolved around special needs families, and I’ve seen a very different world—parents constantly worrying about their children’s future. In smaller, nuclear families, the neurotypical sibling is often expected to take responsibility for their special needs sibling. We all celebrate the arrival of a child without imagining the difficult road ahead. With the growing number of Indian families raising special needs children, I see this constant worry about an unknown and uncertain future.
Very recently one mother from my group had to rush her teenage son to emergency care. As a family, they simply could not cope with the frustration and agony. Things had become unsafe for them and their toddler daughter.
But I see the same pattern in neurotypical families too. A friend with two boys felt worn out—constantly balancing her expectations from three men at home and dealing with their attitude toward household chores. Another professional mother with two young daughters was struggling to keep up with the fast pace of life while silently battling loneliness. Yet another mother, managing her child’s demanding routine and settling into a new home, felt weighed down by overwhelming dependency on her.
I grew up in India, where children took care of aging parents. There was a system in society—you raised your kids, and they cared for you in old age. Parents never expected their children to move out. Most people lived in the same household, got married, and stayed with their parents, taking care of them when needed. In an average middle-class family, no one needed loans for education or worried about finding their own space to live. The family system took care of it all.
Things are changing in India too. Today there are many old-age homes, but they are very different from assisted living communities in the U.S. When I was growing up, there were no senior centers. People worked until 60 or 62, then retired to spend time with grandkids, siblings, cousins, and mostly lived with their sons. In a regular household, the son and daughter-in-law (or daughter and son-in-law) went to work while the grandparents cared for the children, with some household help. That was the norm.
With globalization, many children have moved away—often to other countries. If siblings were around (Mr. Husband and I are fortunate in that way), they cared for the parents. But with smaller nuclear families now, that support system is weaker. More parents live independently, travel in groups, and stay in their own homes with household help, even after losing a spouse.
Of course, things are shifting. Many of us visit India often to be with our aging parents, install cameras, and try to keep an eye on them from afar.
Parenting is such a multifaceted story. As my mom used to say, it’s never-ending—you worry for your children, and then for theirs. The worries multiply, but so does the joy, even in the midst of chaos. There is no perfect way of parenting; it’s all trial and error, a constant search for balance between everyday struggles, the bigger picture, and the mix of worries and joy. In the end, our children will always carry a piece of our heart. And perhaps the best gift we can give them is not only our care, money, or time, but the legacy of a life well lived.
