Are We Being Trained for Grief Instead of Joy?

Adulting does something far beyond the surface level of “earning a buck.” It’s more than owning the car, buying the house, or finally having the freedom to marry who you love (or navigating the heartbreak of someone you can’t). It’s the spectrum of experience — from fine dining to tapri chai, from the rebellion of a first cigarette to the exhaustion of an all-nighter pulled just because you finally can.

But underneath the “I am an adult now” checklist, something deeper is shifting. You are playing with life, and for the first time, you are accountable.

The Slow Erosion of Wonder

The child who once longed to grow up starts to fizzle out. In their place, a cycle of defeats and disappointments begins to occupy a massive space in the heart. Eventually, that space becomes so crowded with “the burden of expectation” that we lose the ability to witness the magic right in front of us:

• A meal cooked by a loved one.
• The first story told by your child.
• A surprise compliment from a parent.
• A stranger’s smile or the deep, soul-piercing gaze of a dog that pauses time.

Instead of these miracles, we carry the growing belief that life is primarily a series of losses. When I look deeper, I realize that while our timelines differ, we are all being subtly — or loudly — trained in grief.

The Curriculum of “Not Enough”

This training starts early. We were taught to perform for gratification — a chocolate, a toy, an ounce of appreciation. But in the absence of that win, we were handed the grief of failure. Even when we did get the reward, it often came with a caveat: “You failed, but I’m giving this to you anyway.”

We grew up in homes where the language of love was often the language of guilt. We heard:

“Mujhey maar do, ya khud mar jao.” (Kill me, or just die yourself.) “Jab mein maronga na, tab pata chalega.” (When I die, then you’ll understand.)

No one sat us down to show us a sunset and explain that beauty in nature never truly dies. No one told us that the sunset makes way for the magical rise of stars and the calm of the moon — a space to rejuvenate so we can claim the next sunny day. Instead, we inherited the projections of the adults around us: their complaints, their failed businesses, their dramatic shadows. We were left longing for something we couldn’t even name.

The Big Bang: When Grief Roars

These “micro-griefs” simmer until they explode like a Big Bang. For me, that explosion happened five years ago when I lost my father.

I call him a “Martyr of Covid” — a casualty of a war we never signed up for. His passing forced my brother and me into a version of adulthood we weren’t ready for. The grief of losing him is immense, but what makes it expand is the “brewing grief” I’ve carried since childhood.

My father was a man who carried the weight of losing his own parents as a child. That longing for love lingered in him, and he projected it onto us. I empathize with him now; I know adulting isn’t easy. He did everything for everyone, yet he craved a specific recognition and celebration that he never truly received — not even in death.

But Papa, if you are listening or reading this: You are loved. You are love.

Choosing a New Training

I have made a promise to my present and future self: I will become an extension of nature.

Just as the beauty of the earth never truly dies, I refuse to continue the cycle of training others for grief. Instead, I will train myself — and anyone I touch — to witness, to grow, and to glow.

Some realizations need to go beyond mere reflection. They need to translate into the action of choosing joy, even when we have been conditioned to look for the loss.