Siddharth was a remarkable being — intensely bright, compassionate, quietly wise, and deeply sensitive. He graduated with honours in computer science from Carnegie Mellon University, and his mind was a magnificent dance between logic and art. He was gentle in a world that doesn’t always value gentleness — someone who felt things deeply, thought profoundly, and never wore a mask. And perhaps, that was both his brilliance and his burden.

When he was diagnosed with schizophrenia, the world around us changed in ways we never expected. Mental health, even today, carries stigma — but back then, it was cloaked in even more silence and misunderstanding. Watching someone you love wrestle with invisible demons is heartbreaking. There were moments of lucidity, hope, and connection — and others of confusion, pain, and helplessness. He fought valiantly, but the weight of it all became too much. In 1997, Siddharth took his own life. And in that one moment, my world cracked open.

There is a particular kind of grief that never truly leaves you — it just softens at the edges. His absence is woven into every milestone, every joy, every quiet moment. And yet, Siddharth is not gone. He lives on in the way I parent my children, in the way I advocate for mental health, in my ability to meet others where they are with compassion instead of judgement and ability to be that 3 a.m friend to all those who surround me..

One of the most profound gifts Siddharth left me with is perspective — the knowing that not everything is visible, not every smile is real, and that the most beautiful people often carry the deepest pain. I honour him not by holding onto sorrow, but by speaking of him with love, by remembering his light, and by supporting others in their own journeys of mental and emotional healing.

And then there’s dearest Adam — my brother from another mother, and a precious thread in the fabric of my life. Born of my father Kabir and his 2nd marriage to Susan Humphreys (now Ixchel Leigh), Adam came into my life when I was barely a young teenager. I remember the first time I cradled him in my arms — a tiny bundle of warmth and innocence — and from that moment, something primal and protective kicked in. I may have been 12 years older, but I wasn’t just a sister — I was part-mother, part-mentor, full-time cheerleader (and yes, part-time disciplinarian too!).

Our bond was sealed during my yearly holidays to America — he’d bombard the world and then crawl into my lap, fall asleep with his tiny hand wrapped around mine, and I would sit there, unmoving, watching this little soul who felt so completely mine. Through the years, we built memories that were far bigger than the distance between continents. And though time and geography meant we weren’t always physically close, emotionally we’ve always been connected.

I’ve seen Adam through his ups and downs and held space for him through life’s transitions, and Yes! stood in his corner even whilst berating him! He’s grown into a man with heart, humour, and a depth of sensitivity I’ve always admired. He is witty, curious, thoughtful, and so much more than what the world sees. I take joy in his victories and pride in his resilience. And though I may still slip into big-sister mode from time to time, what I cherish most now is our adult friendship — rooted in mutual respect, unconditional love, and the knowledge that family, in its truest form, isn’t defined by labels or proximity. It’s defined by presence, by intention, by love.

Both Siddharth and Adam have shaped the woman I am — Siddharth, with the beauty and ache of his absence, and Adam, with the enduring presence of our shared bond. They are etched into the core of my being — in memory, in laughter, in lessons, and in love.