This Wasn't the Plan...
- Amrita Barthakur
- May 19
- 4 min read
I never imagined I’d be writing this — certainly not from my bed, in the same room, looking at the same ceiling, day after day, because I physically can’t go anywhere else.
Life has a way of flipping your world in an instant — without warning, without time to prepare, without any say in the matter. One moment I was fine, going about my day. The next, I was on the floor; One freak fall at home was all it took! As I fell, I heard the sickening crack of bone — and I knew instantly that something was terribly wrong. That sound has stayed with me. A spiral fracture, multiple broken bones, emergency surgery, and now… the slow, uncertain road to recovery. Full healing could take up to 12 months. The first 6 weeks have meant being mostly in bed, unable to move around freely — still trying to process the shock of how quickly life changed.
And for someone like me, who thrives on routine, movement, doing, being — this stillness has been brutal.
The physical pain was one thing, but the emotional weight? That hit even harder. I’ve never been this unwell without my parents by my side. My mom has always been the one to comfort me when I’m down — I felt a kind of helplessness I hadn’t known before, and an ache of missing her that I couldn’t put into words.
But what I also discovered — almost immediately — was the immense love that rose to meet me.
My husband. My rock. My safe place. He’s shown me a kind of quiet, steady care that runs deeper than anything I’ve known. He has held me together when I felt like I was falling apart. Every day, every moment, he’s been there. With patience. With grace. With unconditional love.
My kids have been nothing short of amazing. Aryan, my son, stepped into a caretaker’s role with strength beyond his years — helping around the house, checking on me, just being there. And my daughter - her hugs, humor, and emotional strength - have kept something inside me from breaking completely.
But even surrounded by love, I won’t sugarcoat it — this has been hard. Really hard.
There’s something soul-crushing about not being able to get out of bed on your own. To need help for every basic thing — bathing, dressing, eating. I hate being dependent. I hate feeling like a burden, even though no one has ever made me feel that way. The guilt, the frustration, the grief of losing your independence — it eats at you.
And being confined to one room, day after day, has tested me in ways I wasn’t prepared for. I miss walking to the kitchen to make coffee. I miss taking a shower without planning it like an event. I miss sitting at my desk, working, thinking, writing — living on my terms.
Some days, I fake positivity. Other days, I can’t even try. I cry. I spiral. I lie still and stare at the ceiling wondering when I’ll feel like myself again.
My mental health has taken a real hit. The silence, the stillness, the slowness — they mess with your head. I’ve had to find strength I didn’t know I had. I’m not used to being still. I’m not used to asking for help. I’m not used to being this person — the one who can’t. The one who waits. The one who watches life go on from a bed.
And on the hardest days, fear creeps in. A whisper in the back of my mind — what if I never go back to normal? What if I don’t heal fully? At this age, that possibility feels real. And while I try to stay hopeful, those thoughts find their way in. I don’t let them stay long, but they come — and when they do, they rattle me.
And yet, in the middle of this painful, humbling experience, I’ve found a strange kind of clarity. I’ve been forced to slow down. To receive. To be vulnerable. To trust others. To realize how much love I’m surrounded by — and how little I acknowledged it before all this.
To my husband and kids — thank you. You’ve made sure that while I deeply miss my parents, I haven’t missed the feeling of being deeply cared for.
To my work family and friends — thank you for checking in, for cheering me on, for reminding me that I’m still me, even in this version of life. Your support has kept me connected to the world outside this room, and reminded me that I’m not forgotten, even when I’m not physically there.
This journey is far from over, but one thing is certain: when I walk again, I’ll carry this experience with me in every step. I’ll carry the pain, the gratitude, the slowness, the love — and I’ll never take the basics for granted again.
I’m still healing. Still learning. Still here. Held, humbled — and slowly finding my way back.
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