God’s Quiet Ways of Lifting a Heavy Heart

There are days when work feels heavier than usual.

Days when you question yourself. Days when you feel low..Recently, after the interdepartmental meeting, I found myself carrying that weight. Certain interactions left me feeling discouraged. It was a feeling of low that contributions ...the work done behind the scenes remained invisible.

For someone who genuinely wants to do their work well, those moments can affect the heart deeply. That Thursday became one of those difficult days. I stepped into the washroom twice to quietly wipe away tears. I did not want anyone to see. I simply needed a moment to gather myself, to hide the disappointment and the heaviness I was carrying. Sometimes, we imagine that God’s comfort will arrive through dramatic answers or extraordinary miracles. But often, His kindness appears in the simplest ways.

As I was leaving the office that evening, our CEO casually called me “aunty” because of my relationship with her sister. It was such a small moment. There was no lengthy conversation or grand gesture. Yet that simple word carried warmth, familiarity, and kindness....It reminded me that God has his own ways to touch us when we feel alone!! People can unknowingly become instruments of God's encouragement.

On that same day, I also received the pending medical reimbursement for the surgery I had undergone in February. The company had already approved it long ago, but the process had simply taken time. The payment arriving on that particular day felt like another gentle reminder that God had not forgotten me...or my needs. 

None of these events were extraordinary on their own. A simple conversation. A kind word. A delayed payment finally arriving. Yet together, they became God's way of saying"I see you. I know what you are carrying. You are not forgotten."

Life often teaches us to look for God only in the big miracles, but many times His love appears in ordinary moments. Through people. Through unexpected encouragement. Through provisions that arrive exactly when our hearts need them. The difficult day did not suddenly disappear. The challenges did not magically resolve. But my spirit became lighter because God chose to remind me that He was still present.

God's love does not always arrive with thunder. Sometimes it comes through an ordinary Thursday, a gentle word, and a reminder that He has been holding us all along.....Looking back, I realise that God often places people in our lives to become channels of His love and care. A kind word, an act of consideration, a simple gesture, or support given at the right moment can carry more meaning than we realise.

Today, my heart is filled with gratitude not only to God, but also for the people He uses to encourage us along the way. I am thankful for those who show kindness without knowing how much it means. I am thankful for leaders who speak with warmth, for colleagues who help behind the scenes, and for people who simply choose to be human and compassionate. Sometimes they may not even realise that God is using them. But He does.

There are people God places in our lives who become little reminders that we are not alone, not forgotten, and not unseen. Their words may seem ordinary to them, but to someone carrying a heavy heart, they become gifts of grace.

Perhaps you are carrying a heavy heart today. Perhaps you feel unnoticed, misunderstood, or discouraged. Take heart. God has His own ways of showing His love. He may speak through a kind colleague, a timely provision, a comforting conversation, or a small gesture that arrives exactly when you need it. His kindness often comes quietly. And sometimes, those quiet moments become the loudest reminders that we are deeply seen, deeply known, and deeply loved.

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:18

To those whom God uses to lift others.....thank you.

You may never fully know the impact of your words, your kindness, or your presence. But God does. He often chooses ordinary people to carry extraordinary grace to someone who needs it.

And for that, my heart remains deeply grateful. ...

Perfect Vent out ...

The Weight of Being Replaceable

It is interesting to watch people walk by and wonder what they carry. Sometimes it feels like there is nothing there except an inflated sense of self-worth. We all struggle with seeing such people around us, yet we often choose not to admit how deeply it affects us, even to ourselves.

People assume that someone can be replaced.At work, decisions are made, positions change, and new faces arrive. It is part of life, but there is a strange sadness in watching someone stamp other people'e space, emotions, growth etc ...a space where someone worked hard to build, one wonders whether those making the decision truly understood the value each person brought.

There is also this moment you see the person who may replace you. Who you do not compare out of pride. but simply wonder: Did they ever see my worth? Did they understand the effort, the sacrifices, the pitch ins, the quiet responsibilities, and the things we carried without expecting anything in return or complaining?

The hardest part is feeling unseen.

In all of that we have to remind ourselves of something ..our worth is not determined by whether someone recognizes it. It is not reduced because someone overlooked it. Years of dedication, integrity, and hard work do not disappear because another person fails to notice them. There is sadness, yes. There is disappointment too. But there is also peace in knowing that I have not done anything wrong. Sometimes all we can do is hold ourselves together, continue doing what is right, and trust that our value does not depend on someone else's understanding.

Not everyone will recognize our worth.
Not everyone will understand our journey.
But that does not mean our worth was never there.
And so, with a heavy heart, I choose to stand tall not because it does not hurt,
but because I know who I am, and I know that I give my best.

I must admit, there are times when the mind quietly asks, Why am I still here?
Not because it is impossible, but because the heart grows tired.
I wish I had doors opening up for me, I wish there were other opportunities.
Other doors to knock on, other ways to make a living without carrying the weight of feeling unseen.

Circumstances hold us in places we have outgrown... responsibilities remain.
Life continues to move forward.
We keep giving what we can, even when our hearts long for something different.

Hope becomes a quiet companion; the hope that one day our experience will be valued, our efforts will be recognized, and an opportunity will come that reminds us that we were never meant to remain where we felt invisible.

What makes me even sadder is the question I cannot silence
Is there not a God who sees all of this?

And somewhere in the middle of these, I remember the song The God Who Stays and I ask, Where is the God who stays? When injustice seems to weigh more than integrity, when hard work goes unnoticed, and when the future feels uncertain.

The song speaks of a God who does not walk away when others do. A God who sees us even when we feel invisible. And that is the faith I am holding onto, not that I understand everything, but that I am not forgotten. There are moments when I wish for another way forward. There are moments when I wonder why some people quietly carry burdens no one sees.

Between disappointment and hope, I keep asking: Where is the God who stays? perhaps the answer is not in immediate change, but in the strength to keep going, to keep doing what is right, and to believe that our worth is not determined by who notices us.

There are days when injustice appears stronger than truth, when those who speak louder are heard more than those who work quietly, and when the scales seem to tip toward what is unfair. Faith becomes difficult in those moments. Not because God has disappeared, but because pain is asking questions heart cannot easily answer.

Yet perhaps faith is not the absence of those questions.
Perhaps faith is continuing to believe that our labour, our integrity, and our tears are not invisible, even when people fail to see them.

Thankful..Blessed!!

Yesterday, Mathew Uncle did what he always seems to do best arrive in a flash and leave even faster. He dropped by for what can only be described as a lightning-fast visit, carrying some amazingly fresh fish. It was already cut and nearly cleaned, and within five minutes I had it washed, marinated, and ready. We tried convincing him to stay awhile, but he wasn't having any of it. Before we knew it, he was gone, leaving behind a bag of fish and a heart full of gratitude.

As I stood in the kitchen, I realised it wasn't really the fish that touched me.

It was the love behind it.

I was telling Achachan that there is something so special about that generation. They may not always express affection in words, but they have a beautiful way of showing it through actions. They take the time to cook, to prepare, to choose something they know you will enjoy, and then quietly bring it to you without expecting anything in return.

Every time someone drops off food, my mind goes back to Johnson Uncle and Auntie. They used to do exactly the same. Looking back, I realise that what they were really giving us was not food it was care, thoughtfulness, and the reassurance that we were remembered.

There is something deeply comforting about being remembered.

In a world where everyone is busy and rushing through life, these simple acts speak volumes. A parcel of fish, a container of curry, a homemade snack these things carry a message far greater than the food itself. What touched me most yesterday was the reminder of how God works through people.

Sometimes we do things quietly. We help where we can, pray for others, encourage someone, or simply try to be faithful in the little things. We do not do it for recognition, and often nobody even knows. Yet God has a way of returning love through unexpected channels. He uses people and ordinary moments to remind us that we are seen, cared for, and loved.

Yesterday felt like one of those moments.

The fish was wonderful, but the love behind it meant even more.

And once again, I was reminded that God often sends His kindness wrapped in the simplest of packages. ❤️

Unspoken ..unshared emotions - Part 3

There is another layer to this story that perhaps makes the emotions even more complicated. This company was not merely a workplace for me. It became part of our family's story.

Years ago, when B lost his job in PDO, it was a big thing...life suddenly looked very different for us. He was at Group 3 and the highest level, doing well. Realistically, very few organisations could offer anything close to what he had been earning. For four months, we lived on a single salary. 

We managed. We survived. God provided. But it was not easy. There were bills to think about, children to care for, responsibilities that did not pause simply because circumstances had changed.Like many families facing uncertainty, we adjusted, prioritised, and kept moving forward.

 I remember quietly wishing for a little more. Not out of greed. Not because I felt entitled to it. Just enough to ease some of the pressure. Just enough to help carry a few more bills. Yet I never voiced those thoughts. Perhaps because I was grateful. Perhaps because I did not want my relationship with people to become about money. Perhaps because I believed that if God wanted something to change, He would make a way. So the thoughts remained exactly that, thoughts. I would occasionally think about other ways to earn. Other possibilities. Other opportunities. But those thoughts rarely moved beyond the planning stage. Life was already demanding enough. And so I carried on.

One of the greatest blessings during that season (season of shift) was that my family was able to remain together in Oman. Because of the goodwill shown to me here, B was able to join as a dependent under my visa. My children were given visas too. What could have been a season of separation became a season where we remained together. That is not something I will ever forget.

When I look back over the years, I see more than employment. I see kindness. I see opportunities. I see people who extended grace and support in ways that impacted not just me, but my entire family. For that, I will always be grateful. Deeply grateful.

Eventually, he accepted a position in Iraq, and we found ourselves navigating a season of uncertainty that none of us had anticipated. Still about only 75% or what PDO was to him, but he left for Iraq, life looked very different for us. There were uncertainties, practical challenges, and many decisions that had to be made. 

What surprised me was not the financial pressure. It was the emotion I felt when I heard about others progress in life and families reuniting. Every now and then, something inside me would ache. Not because I wished them badly. Not because I believed they did not deserve it. But because a small voice inside me would whisper "What about me?" It is not a thought I am proud of. Yet it was real.

And if this reflection is to be honest, then it deserves a place here. Over time, I came to realise that the feeling was not jealousy. It was simply the pain of being human. The pain of carrying needs quietly. The pain of choosing not to ask. The pain of hoping someone might notice without being told. And perhaps that is why I never allowed those feelings to grow into resentment. Because every time they appeared, they were met by another truth.

This company had given my family stability during difficult years. The truth that kindness had been extended to us in ways that could never be measured by a salary figure. The truth that people had helped carry us through seasons when life could have looked very different. So while disappointment occasionally knocked on the door of my heart, gratitude always remained inside the house. That does not mean I never felt hurt. It simply means I chose not to let hurt become bitterness.

And there is a difference.Pain does not mean resentment. Sadness does not mean bitterness. Missing something does not mean disagreeing with it. I do not carry anger towards anyone. I do not resent decisions that have been made.People are entitled to their opinions, their perspectives, and their responsibilities. Leaders make decisions based on information and considerations that may never be fully visible to everyone else. That is life.

The older I become, the more I realise that life is rarely divided into heroes and villains, right and wrong, good and bad. More often, it is simply people doing the best they can with what they know. And sometimes those decisions still hurt. Not because they are malicious. Not because they are unfair. But because every decision involves people, and people have hearts. I can be thankful and still feel loss. I can understand a decision and still grieve what it changes. I can wish everyone well and still miss what once was. Those things can exist together.

In fact, perhaps that is one of the signs of maturity to hold gratitude and grief in the same hand without allowing either one to diminish the other. So when I look back over these years, what remains strongest is not disappointment. It is gratitude. Gratitude for a family that showed kindness. Gratitude for a workplace that became part of my life's journey. Gratitude for relationships that grew unexpectedly over the years. And gratitude for the reminder that while seasons change, the good people who walk through them with us leave footprints that remain long after the season has passed.

Perhaps that is why I can write these words with honesty and peace.

The gratitude is real.The grief is real. And somehow, both have shaped the person I have become. ❤️

Unspoken ..unshared emotions - Part 2

 The Girl Who Sat Crying in 2017

As I reflected on why the room change affected me so deeply, my mind travelled back to a moment nearly nine years ago...

The room change hurt because it wasn't about a room. It was about a relationship that had quietly grown over nearly a decade. As I rewound the years, I realised my story with her did not begin in an office.

It began in 2017. I still remember the day she sat in front of us crying. She was the Managing Partner's daughter, contemplating leaving medical school. I remember feeling helpless. Not because I did not care, but because I have never been the hugging kind. I have always appeared composed on the outside. Yet something about seeing a young girl cry in front of complete strangers stayed with me. I remember thinking that if someone is willing to let their tears fall in front of people they barely know, then the burden they are carrying must be incredibly heavy. More than anything, I wanted to help. Perhaps that was where it all began. Perhaps that was where the heart of a mother quietly attached itself.

Life moved on.

She joined work. Eventually we found ourselves sharing the same room. What followed were years of ordinary life unfolding side by side. We worked together, attended training programmes together, travelled together to the UAE, the UK,  for work and learning. We solved problems together, learnt new things together. And somewhere in the middle of all those ordinary days, a relationship formed.

Not overnight. Not intentionally. Just naturally.

I found myself wanting her to succeed. Wanting her to discover her strengths. Wanting her to know that she was capable of more than she often believed.

Over the years she began sharing pieces of her life. I watched her journey through different seasons. I saw her navigate the uncertainties of being single. I watched her in love. I watched her become engaged. I watched her get married. I watched her grow. I watched her become more confident in herself.

When Faisal became part of her life, I found myself cheering quietly from the sidelines. When she pursued her MBA, I felt genuinely proud. Every achievement felt personal in the way a parent's heart often celebrates the success of someone they care deeply about. I simply wanted her to flourish. I wanted her to feel accomplished. I wanted her to know she could build a beautiful life. What touched me even more was that the care was reciprocated.

She calls me "Aunty." She gave me space in her life And somehow, without either of us planning it, we became part of each other's everyday story. There were days when I carried burdens into the office and never spoke about them openly. Yet she was there. The room became more than a workplace. It became a safe space.

Looking back, I wonder whether the Iraq years would have felt heavier had she not been there. When B was away, she brought a sense of normalcy into days that often felt long. She spent time with my children. She came back from trips and visits with stories, gifts, and thoughtfulness. She made me feel less alone. She made my family feel like family to her too. And yet, throughout all those years, I was always careful. Perhaps too careful.

Because her father owned the company, I never wanted anyone (even her) to think I was trying to build a relationship for personal advantage. I never wanted special treatment. I never wanted people to misunderstand my intentions. So I kept a part of myself guarded.

I loved her quietly. Supported her quietly. Celebrated her quietly. Not because the affection was small. But because it was genuine. And genuine things do not always need an audience. Perhaps that is why this recent change affected me more than I expected. Because when I looked at the change of space, I was not seeing a desk. I was seeing nine years of memories. Nine years of laughter. Nine years of conversations. Nine years of watching a young girl become a remarkable woman. And suddenly I realised that what I missed was not proximity.

It was presence.
Not the person sitting in the same room.
But the person who had become part of my everyday life.

Part of what I was grieving was not just the change itself. I missed having a daughter figure in my room. someone whose presence carried a certain warmth, familiarity, and comfort. Someone whose successes I celebrated, whose struggles I noticed, and whose everyday presence had quietly become part of my own routine... that is why the room felt emptier than I expected. But because relationships leave fingerprints behind... those fingerprints remain.

Which is why, even as I miss having that daughter-like presence in the room, my prayer remains the same as it has always been for her: Go further, Dream bigger, Shine brighter, Become everything God created her to be.

For much of my life, I have learned to be the steady one.
The six-year-old who comforted her older sister in a hostel far from home.
The daughter who understood her father's fears before she fully understood her own.
The wife who held herself together when her husband left for Iraq.
The mother who tried not to let her children see her tears.
The colleague who reasons through change and carries on.

Perhaps strength is allowing yourself to feel deeply without becoming bitter. Perhaps it is accepting that understanding a decision does not mean you will not grieve what it changes. And perhaps it is recognising that every person we encounter leaves traces behind ...marks on our hearts that remind us we were never meant to journey through life untouched by one another.

I felt God gently reminding me of something I already knew: It is a gift to care. It is a gift to feel. And it is a gift to bless others, even when we do not fully understand the chapters they are walking through.

Yet love, if it is genuine, does not cling. Love blesses. Love releases. Love celebrates even when it must let go. So while a part of me misses what was, a greater part of me hopes for all that lies ahead for her.

I pray that the next season brings new opportunities, new growth, and new joys.
I pray that the doors ahead open wider ...I pray that she goes further than she ever imagined. And that is the quiet paradox of caring deeply for people. We miss them.Yet we still want the very best for them.

The room changed. The routines changed. And perhaps a small part of my heart changed too. But if there is one thing I have learned, it is this: People may leave a room, but the impact they have on our lives remains long after the chair is moved and the desk is rearranged. And for that, I am grateful...Someday when I'm ready..I'll share this with her :) 

Read Part 3 

Unspoken ..unshared emotions - Part 1

Sometimes, change arrives quietly, in the form of a desk being moved, a chair becoming empty, or a familiar face no longer being where it has always been..

On the surface, it was a simple operational decision. People move offices all the time. Work carries on. New routines are formed. Yet, you be surprised to know that navigating change is not always easy.

Perhaps it is because of the changes I have had to navigate in the past. Perhaps it is because somewhere along the way I learned to appear calm on the outside while carrying deep emotions quietly on the inside. I may have become skilled at appearing unaffected, at reasoning through situations, at accepting what must be accepted.

As a 5 year old, we were sent to hostel as Dad feared his job security in Abu dhabi. While my older sister was crying, I had to be the older one pacifying her making her understand that Dad sent us coz he loves us and cared for our education but it was hard for my 6 year old sister. Mom did eventually take us out in 2 years and we all moved in together. My sister used to cry when relatives come and I used to be the calm...When B left to Iraq I was choking inside...my eyes would well with tears at a tiny thought but I tried hard not to shed a tear in front of my kids or at work! My car and the Al Khoudh to work was the time I would vent out my true emotions!  But acceptance and absence of pain are not always the same thing.

This particular change had been unfolding for days. I knew it was coming.. it was inevitable. I had prepared myself for it. And yet, when it happened, the room felt different.

It is strange how attached we become without even realising. The familiar morning greetings. The person who understands the rhythm of the office without needing explanations. The comfort of knowing who is around .... The quiet consistency of everyday presence.We rarely notice these things while they are there.We notice them when they change.

I found myself feeling a sense of loss, but not confusion. I knew the reasons. I understood the logic. It all made perfect sense. Nobody had done anything wrong. It was a practical decision, a necessary one too. Yet there was still pain.

I am not dramatic. I am known for my calm, my ability to stay composed. But I feel things deeply. I don't express affection outwardly. I am not someone who rushes to hug people or openly display emotion. Yet I value people deeply.The narrative that played in my head to make myself understand was  "Nobody has left the company.", "Nobody has disappeared from my life." I knew those statements were true. But there was still a quiet sadness in seeing a familiar chapter come to an end.

Part of me resisted even admitting that sadness. Not because the feelings were invalid. Not because they were unimportant. They were both valid and important. It was mainly because I felt I had no right to feel them. After all, I am simply an employee. A hireling, as I sometimes tell myself. Work is work. People move. Life goes on. Or so we say.

But the truth is that people matter. 

As I reflected on it, I realised that what I was mourning wasn't the room itself. It was the comfort of familiarity. The creature of habit in me that settle into patterns, routines, and relationships which quietly become part of daily lives. Even when change is good. Even when it is necessary. Even when we agree with it completely. There can still be a small grief in letting go of what was.

What made the experience even more poignant was thinking about how she must have felt.

For years, that room had been her space. A place where challenges were faced, relationships were built, conversations were shared, and countless ordinary days unfolded. Even when change is not personal, it can still feel personal. There is something unsettling about leaving a place where you have become comfortable. I could sense emotions beneath the surface, even though they were never openly discussed. For a moment, I wanted to say something. I wanted to acknowledge that it could not have been easy. I wanted to say that I understood. But I didn't. Not because I didn't care. Perhaps because I cared too much.

Sometimes when someone is already carrying disappointment or hurt, drawing attention to it can make the burden feel heavier. Sometimes naming the wound reminds the person that it is there. So I chose silence.Not the silence of indifference. The silence of respect. The kind that says "I understand more than I am saying" and "I do not want to make it harder for you."

Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps she would have appreciated hearing it. Or perhaps she was grateful that nobody made a larger issue of what was already difficult enough. I will never know.

What I do know is that how deeply human I am, even in professional environments. Behind every move, every organisational decision, every seating rearrangement, there are people adjusting emotionally in ways that never appear in reports, plans, or management discussions. We assume that only major life events leave marks on us. But sometimes it is the smallest transitions that reveal how attached we have become ....

The room is different now. The conversations will be different or will take time to build, Perhaps fewer.The routines will be different..that is not something to fear...a reminder that life is always moving, and that every season  leaves its mark on us. People matter, connections are formed, memories are made, spaces become meaningful not because of the walls around, but because of the people who occupy them.

On Tuesday night, during Bible Study at church, these emotions I had carefully contained all week found its way to the surface. I found myself sobbing silently ...I had already reasoned through everything. I had accepted the change. I understood the logic. I had told myself all the right things. Yet tears have a way of revealing what reason sometimes cannot.

Perhaps the tears were not really about loss, but about care, gratitude, and the bond formed through years of shared daily life... for a daughter like figure who became part of my everyday life.
Love that often goes unspoken...Love that notices when someone is hurting
Love that quietly wished blessing over the person even while carrying my own emotions.

As I wiped away those tears that Tuesday night, I realised something simple.The room was never just a room.It was a place that had held years of conversations, laughter, prayers, worries, celebrations, and ordinary moments that slowly became meaningful.

The room is different now. The routines will be different. The conversations may be fewer. But perhaps that is not something to fear. Perhaps it is simply another reminder that people matter more than we realise, and that every season, however ordinary, leaves its mark on us.

I miss having that familiar, daughter-like presence in my room.But my prayer for her remains unchanged.. Go further. Dream bigger. Shine brighter. Become everything God created you to be.....

Read Part 2 ........