THE WORDS WE CARRY

For over a year and a half, the silence of unemployed mornings had weighed heavily on Jyoti. Despite her intellect, talent, and tireless efforts, every door remained firmly closed. She had submitted countless applications, sought unpaid internships, and offered to volunteer anywhere that would take her—anything to break the quiet routine of being stranded at home. Yet, rejection after rejection slowly eroded her resolve.

The hardship of being jobless was difficult, but the constant harshness from her father was far harder to endure.

"You do nothing all day," he would say, his voice sharp with disappointment. "You completed a Master’s Degree in Journalism, yet here you are, sitting at home doing absolutely nothing. You are useless. You lack even the basic skills to build a career."

Jyoti never argued back. She simply absorbed the words in silence.

What her father never understood was that journalism had never been her choice. Her heart had always belonged to social work—a calling rooted in her deep desire to serve people and immerse herself in literature and community service. But a 52% score in her Intermediate exams had closed the doors to the social work programs she originally wanted. Forced by circumstance and low marks, she pursued a Bachelor’s degree in Journalism instead.

Even after completing her undergraduate studies, she tried to switch tracks to a Master’s in Social Work (MSW), but delayed university results shattered that timing, forcing her once more down the path of journalism. Upon earning her Master’s degree, she pleaded one last time to study MSW, but her father dismissed the idea outright. To him, another degree made no sense; it was time for her to yield results in journalism, a field in which she had zero passion.

Unable to communicate her true feelings, Jyoti slowly began to internalize her father's constant criticism. The persistent lectures eroded her self-worth until she truly began to view herself as a failure.

It was a cold Friday morning. The clock on the wall struck 7:00 AM.

Downstairs, her mother called out her name for breakfast. Receiving no response, she walked up the stairs and pushed open the bedroom door. A moment later, a sharp, terrified scream echoed through the house: "Jyoti!"

Her father rushed into the room, only to freeze in horror. Jyoti was gone, having taken her own life.

On her neatly made bed lay a folded piece of paper addressed to them both. Her father’s trembling hands opened the note:

Dear Pa and Mom,

I am sorry for taking my own life, but I could no longer carry this unbearable frustration. For a year and a half, I searched for a way forward and found none.

Truthfully, it was not being jobless that broke me—it was your words, Dad. Every time you told me I was useless, I believed you a little more. You saw my lack of a job as a lack of worth. I tried so hard to succeed, but every failure only seemed to prove your harsh judgments right.

I know I was not perfect, but no one is born fully skilled. Children need encouragement to grow, not constant scolding that tears them down. Your words hurt me deeper than you will ever know.

I never wanted to study journalism. My heart was always in social work, but luck was never on my side, and when I asked to pursue MSW after my Master's, you refused to listen. If only you had spoken to me with understanding instead of anger. I felt entirely alone, depressed, and defeated.

Your "unskilled" daughter,

Jyoti

As the words settled, the letter slipped from her father’s hands. The reality of what had happened crashed over him—a devastating realization that his harshness had pushed his daughter into the dark, and that his refusal to listen had cost her life. It was a burden of guilt he would carry forever, a quiet sentence with no possibility of forgiveness.