Defining Okay

I started watching a documentary series about a wildlife sanctuary in India, Vantara.

It’s apparently one of the biggest in the world.

The work is incredible — elephants, rehabilitation, veterinarians, behavior specialists.

I felt genuinely glad that something like this exists.

Within the first five minutes, my body reacted.

Not loudly.

Just a tightening.

A subtle “oh.”

I noticed it.

My body clocked that it was set in India — the people, the interactions, the soundscape.

My body tightened again.

I told myself it was in English.

I kept watching.

My body kept tightening, and around ten minutes before the episode ended, my body said, very clearly:

I don’t want to watch anymore.

I thought it was because of the elephant suffering they were sharing.

I closed my laptop and moved on to get food for Toffee and Milo.

Only after I stopped did I realize how tense my entire body was.

How hyper-alert my whole system had become.

How activated I actually was.

My body went into a very highly distressed state.

I couldn’t move, but I was rocking back and forth.

Tears started coming without me knowing why.

There weren’t words.

Just a full-body response to something.

I didn’t want to ask or tell myself anything.

I just wanted it to feel.

What surfaced then — clearly — is that the part of India my body cannot be with is not a place or a memory.

It is culture.

The relational environment.

The soundscape.

The way people move with each other.

The unspoken rules that once shaped my body without consent.

This isn’t rejection.

It’s recognition.

I went to the bathroom.

I sat on the toilet.

I curled inward.

I closed my eyes.

I cried a bit and just let whatever needed to express itself, express itself.

And I said to my body:

I will do everything — everything — to make sure you never have to go through that again.

You will never have to be in that again.

I hear you.

I will listen.

While I was sitting there, Milo came to the bathroom door and peeked in.

Just his face.

Checking on me.

I said, “Thank you.”

Toffee was sitting right outside the door the whole time.

When I came back out and saw Toffee, my body said something very clearly:

Anytime you ever feel like we’re back there, look at Toffee.

She wouldn’t exist if this were back there.

She is the living reminder that I am here, in this life.

She doesn’t leave my side.

I am so glad I am here.

I am so glad my body is here.

I am also deeply grateful that my body didn’t feel the need to send me into the background in order to protect me.

My body has gone through and has done so much for me.

I don’t want it to do anything alone anymore.

I will be there with it through everything — listening and present.

Through every breath.

And I’ve decided I won’t watch South Asian TV or content anymore.

It’s not a judgment.

It’s not a rejection.

It’s care.

My body can’t be there.

And I will respect that.

I’m grateful my body tells me.

And I will listen.

It used to make me tense when I had to tell medical staff that I can’t have a South Asian provider,

or ask South Asian doctors to find me someone who my body won’t brace around.

It used to be scary to tell someone speaking to me in an Indian language, assuming I speak it too —

even though I understand them — that I only speak English.

I used to be very anxious when someone asked me if I was Indian,

to tell them that I was born and raised in India and I no longer identify as Indian.

I didn’t want to upset anyone.

Didn’t want to seem racist or discriminatory.

Didn’t want anyone to think I think less of the country or its people.

It took me a long time to stop sacrificing my body and my own safety and regulation

for someone to think I’m “okay.”

I am okay when my body isn’t in distress.

I am okay when I can breathe freely.

And I am only okay when I feel — and am — safe.

I am still learning the boundaries of what that looks like in my everyday life.

I am glad my body tells me.

I am glad I can hear it.

I am glad I am able to be here with and for my body.