When Change Finally Feels Like Home

Since being born during the bicentennial year in a small hospital in Hoboken, New Jersey, I have traveled to India eight times—five during childhood and three in adulthood. Last night, when I couldn’t sleep (jet lag, perimenopause, and a new bed), I found myself thinking about how, on each trip, I’ve seen India through a different lens.

And to be honest, that realization frustrated me.

In my fiftieth year of life, wasn’t I capable of seeing things consistently?

Was it strange to change so much between each trip, to hold such different views of the same place?

The first two times I went to India, I was 2 and 3½ years old, so there isn’t much to remember. I do have a few faint memories from that second trip—probably some of my earliest. Baby pigs in my grandparents’ neighborhood. The realization that I was lost during an unsupervised walk to a mailbox. Otherwise, the memories come from stories my parents told me and from old photographs developed from 9mm film.

A bustling scene in an Indian village street, where a man on a motorcycle navigates past shops adorned with colorful textiles and local goods.

My third trip was when I was 7. What I remember most are small sensory snapshots: the smell of pink flowers near my uncle’s house, the vague fear of the mental institution we used to drive past, and the discomfort of a hot, crowded train ride. I remember meeting people—learning nicknames for family members, riding a too-small red tricycle around a courtyard, and feeling the rush of air on my face as I swung on swings in different homes we visited.

I was disappointed by the emptiness of the Taj Mahal. Seven-year-old me had expected a hands-on museum, not two tombs. I dipped my foot into the Ganges River while watching hundreds of others fully submerge themselves. I was enthralled by the temples and wanted so badly to fit in that I announced I would become a vegetarian when we returned to the United States.

On my fourth trip, I was 11, and the photos perfectly capture the angst of that age. I remember being hot and bored. Mice skittered across the floor. Small lizards clung to the walls, and my body was constantly tense with fear. There was a drought, and water only came through the tap at 7 a.m. and 7 p.m., so buckets were always lined up and ready. We warmed water on the stove and bathed in the kitchen while cockroaches scurried nearby. I remember having diarrhea and dry heaving from the stench in the bathroom. When we finally got on the plane to leave, I could have done a happy dance.

A typical day in a small Indian village, where clothes hang to dry on lines outside simple homes, a stray cow rests on the unpaved street, and a lone car is parked nearby, capturing the essence of rural life.

My last childhood trip was when I was 16. By then, I was practically an adult, and my contempt for spending part of my summer in a foreign country was loud and unmistakable. My sister and I sat on a swing every day, feeling sorry for ourselves, rereading the two books each of us had dragged in our luggage. The heat was stifling, the mosquitoes relentless, and the lizards were still climbing the walls.

We traveled within the country and saw snow in the Himalayas. We got swindled out of money in the nation’s capital—first by a hotel owner, then by a taxi driver. There was no love lost between India and me, and when we landed at O’Hare, I let out a long exhale.

As a child, India was hard for me. I missed my TV shows, my processed American foods, my showers, and indoor plumbing. I was repulsed by cow dung in the streets, scared of falling into open sewers, and terrified of plunging into a ravine while being erratically driven along winding mountain roads. Everywhere I went, I stood out. My accent—or lack of one—was an obvious giveaway. Even when I stayed quiet, I couldn’t hide my outsider status in my own ethnic homeland. The clothes I wore were different. The way I walked and carried myself was different. I was acutely aware that people were pointing and staring. When I left India at 16, I wasn’t sure I would ever want to come back.

Then I entered adulthood.

My sixth trip didn’t happen until ten years later, when I traveled there to shop for my upcoming wedding. On the flight home, I was surprised to find tears streaming down my face. Never in my youth had I cried about leaving India. In fact, I used to leave so quickly the door barely had time to hit me on the way out. Could those salty drops on my cheeks be a sign that something had shifted?

I couldn’t quite put my finger on why things felt different. The trip had been hectic—my grandfather suffered a stroke the day before we arrived. Between hospital visits and shopping, there were family dinners, temple trips for blessings, and a growing awareness of the poverty around me. But there were also air-conditioned shops, time spent picking out clothes and dishes for married life, and the anticipation of everything ahead. So when I brushed the tears aside in my airplane seat, I assumed they were tied to the emotions of all the changes on the horizon.

Then came my seventh trip. I was 40 years old and had three school-aged children. This time, I was seeing India not just through my own eyes, but through theirs—and what a difference that made. Many of my relatives now had air conditioning and more roads were paved. There were resorts and restaurants that rivaled what we had in the United States. The kids were amazed by the differences, and I couldn’t help but wonder where that sense of awe had been when I was younger.

We showed them the Taj Mahal, and this time I appreciated the architecture, the love story, and the reverence of the grounds.

Three generations enjoying a moment by the Ganges River.

My children were in a sea of brown faces for the first time in their lives. Even though they may have looked different to people in India, I watched them settle into their skin in a way I hadn’t seen before. There was a shared recognition—an unspoken connection through ancestry. It amazed me that I had never felt that so clearly until I saw it through their eyes. I found myself crying a few times during that trip, but this time they were happy tears.

My kids proudly display their intricate henna designs while sitting on a swing, surrounded by a brick wall and a garden backdrop.

As I write this, I am in the middle of my eighth trip to India in 50 years. I had been looking forward to this trip. It was my first without having my parents accompany me. I had officially reached adult status. I was excited to see people and had begun sketching out a family tree, knowing I wouldn’t have my mom whispering names in my ear.

We are only a week into the trip, and I’m already tempted to plan the next one. I still stick out like a sore thumb, but now, to me, I belong.

Enjoying a sunny day in front of a sandwich shop in the middle of Mumbai.

So, what does any of this have to do with perimenopause? Probably nothing. But my frustration with my ever-changing views was likely tied to my broader frustration with change itself. So much has changed. Not just with India. But with me. As I get ready to turn 50 and undergo even more personal shifts—physical and emotional—I know that change is inevitable. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, change leads us not to confusion, but to a deeper sense of settling and belonging.