Ch 2: The Legacy Of Childhood – My Story, Part 1

In this chapter, I share the early experiences that shaped how I saw myself and my place in the world. From family expectations to instability at home, I learned to prioritize others and silence my own needs. Like many of us, I carried the legacy of childhood into adulthood without realizing it. This story isn’t about blame — it’s about understanding. And understanding is where healing begins.

Listen on, and we will navigate the seven seas to freedom together.

Ch 2: Give YourSelf Permission to Know You Matter: 'Give Yourself Permission to Live Your Life', written and read by Priya Rana Kapoor (Balboa Press), ©2014/2025 Priya Rana Kapoor

Transcript

Chapter 2, The Legacy of Childhood, My Story, Part 1. Life's problems wouldn't be called hurdles if there wasn't a way to get over them. Author unknown. My story, Although colorful, Is not one of violence and abject horrors. As a therapist, I was trained never to tell anybody anything about myself. However, I was also taught that in instances when I think it might help the client, Sharing my personal experiences may be worthwhile. I have decided to be more open in this book than I would be in a coaching or therapy session, Because I feel by doing so, It might help you, The listener. In the introduction, I mention that I don't want to preach at you. I just want to be a guide. This chapter describes my background, Some low points, Some high points, And a few adventures. I relate these occurrences as I experienced them at the time, To set the scene as to how and why I got to a place where I put myself last and didn't give myself permission to live my life. No matter what happens in our lives, I believe we can move past them and be happy from within. Chapter four goes on to tell of how I worked through the stages of the permission journey, Outlined in chapter three, To attain both personal and professional freedom. Family Tree. From the outside, My childhood looked idyllic. I was a pretty little girl, And I was dressed in lovely expensive dresses, And I was polite and well-behaved. I'm told that my mother, Father, Other family members, Nannies, Friends, And just about everyone else doted on me. However, Deep down, I was a very anxious child, Who would grow into an outwardly strong, But inwardly weak and doubting woman. There seemed to be some chaos and much uncertainty in our family as I was growing up, And this atmosphere affected much of my life. I lived within an odd dichotomy. On the one hand, I was very independent, Because I had to be. But at the same time, I was very dependent on what people thought of me, And that dictated just about everything I did. Most of all, I cared deeply about whether my mother approved of what I did, Thought, Wore, Said, And so on. By the time I was in my late twenties, I had done everything a girl from my socioeconomic background was supposed to do. And whilst I had some great and interesting experiences, I was not living an authentic life. I feel that this cost me, And others, Dearly. I was born to an American mother and Indian father. I grew up in London, But spent most holidays in Los Angeles with my maternal grandparents. My grandfather was born in Chihuahua, Mexico. His family had been involved in the construction of the first railway between Mexico and the U. S. My family knew Pancho Villa, The prominent Mexican general, And as they fled Mexico, He knew which train they were on, And kept his revolutionaries from attacking it. My grandfather studied as a lawyer and engineer. He worked for Hughes Aircrafts after World War II, And then started his own engineering firm in Los Angeles, Where he often won interesting and sensitive government aerospace contracts. Although very smart and often quite supportive, He would sometimes give with one hand and take away with the other, Which sent us all mixed messages. My grandmother grew up in a difficult family, With an abusive father, And from the age of 14, She worked to support her mother and sister. At 15, She became a dancer, And performed on cruise ships all over the world, And in the grand spectacles that were Depression-era movies. After marrying my grandfather, Having barely finished high school, And without a college degree, She became the first female chairman of the Board of Education for the Los Angeles Unified School District. She then worked on my grandfather's government contracts, And in the oven, In our kitchen, An oven we still have, She built and tested some of the components that guided Apollo 11 to the moon. She was quite self-assured, And she and I had a special bond. I loved and respected her deeply, And she was a huge influence on my life. My mother, An only child, Was and still is blonde and gorgeous. She looked like a movie star to me when I was growing up. She was incredibly chic, And lived a glamorous life to match. However, She found life with her driven parents quite difficult, And constantly felt criticized and unloved. She moved to London because she had seen the film La Dolce Vita, And thought that she would find a version of it there. My parents met through friends when my mother was traveling in Europe. She was 25 years younger than my father, A dashing international businessman, Originally from India, Who had successfully assimilated into Western culture. My father and mother traveled the world for his work, And since my sister, Hira, And I had nannies, We were often able to travel with them. School holidays with our grandparents in Los Angeles were wonderful. Life was quite structured there. Dinner was always served at six, And my grandmother would summon us by ringing the triangle in the garden. We celebrated fantastic Christmases together, And I was lucky enough to have a birthday during the summer, So we were always all together then. Hira and I had few toys because we traveled so much, And it was difficult to carry everything around. The result was that I treasured the toys I did have, And was able to really exercise my creativity with them. I invented loads of versions of a single board game, And I was a huge fan of dressing up in whatever I could find in my mother's wardrobe. She had lovely clothes, And she didn't mind if I played with them, As long as I was careful and put them back properly. Smoke and Mirrors When I was eight, We moved to a very big house in the middle of London. Things were seemingly good in the early years, But there was always an underlying sense of confusion or unpredictability. My father was often away, Either on business or in the hospital. He seemed to have a lot of health problems, Although it wasn't completely clear to me what was actually wrong with him. I remember my father invariably dressing very formally. He nearly always wore a three-piece suit with a collared shirt and a tie. For casual wear, He would exchange the suit jacket and waistcoat for a cashmere sweater, And I marveled at the softness of it. When my father was at home, I went into my parents' room in the morning and was always comforted to see my father in his paisley pajamas, As they meant that he was going to stay for a while instead of rushing away. I loved him, And I wanted to spend more time with him, But the opportunity just was not there. I would put my party dress on when my father came home because I was so happy to see him, And I wanted to make him happy too. I cherish the times he did take me, Just me, Out. One day, When I had a cold, He took me to dinner and ordered very hot Indian food to clear out my head. It worked! My mother loved my sister and me very much, And if we broke something, She wouldn't get angry with us because she knew we didn't do it on purpose. We were very good girls, But I knew I had to behave or my mother would get upset. And that was the last thing I wanted in the world. Although she's American, My mother had taken on board a lot of English ideas about social class and proper behavior. I dressed the way my mother thought I should dress, Which never really seemed quite me. I wanted my mother to be pleased with me all the time. I think this came from the fact that she had high standards and demanded quite a bit of people. At the same time, I put unrealistic expectations on myself to be perfect. I worried about what my mother and other people thought of me and did not think about what I wanted for myself. As children, We learn from what we see and feel around us. We observe our parents and other adults interacting with the world, And based on that, We draw conclusions and usually emulate those interactions. When I was 12, My father left us. As devastating as it was for me to learn, It must have been worse for my mother. My sister and I were told that we would not see him anymore. After this shock, My mother's emotional reliance on me escalated and my almost pathological need to keep her happy really overtook me. I didn't want to do anything that would upset her. Maybe I felt she had too much on her plate. Maybe I wanted to protect her. Maybe I also felt that it would just be easier for me to carry the burden. But the pressure to do the right thing all the time kicked into high gear. I felt incredibly loyal to my mother, And she was very appreciative of the support. Growing up, I felt that being different and having my own thoughts and values were of no benefit to me. I felt that I could not be myself, And that I had to do and say all the right things to stay under the radar. I sensed I couldn't tell anyone how I truly felt, Or ask for help if I needed it, For fear of upsetting the apple cart. Sleeping on couches As I entered my teenage years, I tried to express myself a little more. The 1980s were a great time to be young in London. The new romantics and glam pop were popular, And young people felt free to be expressive and creative. My friends and I loved shopping for cool ensembles at the mod markets around London. We bought fun outfits for next to nothing, And had a great time wearing them. It all seemed very innocent. Most of us didn't get involved in drugs, Drink to excess, Or sleep around. But we did go to the pub, Go out dancing, And have parties. During this time, Funds were really low, And it was often difficult to pay the utility bills. My mother was determined to keep the house. After all, It was our home. She ultimately took in up to six lodgers to help financially. She liked to keep busy and keep her mind off things by having people in the house. It was usually filled with an endless cast of characters in the form of party guests, Visitors, And lodgers. They brought with them all sorts of colorful lives. One lodger said he was a bishop in the Church of England. He showed us his vestments and many beautiful gold crosses and rings, But it soon became evident that he was a male prostitute, Trolling the streets of Mayfair for clients. One day, He just disappeared, Having cut some electrical wires, Making off with anything he could, Including the phones, Radios, The iron, And even the ironing board. My first encounter with paranoid schizophrenia came in the form of a 45-year-old woman who came very close to pushing me out of my seventh-floor bedroom window. Another lodger had invited her into the house in the middle of the night when my mother was away. One of my saving graces was that I loved school, Which offered security, Friends, And a regular meal every day. I loved the fact that I had a timetable and knew where I was supposed to be every minute of the day. Luxury. I also felt I could mostly be myself there. Thankfully, Since money was really tight, Our schools put us on scholarships, But academically I was average. I remember with great fondness the fun and camaraderie my best friend Kate and I had rowing on the Serpentine whilst revising for our history exams. Usually she rowed while I asked the questions, Because otherwise I generally ended up dropping an oar in the water. She would bring me to her house to eat and stay over. Her parents went to great lengths to include me, And their home provided me with a wonderfully secure environment. With no idea of how confusing things were in my household, My friend's family did not fuss over me. They just shared their Sunday lunch and showed me what an ordinary family looked like. I really enjoyed the reliability and stability that school and friends offered me. Eventually, We lost our house. I was at school that day, And I was called to the office and told to go home. My mother had been informed that she had a few hours to take as many of our personal things as possible out of the house. She hired a moving company, Which stole a lot of our stuff, And she had piled whatever was left into and on top of our mini. I arrived home as the moving van was pulling away, And the bailiffs were locking the front door. My mother, Hira, And I sat on the pavement next to the comically laden car, Wondering what to do next. We were never allowed into our house again. We ended up staying with a friend of my mother's, Who was very much a bon viveur. He had an eccentric flat in affluent Belgravia, And my sister and I waited until the day's party was over before we could go to sleep on the sofa, Amongst half-filled champagne glasses, Overflowing ashtrays, And rotting flowers. Thankfully, In time, My grandparents helped us get a new house. Needless to say, I learned about resilience and independence, Including how to take care of myself. Goodbye. One evening, Nearly two years later, When I was 16, One of my mother's friends rang the house, And I answered the phone. Did your father die? He asked abruptly. Mmm, Not as far as I know, I said. Why? Well, It says in the Times obituary column that someone with the same name as your father died in Surrey a few days ago. Well, That would probably be my father. The man quickly hung up. Our lodger's French boyfriend had just come to visit, And after I made a few calls, To no avail, I asked him to call my father's house. I had not rung my father for years, But I could still remember his number. I told the boyfriend to ask for my father. He did, Paused, Thanked whomever was on the other end of the line, Hung up, Turned to me, And asked me what passed away meant. That was how I learned my father had died. When my mother came home, I told her what had happened. It was hard for her, And it was hard for me too. I became depressed and worried that my father had not gone to heaven, Which was a terribly upsetting thought. At school, I had taken religious studies and was intrigued and comforted by the thought of a higher power. In typical Priya fashion, I decided that I was solely responsible for getting my father to heaven. I put a picture of him by my bed and prayed for him every night, Begging God to let him in. My room seemed to be abnormally cold, And I became more and more depressed until one day my friend Crispin broke into the house. He came into my room, Tore off the sheets, And said, That's it, I'm getting you out of here. I'm eternally grateful to him for rescuing me from the dark place I had fallen into. At that point, I realized that the responsibility for my father's salvation was becoming a very heavy burden to bear. For some reason, I felt that I had to bargain with God and save him, When it was really not my job at all. I picked up the photograph of my father and looked at it, And told him that I was letting him go, And that he would be on his own from now on. I then put the picture away, Face down, In a drawer. In this instance, I recognize where my responsibilities truly lay, And where they did not. However, I refocused and redoubled my efforts in taking care of my mother. Since childhood, I tried really hard to make things easier for her, To be there for her, And to help pick up the pieces when problems arose. I had also learned to anticipate when problems would come down the pipeline. I did all I could to avert any huge mishaps and mitigate collateral damage when something slipped through the cracks. Eventually, Both my mother and sister moved to Los Angeles, So I lived alone in the house for my last year of school. I had very little money, But we had scraped by before by taking in lodgers, So I decided to get one. His name was Tintin. He was about 20, Was very cool, And everyone knew him, So I gained instant street cred amongst my friends. He was a night owl, So we usually had breakfast together, After which I would go to school all day whilst he slept. He would get up just in time to make me dinner most evenings, And then he would go out and I would go to sleep. I will never forget his kindness and friendship either. Time for Change I did reasonably well at school, Although perhaps not as well as I might have done had things been easier. Somehow I was admitted to Warwick University in the UK. I had never seen the university before I arrived at my housing. At the time, I was one of a handful of students at Warwick who had been to private school, And because of that, I felt that people did not like me much. I was also taking a course that didn't suit me very well, So after two years, I transferred to the University of Southern California, USC. My grandparents helped with tuition, And I received grants and loans to help with the rest. I really enjoyed being at USC and closer to my family. In my senior year, I met my future husband. We were introduced at a fraternity party, Because neither of us drank alcohol. I don't like the taste, And I also dreaded the thought of being out of control. Charmed Life When my husband and I met, He was recovering from a skateboarding accident. It was a difficult time in his life. I think we were brought together because we both needed the support, Love, And care we could provide for each other. I liked the fact that he provided security. He was wonderfully solid and reliable. I knew exactly what was going to happen every day. We moved in with each other after we graduated from university, And we were engaged a few years later. One morning, Just before we were married, I woke up with double vision. As I was working as a graphic designer at the time, This was a real problem. Added to the fact that because I lived in LA, I invariably needed to drive a lot to get anywhere. I went to a few ophthalmologists who tried various unsuccessful treatments. Nobody suggested seeing a neuro-ophthalmologist. Three weeks later, I woke up with clear vision. The condition seemed to have disappeared as quickly as it had started. Then a year later, I started to experience the sensation of electric currents going up and down my legs. It felt odd, But I didn't pay much attention to it. Just like the double vision, It disappeared a few weeks later. As an anxious person, I was stressed about organizing our wedding ceremony and the party afterwards. Everything had to be absolutely perfect. Subsequently, I have learned to move away from a need for perfection. Originally, I had suggested to my fiancé and my mother that we elope to avoid what I knew was going to be a whirlwind of activity. They were both horrified and assured me that they would help organize everything. Somehow, It didn't work out that way, Partly because I didn't let them and insisted on doing almost everything myself. I became more and more worried about what everyone would think of our wedding, About adhering to the rules of traditional etiquette, And about doing everything just right so my mother and society would approve. The planning seemed to take on a life of its own. And just like Jack in Chapter 1, Why We Don't Give Ourselves Permission, I found myself being whisked along by that big, Heavy freight train. I felt like it was tearing ahead so quickly that I wouldn't have been able to slow it down or stop it, Even if I had wanted to. Looking back, I can see clearly that at this time, I had lost my sense of self. Even though I was preparing for my wedding, I was living for others. I worried a lot about my place in the world, Whether I was doing things the right way, And what people would think. The day of the wedding eventually came. Bridesmaids, Family, And great friends came to Los Angeles for the celebration. Friendship and love were everywhere. And yet, The night before the wedding, After the rehearsal dinner, I drove back to my hotel all alone. At the time, I felt slightly put out and felt that no one cared about me. But I now see that I had taken absolute control of everything and hadn't allowed anyone in. It seemed easier for me to be alone and in complete control than to enjoy my friends and family. This was further evident the following day when I found myself driving the minivan containing all the bridesmaids and their dresses to the church. The wedding had the usual dramas that many do. My drunken godmother lurching at my mother, But hitting the priest instead as he stepped in to protect her. One of the groomsmen offering my godson pot. My sister hijacking the limousine with the rest of the wedding party for a joyride around the house. And my husband and I waited for everyone at the reception. But despite it all, We had a lovely day. Two days later, We left for our much-anticipated honeymoon in Egypt. When we arrived in Frankfurt for our connecting flight, We were met by a film crew who asked me and some of the other passengers if we were afraid to travel. Apparently there had been a bombing in Cairo. As I had grown up in London, At the height of the IRA campaign, I wasn't overly concerned and insisted that my husband and I continue our trip. On arrival in Egypt, We found out that there had not been a bombing at all, But the massacre of a large number of tourists in Luxor by a terrorist group. Still, I was not dissuaded. The Tipping Point When I awoke on our first day in Cairo, I found that I had pins and needles in my left hand. As the trip continued, The feeling spread along my whole left side. Eventually, I was barely able to walk. Because of the problems in Egypt, Most of the flights in and out of the country were grounded. But we managed to get one of the few planes back to the United States. On arrival, I was taken straight to the hospital for a check-up. When the results came back, The doctor told me that there was good news and bad news. The good news was that I didn't have a tumor in my brain. But the bad news was there was something wrong and that I would have to be admitted for more tests the next day. I wasn't allowed to eat, Shower, Or change my clothes. I was smelly, Hungry, And tired after all that traveling. I remember lying in a cold, Hard hospital bed, Exhausted and scared. My mother and my husband had gone home because I had told them to. I felt I had to be in control and couldn't show my family any weakness. I worried that everyone at the hospital was angry with me because it was Thanksgiving Day and I had ruined the holiday. It was all too much, And I started to cry. But I will be forever grateful to the nurse who came in, Held my hand, And comforted me. My husband was very supportive. He cut my food, Brought me to doctor's appointments, And did all he could to help. At one stage, I had to go to hospital to have a lumbar puncture. I remember lying on my side on an exam bed, Staring at the wall, Whilst the neurologist tried to insert the needle into my spine. Finally, The doctor said it wasn't working. And that I might have to go to radiology instead, But that he would try one more time. I thought, I can't do it. That's another three hours of waiting. Then I thought, God, If you exist, Now is the time, On the count of three, Please. I counted silently, And on three, The doctor said, I got it. From then on, I have never doubted that there is a higher power, And that he, She, It is there to support me, Especially when I'm open and when I ask for help. For two years, I had MRI scans every six months. I really didn't do much research or think about my condition until May 1999, When the results of an MRI showed disease progression, And I was formally diagnosed with MS. Because it had gone on for so long, And I was feeling fine, And earlier tests had shown only a slight chance of MS, I didn't expect to hear that actual diagnosis, And was quite shocked by it. As the MRIs and their results had become so routine over the past two years, My husband wasn't with me when I received the news. And afterwards, I did what any Kapoor would do. I carried on and honored a lunch plan I had with a work colleague, As though nothing had happened. It always takes a few hours, Or even days, For things to sink in with me. This started the long journey of healing, Both physically and emotionally. Years of medication, Tests, Pain, Uncertainty, Much learning, And many blessings. It used to be when I read or heard people say that they considered getting an illness to be a blessing in disguise, I would think they were crazy. How could they say that? But now I understand. The MS diagnosis made me stop and take a look at what I was doing to myself. It was a tipping point in my life, And I am grateful for it. Given this experience, My wish now is to help others find a way to change tack much sooner than I did, Before they sail into the storm of a chronic illness or worse. Carry on listening, And we will navigate the seven seas to freedom, Together.