Some dates quietly divide life into a “before” and an “after.” For me, February 28, 1994, was the beginning of a story that changed everything.

I met her that evening at her uncle’s home in Delhi’s Defence Colony. After the introductions, we drifted into another room and began talking — a conversation that lasted an hour and could easily have lasted a lifetime, interrupted only by polite calls to join everyone for tea.

The very next day, March 1, we met again, this time alone in a nearby coffee shop. We talked for hours about our dreams, fears, and values. By the time we got up from that table, we had made a life‑altering decision: we would get married. We may have been introduced by our families, but at that table, it was just the two of us, choosing each other. No long courtship. No wavering. Just two people who trusted what they felt. On March 3, 1994, only two days later, we were married in a simple ceremony at a local gurdwara in Delhi. No lavish celebration — only love, faith, and a handful of loved ones.

She was a professor in an engineering college and the warden of a women’s hostel — strong, intelligent, and deeply independent. At our very first meeting, she clearly stated there would be no traditional dowry or money involved, and that I was free to walk away if I disagreed. I did not hesitate for a second. Her courage and clarity left me spellbound.

Over the next 24 years, our partnership grew. We raised two children, navigated life’s ups and downs, and shared laughter that could light up a room. Then, in the summer of 2018, everything changed.

During a family vacation in Colorado, we began noticing small things — moments that did not quite add up. My children encouraged me to consult doctors. After many appointments and tests, she was diagnosed with a brain disease called Frontal Temporal Degeneration (FTD), a cruel disorder that slowly steals the brain’s executive functions. There was no cure, only the expectation of gradual decline.

She herself did not feel that anything was wrong. In hindsight, the early signs had been there — subtle, easy to dismiss. We had brushed them aside as ordinary forgetfulness or simple lapses in attention. Every small issue is not a sign of something life‑threatening. But some are. If you really love someone, when in doubt, it is worth investigating. It was only during that long vacation, when we were together all day, that the patterns became too clear to ignore.

We had never even heard of FTD. The shock was immense, but as a family we chose acceptance and action. We spent nights looking for clinical trials and treatments — anything that might help. There was still no cure, just time, presence, and love. Looking back, we could see early signs we had missed, but that is how life is: we stumble, we learn, and we move forward with whatever strength we have.

At that point, I faced a choice: keep everything private or speak openly. I had always kept my personal life out of public view, but this time I chose to share our journey — not for sympathy, but for connection and understanding. Once I opened up, I discovered how many others were silently fighting their own battles. Our community surrounded us with kindness and support. Sharing our story gave me strength — for myself, for our adult kids, and for her. We continued to go out together, live as normally as possible, and cherish every small, ordinary moment — until her health no longer allowed it.

The final years were very hard, but I have no regrets. I did everything I could to give her comfort, dignity, and love. Though she is gone, she lives on in the lessons she left behind: courage, honesty, resilience, and the grace to face reality, no matter how painful it is.

When we face physical illness, we go to a doctor. We must treat mental health the same way. There is no shame in seeking help, no weakness in asking for support. Some conditions can be treated, some cannot — but awareness and compassion always make a difference.

Once I began to talk about what we were going through, doors began to open. I found help in places I would never have imagined: the local town center, the library, community organizations, and other public spaces that became unexpected lifelines. There is help online as well, but one has to be very careful; there is a lot of false or misleading information and groups. There were support groups — some for both of us together and some for each of us individually — and I visited several before finding the ones that truly helped. AFTD helped me understand ongoing research and what might lie ahead. A few Facebook groups allowed me to see what others in similar situations were experiencing, and what was helping or hurting their loved ones. Reaching out and sharing made a difference. Silence isolates; conversation heals. Talking opens doors to understanding, to help, and to a measure of peace.

On February 4, 2026, it will be five years since she passed. I miss her every single day, but I find solace in knowing that we lived fully, loved deeply, and faced everything — hand in hand. She was educated, graceful, and strong in every sense of the word. She did not deserve what happened to her — but then again, life happens. Bad things happen to good people all the time. Sometimes you just have to play the cards you are dealt. That does not make you any less of a person; it makes you human.

If you or someone you love is struggling — with mental health, dementia, caregiving, or grief — please reach out for help. You are not alone. Seeking support is not surrender; it is an act of strength, of love, and of hope.