Where the Mango Tree Still Grows

There’s a mango tree in my grandmother’s backyard that has outlived the house, the laughter, and almost everything I believed about myself.

Still, it blooms. Still, it waits.

Like a memory you never invite,

but that shows up anyway—

ripe with sweetness,

and the ache of time.

The House That Raised Me

It wasn’t much—

Three small rooms, peeling paint,

a veranda that creaked under memory.

But it raised generations.

It raised voices, tears, traditions—

and me.

“You can’t know where you’re going if you don’t know where you came from.”

— Maya Angelou

Psychologists call this “narrative identity.”

We define ourselves not by facts,

but by the stories we tell about our past.

And mine began in this house,

under that mango tree.

The Science of Nostalgia

For years, I dismissed nostalgia as emotional indulgence.

But research shows the opposite.

According to Dr. Clay Routledge, nostalgia isn't escapism —

it's a powerful psychological resource.

It strengthens our sense of self,

restores emotional resilience,

and reminds us we’ve endured worse than this.

So when I remember

sunlight through monsoon windows,

my grandmother’s humming in the kitchen,

and the sticky sweetness of fresh-cut mango—

I’m not just reminiscing.

I’m reconnecting

with the roots of my emotional strength.

Becoming Someone Else, Somewhere Else

The world outside taught me ambition.

Cities trained me in speed,

success,

efficiency.

I became fluent in deadlines,

but illiterate in joy.

In a land where worth is measured in output,

I began to unlearn softness,

replace wonder with strategy.

But the mango tree never asked for productivity.

It just bloomed.

Season after season.

Quietly defiant.

Quotes That Found Me When I Needed Them

“Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.”

— Oscar Wilde

“Home is not a place, it’s a feeling.”

— Cecelia Ahern

“You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”

— C.S. Lewis

Returning Is Not Regression

When I returned to that house, older and heavier with life,

the roof was crumbling.

The floors had cracked.

But the mango tree—

It reached for the sky, still.

I stood before it

and felt something open—

not grief, not joy—

but wholeness.

The Psychology of Going Back

Psychologist Dr. Dan McAdams says our identity is built from key “self-defining memories.”

Returning to a place of origin often brings clarity,

because it helps us see who we’ve become—

and what we’ve preserved.

The house faded. The rituals faded. But I remained.

And more importantly—my capacity to remember, to care, to belong—remained.

What the Mango Tree Taught Me

Not all growth is upward.

Sometimes it’s inward.

Sometimes it’s returning to a thing

you thought you outgrew

just to realize

it still makes you whole.

Legacy isn’t always money or monuments.

It’s:

A recipe passed down with stained fingers

A tree that still offers fruit

A language spoken only at home

Final Reflections

I once believed leaving meant progress.

Now I know:

Returning is also brave.

It takes courage to revisit the past,

to forgive its fractures,

and to find power in softness.

I left to become someone.

I returned

to remember who I’ve always been.

Coming to Terms With Then and Now

Returning to my childhood home reminded me that time doesn’t wait for anyone, but memory lingers in places far longer than we expect. The distance I had put between myself and that past wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. I thought becoming someone new required letting go of where I came from. But the truth is, no matter how far we travel, our foundation stays beneath us. It shapes how we love, how we grieve, how we cope, and even how we celebrate.

Being back, I didn’t feel regret for leaving—I felt gratitude that I could still return. Some people don’t get that chance. Places change, people pass on, and opportunities for closure disappear. I was lucky. Not because the house was still intact, but because I had changed enough to see it differently. The mango tree, the cracked walls, the silence—they weren’t relics. They were reminders. Of who I was, what I carry, and what still matters.

Now, I don’t romanticize the past. But I don’t avoid it either. I understand that revisiting it gave me clarity I didn’t know I needed. Not everything from back then needs to be preserved. But some things—some roots—deserve to be honored.