I grew up in Surat, a city known for textiles, diamonds, and enterprise. I studied business, and for a while my family enjoyed real material comfort. When my father’s textile business later suffered serious setbacks, I saw something else, which was how relatives, friends, and community ties can become a family’s safety net. That memory stayed with me, as did conversations with my paternal grandfather, who had rebuilt his life in India after Partition.
I did not grow up believing that every difficulty could be solved by confidence alone. I saw that people sometimes need practical help, goodwill, patient relationships, and the chance to begin again.
My childhood included Sanskrit, Bal Vikas, and Bal Vihar, and I remember volunteering with children affected by leprosy near Surat. Those experiences shaped an interest in service, so when I later went to the United States for higher education, I chose special education at Brigham Young University Hawaii. It was an unusual choice next to the commercial world I had grown up in, but it made sense to me.
What Hawaii taught me beyond the classroom
In Hawaii I found a striking contrast. University life in Laie meant structured academic study within an Honor Code environment that emphasised responsibility and integrity. My studies included supervised teaching and the state-required PRAXIS examinations, and their completion was confirmed in a May 2007 letter from the university’s School of Education. I later earned a Graduate Certificate in Disability and Diversity Studies at the University of Hawaii at Manoa, awarded in December 2010.
Outside formal education, Hawaii taught me through everyday life. I lived in Waikiki and remember mornings with Kona coffee, walks beside the ocean, Hawaiian music, and the waves of the North Shore. In Honolulu, the atmosphere of Kalakaua Avenue, Chinatown, Aloha Tower, and the festivals near Ala Moana brought me into contact with many different communities. These are recollections rather than claims that a place grants expertise, but they remind me how much we learn by paying attention to people and settings beyond our usual routines.
I returned to India and kept working in education, disability inclusion, family support, and institutional leadership. One reason I wanted to stay close to home was to spend time with my grandfather in his final years. That choice taught me something that does not fit neatly on a CV, namely that relationships and presence cannot be swapped for professional prestige.
Three lessons for parents and educators
These experiences shape how I work with parents, students, and educators, and I see three lessons worth considering.
First, career guidance should widen possibilities rather than enforce conformity. A child drawn to an unfamiliar profession needs a serious conversation about qualifications, livelihood, and responsibilities, not automatic pressure to repeat a parent’s career. Supporting a young person’s autonomy is different from leaving them without guidance, and it helps to remember that family support can start to feel like pressure when it closes options down. We can explore their strengths, offer realistic information, and still leave room for an unexpected choice.
Second, character is better taught through practice than through slogans. Children notice how adults behave when money is tight, when colleagues disagree, or when a promising arrangement falls through. Do we speak respectfully, admit uncertainty, keep our commitments, and ask for help when we need it? Rules have value, but a credible example also needs behaviour that matches the principles being taught.
Third, participation matters more than labels. In special education and disability inclusion, an assessment or school report is useful only if it supports decisions that improve real participation. What can a learner do with the right adjustments, how does the family understand the next step, and does the institution change its practice or simply produce more paperwork? Those are the questions that should shape a SEN support meeting. Clinical diagnosis and regulated testing remain the work of appropriately qualified professionals, and educational or functional consultation should make its own boundaries clear.
Where AI fits in
The same questions apply to technology. In 2026 I began systematically digitising my professional archives and using AI-assisted tools to organise educational documents, memories, and writing. The software can help retrieve, structure, and compare material, but it cannot certify that every remembered detail is true, replace the consent of the people whose stories are involved, or confer professional authority. Good use of AI still depends on careful human judgement.
I have lived in places that people travel a long way to visit, and I treasure those memories. Yet what I brought home was not a collection of possessions. It was a deeper appreciation of learning, independence, relationships, service, and the freedom to make informed choices.
When parents ask how to prepare their children for the future, I come back to a simple question. Are we preparing them only to succeed on the paths we already know, or also to recognise and responsibly pursue paths of their own?
