(continued from Part 1- Beginnings, Bonding, Becoming.)
As the festive spirit of Christmas and New Year quietly settled over communities, we returned to our field locations with a new kind of strength. The second training had deepened our bonds, reaffirmed our purpose. But reality soon reminded us — not everyone would continue. Some fellows, overwhelmed by the isolation of remote locations and the emotional strain of being far from loved ones, made the painful decision to step away from the fellowship. It was heartbreaking. We had started this journey together — and now, the absence of those who left left a silent void.
But those of us who stayed, stayed with a renewed sense of commitment. We became each other’s anchors. We messaged more, checked in more, held space for one another in ways only we could understand. The bond became less about shared training and more about shared survival, shared courage.
When I returned, I began my baseline survey on menstrual health across 10 schools in Sandur Taluk. It was emotionally taxing and logistically messy. I walked for hours, struggled with language barriers, and navigated difficult terrain. But in those schools, I met young girls who had never spoken about their periods to anyone — not even their mothers. They looked at me with both fear and relief — finally, someone was willing to listen without judgment.
I designed games to get them to open up, used tools like the Johari Window to help them explore their own emotions, and slowly, a space of trust began to form. With the support of the Pad Woman of Karnataka and inputs from mothers and teachers, I co-created a menstrual health module grounded in science, compassion, and dignity.
At every step, there was someone who stood by me — two volunteers from our CSR team who walked with me into difficult spaces; Manjunath, my co-fellow, who patiently helped with dialect and survey framing; and above all, the fellowship ecosystem that constantly reminded us: “You are not alone.”
Weekly thematic calls became lifelines. Candid conversations about our struggles and difficulties on ground with Shalabh Sahai co-founder of iVolunteer created a new sense of transparency. We were not just participants in a program — we were contributors, change-makers, voices that mattered.
Our exposure visit to the Kutch region expanded our vision. We met organizations that had redefined resilience — working on climate, livelihoods, and education with stunning clarity and community-rooted approaches. Their answers became our compass. Their presence reminded us that systemic change is possible, and that our own small steps were part of a much larger movement.
And then came the news: Kishore Sir, our Project Head, was moving on. His was a quiet strength — always encouraging, always present. His departure was emotional, a marker of how much we had grown under his guidance. But even in goodbye, he gifted us the courage to take ownership of our journeys.
Returning to Pune now felt like returning home. The city, once a place of induction, had become a symbol of shared memories — of pani puri cravings, spontaneous discussions, late-night work sessions, and quiet laughter. But this time, the visit was for our convocation. A celebration. A farewell.
Now, with the fellowship nearing its end, uncertainty looms again. What next? Where do we go from here?
But I’ve learned to sit with this uncertainty. To breathe through it. Because time and again, this journey has shown me that transformation isn’t loud — it’s slow, silent, and deeply personal. It happens when you hold someone’s hand in the dark. When a child in a school laughs for the first time in your session. When a village elder trusts you with their story. When you trust yourself.
This journey has never been just about menstrual health. It’s been about discovering strength in vulnerability, forming lifelong friendships, challenging injustice with empathy, and realising that true change — whether in society or within us — begins with listening, connecting, and believing.
So as I stand on the edge of what comes next, I carry with me not just tools and training, but a heart full of stories, a network of soul-deep friendships, and the quiet wisdom that will echo for years to come:
Trust the process. Always.
Here is a small poem:
The Journey Became Us
We came as strangers,
thirty names in a room,
each carrying quiet questions
and unspoken fears.
Pune welcomed us with learning,
Tuljapur with stillness,
villages with stories
etched in dust and time.
We sat in circles,
spoke of change,
and slowly,
we became it.
Some left —
the silence was heavy,
the work, demanding.
We stayed,
not because it was easy,
but because it felt right.
I walked through schools and mining villages,
listened to girls
who had never been heard.
Together,
we gave voice to silence.
There were long days,
and lonelier nights,
but in every call,
every shared struggle,
we found each other again.
Now the end nears.
The next step is unclear.
But if there’s one thing
this journey has taught me,
it is this:
The process is the path.
And we were never walking alone.
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