An unexpected message changes everything. A real-life changing story — by Kirti Chandwalker
In the quiet, dusty lanes of Nagpur — where hibiscus flowers bloom without permission and neighbours greet you from verandas — I grew up chasing dreams bigger than our home.
Ours was a simple two-room house with neatly painted walls and a garden my mother loved. My father worked for a private company, and my mother, ever graceful and grounded, was a schoolteacher. We didn’t have much, but we had enough. My childhood was pleasant and full of happiness. And I had something rare — relentless hope.
As a little girl, I used to watch my uncle — the only engineer in the family — drive his white Maruti 800 through our narrow street. To me, that car wasn’t just a vehicle. It was a symbol of “I made it.”
And so, I made a quiet promise to myself:
“I’ll be an engineer and will own a car for my family.”
At 15, I told my parents I wanted to be an engineer.
My father smiled, ruffled my hair, and said, “Let’s see, beta.”
But I didn’t “see.” I believed.
With hard work, scholarships, and sleepy nights spent studying I got into NIT, Nagpur. My parents were very happy and proud of me when I brought home that admission letter. We celebrated with homemade kheer. After completing my graduation, I wanted to study further and wanted to do MBA.
But life had its own plan.
Just before joining, my mother sat me down.
“There’s a proposal,” she said, hesitantly. “Nice family. They say they’ll let you work after marriage.”
My world froze for a second. I wasn’t ready.
But I also knew the responsibilities my parents carried — a daughter growing older, a younger son whose studies needed funding, and that silent pressure families like ours live with.
So, I agreed. I met Ajit, from Pune. An engineer working with a big and renowned private sector company, A quiet by nature. Calm eyes. Gentle demeanour. We got married.
On our first evening together, while sipping chai on the terrace, he surprised me.
“You should still apply to the job in Pune,” he said.
“Really?”
“Why not? Your dreams don’t stop because you got married.”
I didn’t just marry a man that day. I found a partner.
I joined as a junior engineer in a MNC. We juggled life, careers, and soon — parenthood. Aryan and Ayush, twins, our little bundles of sunshine, entered our world and changed everything.
There were chaotic mornings, working nights with one hand typing work and the other rocking babies, and frequent doses of working-mom guilt. But through it all, I felt alive. I was doing what I had dreamed of.
And one day, while walking with Ajit, Aryan and Ayush in the city, we paused outside a car showroom. I spotted it — a silver hatchback. Sleek. Powerful.
“Shall we go inside?” Ajit asked, sensing something.
A month later, that car stood in our parking. Mine. Ours.
As I touched the steering wheel for the first time, I thought back to that girl in Nagpur who once waved at her uncle’s car. This time, she wasn’t dreaming.
She was driving.
"When the Roads Took a Turn"
Thirteen years went by in Pune. Life felt whole. Not perfect — but deeply fulfilling. I was now a senior planning engineer, Aryan and Ayush was growing up fast, and Ajit and I had built a life full of laughter, fights, Sunday movies, and roadside chai.
Then came the transfer order — Ajit was posted to Bangalore.
We moved, reluctantly. A sleek, modern apartment. New school for Aryan and Ayush. A new office for me in Whitefield. Life went on... until it didn’t.
One evening, while climbing the stairs, I collapsed.
The medical diagnosis report came: Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “But I was just… tired.”
Everything stopped. The energetic woman who ran between home, work, and life suddenly found herself in a hospital gown. I lost my hair. My strength. My sense of self. The car I once drove with pride sat untouched. And I felt like I was fading.
But Ajit… oh, Ajit.
He became my shadow. Cooked for me. Held my hand through chemo. Stayed up through my worst nights. Aryan and Ayush turned into my caretaker at home — writing little notes, playing music, reading to me.
I wanted to give up some days. But something inside whispered, “Not yet. Not like this.”
I wanted to see Aryan and Ayush grow. Go on one more road trip. Feel the breeze in my hair. So, I fought. Quietly. Every day.
"The First Light After the Storm"
Chemo was brutal. The nausea, the weakness, the mirror that no longer felt like mine. But I counted small victories — a walk to the balcony, finishing a full meal, smiling through pain. 11 months passed by with same pain.
And one day, my doctor said the word: “Remission.”
I cried. Not just for surviving — but for getting a second chance.
"The Second Inning"
While recovering, I noticed how the world had changed. AI. Automation. Remote work. Tools like ChatGPT, Make.com, DALL·E — they were everywhere.
I could’ve sulked about what I missed. But instead, I dove in.
I took online courses. Studied from my balcony. Watched tutorials. Learned to prompt, create, and automate. With support from Ajit and tech tips from Aryan and Ayush, I upskilled — fiercely.
And then, I launched my own venture:
Mindrift — AI Tutorials for Beginners.
I started mentoring homemakers, teaching girls from small towns, offering services online, writing blogs, creating YouTube videos — all from the comfort of my home.
One day, I was invited to speak at a cancer support conference conducted by a renowned hospital.
As I stood on stage — short hair, formal suit, healed, smiling and glowing — I told my story. When I ended with the quote,
“Nothing is impossible, even it says I M Possible,” the audience gave me a standing ovation.
That night, we stopped at a roadside dhaba on the way home. Chai. Pakoras. Laughter.
Nothing fancy. But everything that mattered.
From Nagpur’s dusty lanes to Pune’s offices, from hospital beds to AI courses, from broken dreams to fresh ones — I’ve lived every moment.
And today, I don’t just call myself an engineer, a freelancer, or a cancer warrior.
I am — and always will be — a woman of substance.
And trust me,
“My best is on the way.”
- By Kirti Chandwalker
P. S:- Name and places changed for privacy reason.
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