Adjusting by Nivetha Sundar

A TDJUS G I N

B HA SU Y N NDAR IVET2024

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Adjusting

By Nivetha Sundar

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact nivetha.sundar1015@gmail.com

To Lisa & Raghad,

For making this year a little easier to bear.

Foreword

Saying this year has been tough is an understatement. I lost so much of myself in the process—almost like I hid my light away, waiting until it was safe to be seen again. An imposter took over for a few months—someone stronger and braver, but less inclined to self-preserve.

It hasn’t been the healthiest year, and I wish I hadn’t been so unkind to my body. Writing was slow too.

Ironically, it’s also been a year of immense growth. I paid off all my student loans, something I thought wouldn’t happen until my mid-thirties. I took on a lot of cool projects at work, almost to my own detriment. I rediscovered joy in knitting. Sean moved closer. So, in the grand scheme of things, I guess there’s been balance.

Sure, the world is in shambles, and I can’t bring myself to really care. I’m exhausted by stupidity and selfishness, and my patience for people like that has worn thin. But I see the ones worth keeping, worth holding onto. The rest can slip away for all I care because all I want is love, and nothing else. Oh, and fuck Trump.

Dawn in January

She’s Sadness

Depression is a monster I imagine to appear large; vacuous and cold, and I don’t mean for the word “monster” to mean scary, or intimidating but rather something I just wasn’t fully aware of when I first saw it approaching. It’s a classic case of a misunderstanding. This soulless being was, in fact, friendly and just wanted to be included in my lush life of emotions.

I say this with caution. Depression is a permanent scar, but it’s a scar that’s healed and sometimes, it’s a scar that will occasionally bleed when I try to peel off the dried, prickly scab. I’ve accepted it. There's some peace in knowing that I can't do anything about it. But I can make it feel seen. And you know, I think that’s what writing is for me. It never feels like the version of me that thinks she’s so perfect, strutting past these city streets thinking she’s got her ducks in a row. It’s the meek little girl who just wants chicken nuggets for dinner every night, and it’s that same girl who rewatches Friends every chance she gets. She’s the one that’s writing all of this.

She does it earnestly, hoping that possibly another little depressed girl is feeling the same big feelings, and I welcome it. She writes and then she dies, rinse and repeat. And I let her bleed, and I let her heal

Talent Show

I didn’t know what fear was until I auditioned to be in a talent show when I was 9 years old. Now, I don’t mean anxiety or those weird stomach aches you get every morning before school — I mean, deep, bottomless fear.

At that age, both my parents were working so I used to have about 2-3 hours after school of zero supervision. Regularly, if I were at home, that’d be a time for watching television and not answering the phone (unless Amma or Appa spoke through the machine because.. safety). So I thought, wouldn’t it be cool to surprise my parents with a big-ass trophy & gift certificate to Sizzler’s, all because I whooped ass at a talent show? The plan was perfect. It was foolproof. All I needed was an incredible routine, and what was more amazing than dancing to “All Star” as your winning entry?

So I got to work. I planned an outfit of stripey socks, a red beret, and my hair in pigtails. I had a yellow notepad where I drew out every twirl, every leap, and finger gun moment for my 3-minute slot. And in the four days I had to prepare for the audition, I recall ever so clearly that my blue ribbon strategy was not only dancing – but also singing the entire “All Stars” track. Oh, little me.

Finally, that day came. I weaseled into the auditorium, having lied to my parents that I needed to work on a project, and found that almost a quarter of the school also seemed to be auditioning. Still, I was perfectly composed. Our choir teacher handed a number to every participant and mine was lucky number 7. At this point, I started to notice that there were groups of people trying out together. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Should I have asked my friends if they too wanted to kick ass to some Shrek music?

Here’s where I started to feel an air of something. It didn’t quite make sense until I started watching everyone take turns to perform. The first group sang acapella, the second danced to the tune of “Sk8er Boi”, the fourth participant sang the national anthem, and the sixth pairing gave a very uncoordinated rendition of Las Ketchup’s “The Ketchup Song”. And then it was my turn.

My sneakers squeaked down the aisle as the other kids watched, and I walked up the stage to face my jury of elementary students. My cough echoed through the hall and I could hear kids shuffling around in their wooden chairs. Cutting through the silence, my choir teacher goaded, “Whenever you’re ready, Nivetha”.

I took a deep breath.

“Somebody once told me”. *clap* *shimmy* *twirl* “The world is gonna roll me” *cartwheel*

I couldn’t do it anymore. This was harder than I thought. Shit, everyone’s staring.

I didn't last a full minute. I got to the end of the first verse, bowed to the crowd, and ran off stage. Fear was hitting my knees, and I could feel deep shame filling my frail, square-shaped frame. The girl before the audition and the girl who left after were two completely different children: one who hadn't known fear in the slightest and one who had bungled through it.

That evening, when Amma came to pick me up, she noticed I was wearing different clothes than the ones I had worn to school that morning. I had forgotten to change back into my regular day garb, having subconsciously abandoned my great plan. I think she sensed that I wasn't having the best day, what with the glassy-eyed child who slumped in the back seat, and thought not to pry.

I mean, I was 9. Do I know fear today? Yes. Would I ever want to be a part of another talent show? Absolutely not.

Throughout my life, through all my phases of growth, there’s been one constant: someone always manages to get on my last fucking nerve. I’ve tried countless times to stay calm and be the bigger person when faced with these avatars of pests, but somehow, I always cave to the anger, resentment, and sheer frustration.

How could they be so…stupid? Or are they just fucking with me because they know how to push my buttons? And why do I keep letting it happen? You’d think I’d have learned from the past by now. But every time I kick one of these shitheads in the face—in my imagination, of course—another one pops up, like some endless game of whack-a-mole.

Whack-a-mole

In high school, it was the typical mean girl. She once asked if I’d been attacked by a rabid dog when she saw my acne-riddled face. Her father once stopped me as I was walking home from school, to ask why I didn’t shave my pubescent mustache. “Girls don’t have mustaches,” he said. The spawn clearly took after its sperm.

In art school, it was the copycat. She stole my ideas and my sense of self—and did it so effortlessly. I applied for a study abroad program in the UK during my junior year, and when I got my acceptance letter, I found out she had applied too, after seeing my application on the administrator’s desk. What followed was six months of being watched, studied, and cloned.

At my first job, it was my housemate. To her, I was just the person occupying a room in her two-bedroom apartment. In all other respects, I had no claim to the kitchen, the bathroom, or even the futon she’d inherited from the previous tenants. By this point, I’d grown a bit of a spine and pushed back. I took up space, but it was exhausting, living in a constant state of tension and stress.

This year, it’s a coworker. A man. A man who’s “lived” in India before and puts his hands in prayer whenever he thanks me for being so helpful. He talks over me in Every. Single. Meeting. This man and his penchant for stupid biking caps. (Why would you even need a biking cap if you’re BARTing to and from work? Unless you’re biking home from the station, in which case—fine, whatever.) MAN – this man, with his incessant yapping, decision paralysis, and self-absorbed, pseudo-yogi persona, continues to piss me off. And I have not a clue how to let it go. But writing this helps.

Anyhoo, yes. The moral of the story is this: these people have permanent real estate in my brain, and I don’t know how to evict them. I don’t know if I ever will. But get me drunk enough, I’ll tell you all their names in a heartbeat. Maybe my (diss)service to them will be sharing their stories with anyone who’ll listen.

Brisbane

Seafood Boils and Beach Dates

All Things End

*Trigger (or) Content Warning : Mentions of suicidal thoughts.

By September, the fabric of my sanity was quickly unraveling, and often in those moments, my thoughts become dark and twisted with silent, passive contemplations of death. Perhaps by passing truck or a quick leap off the fire exit? Or if a meteor were to come hurling down to earth, I wouldn’t actively try to escape it. You see the vision.

I maaaaaaayyyy have mentioned this in a previous book, but if I haven’t I don’t mean to alarm you. When I feel these…..feelings, I tend to give myself an ultimatum; a challenge to find happiness, if you will. When “Yesterday” came out in 2019, I told myself that if the movie didn’t make me happy or allow me to see the value in life, I would have my permission to, you know, stop living. I WAS NEVER GOING TO DO IT..but sometimes, you think stupid things when you’re not mentally well. Thank the Gods, I loved the movie!

This year, the ultimatum was Hozier and 3 girlfriends who would have killed me if I told them how I was truly feeling that day. They’d kill me now, even just reading this.

Anyway, the week of the concert rolls around, so I took time off work. I booked a motel for 3 nights in Santa Clara and rode the train down. I figured being in a different bed without the obligation to clean up after myself was an added perk to a mini stay-cay and seeing Jesus of the Lesbians. The afternoon of Hozier day, I had therapy and cried like I’d never cried before. I told her about the men I hated at work and how I thought I didn’t have it in me to keep going; that I felt like giving up. I told her about my plan in the event that I didn’t enjoy Hozier, and she fell quiet. Having said it out loud, sort of took the gravity of pain from it. She didn’t look very impressed at first, and then she said, “Are you really going to cry over men that have to put you down to feel better about themselves? What do you think Hozier would tell you if he saw you this way?”

Through snot and tears, I laughed. The stupidity had revealed itself. Shortly, Raghad, Lisa and Rand were ready to go, us all wearing matching Hozier tees. I texted my therapist telling her that Hozier would never want me or any woman cry over men unless that man was him. Thanks the Gods, I had one of the best nights this year crying and singing to “Take me to Church” and “Too Sweet”, with my best girlfriends ever, knowing I’d wake up the next day with the will to continue thriving.

Birthday Wishes

On my 31st birthday, Lisa’s fiancé, Wells, asked me, “So Nivetha, what do you hope to achieve this year?” Simple though the question was, I felt like I was sinking into my brain, digging deep into each groove for the things I wanted in this life. Was he asking me what material things I wanted? I know I need jeans—well, just nicer clothes in general—and a proper meal plan that allows me not to worry about cooking for one. I’ve also been wanting to buy a sewing machine.

Or was he asking me about my goals in life? That was a harder question to answer. I turned to look at Sean. I’d told him that I was hoping to buy a car at some point. I feel like a car would solidify my independence. It would complete the collection of medals that make me who I am. See—Nivetha has a great job, great friends, and she has a car. She can go anywhere she pleases. “Cars are expensive, and it’s not smart to own one while you’re in the city,” Sean had said.

Sean raised his eyebrows as though to say, “Do you not remember anything you want to do?” I looked around at everyone during that picnic and could have said something cheesy like, “Well, I think I’ve got what I need right here,” which would have technically been the best answer. But I looked back at Sean and said, “Hopefully, a two-bedroom next year. Of course, who doesn’t want more money—and definitely travel.”

Wells responded with a hearty nod.

But there was more to it than that, you know. It wasn’t just a two-bedroom; I want a home where Sean and I have peace. One where I can have a small office and a little garden, and within walking distance to the beach. Or, if I had to drive, it would be in MY car. I want a job where I feel safe and happy, knowing I’m being paid for the value I can bring to people. And I want to travel to Hawaii with my girlfriends and shower them with all the love they deserve and more! I want my people close to me, and I never want them to leave.

I’m Not Coming To Your Wedding

I’ve been faking being your friend. I’m not sorry about it. I’ve kept up appearances because I thought I needed to forgive you—but I can’t. Every time I see or hear about you, I’m reminded of how thoroughly you used me.

And you know, this isn’t new for me. I’ve gone above and beyond for people who’d never consider doing the same for me. Not that any relationship should be transactional, but no one just hands their crush the keys to their place, only for them to use it to hook up with someone else in *your* room—while you’re stuck hiding out at a McDonald’s, waiting for a text to tell you it’s ‘safe’ to come back home.

Look, I’m not innocent; I had a choice. I wanted to seem easy-going, cool even, but fuck –I’m really not. I don’t like you. Your happiness mocks me and you will never understand why that is.

This life I’ve built away from you makes me feel better about myself, and it only works if you’re not in it. So no, I’m not coming to your wedding. I don’t want to be friends anymore.

Some Rage is Good

Adjusting

I used to be water—formless, taking the shape of any vessel presented before me. I could make myself fit anywhere, for anyone. It worked for a while until it didn’t. Over time, you come to realize that pressure is confining.

Lately, as of this year, I’ve felt more like clay. I’ve been spinning, gradually taking form, building my own walls to fill. It’s as if the universe is slowly molding me into something I’m meant to become.

But somewhere around May, I’ve felt myself losing momentum, folding inward. I’d been using all my own energy, and just like that, I collapsed. Yet, like the potter at their wheel, the universe keeps trying—and you let go, succumbing to the journey, the circular path—the repetition of throwing, centering, and the occasional wetting.

I hated every moment of it. I still hate it. This shape doesn’t feel like me, and I keep breaking again and again and again. The conditions are never right, and they may not be for a while. So, I’m learning to stop worrying over what I can’t control, trusting that in time, I’ll settle into whatever form I’m meant to be.

Playlist of the Year

Voodoo? - L'Impératrice

Big Dawgs - Humankind ft Kalmi New Bottega - Azealia Banks

Man Funk - GUTS ft. Leron Thomas booboo - Yaeji

Jesus is the One (I got depression) - Zack Fox

Give it to Me - Northern Boys it boy - bbno$

NISSAN ALTIMA - Doechii

Chameleon - Herbie Hancock Get Inspired - Genesis Owusu

Francesca - Hozier

Pluie Fine (Polo & Pan Remix) - Corine

Let’s Go - Stuck in the Sound *the music video makes it even better

Disquea - Ricky West & Myles X

Olive - Violence Gratuite

Ca7riel & Paco Amoroso: Tiny Desk Concert (personal fave would be La Que Puede, Puede)

Prettiest Virgin - Agar Agar

Hunnybee - Unknown Mortal Orchestra

Charmander - Aminé

THOUGHT I WAS DEAD - Tyler, the Creator

Two Weeks - Grizzly Bear

Cynthia Erivo’s rendition of “Alfie” for Dionne Warwick

Pan Seared Halibut, Toum, Roasted Fennel, Smashed Fingerlings & Herb Chutney

ICKY

One evening, I decided to attend a community happy hour for managers in the Bay Area. Within ten minutes of leaving the house, I contemplated the necessity of this activity—but I pushed on, committing to what felt like a soft purgatory of social obligation.

The venue was filling up with clusters of people deep in animated conversation. Which group should I join? Should I hover awkwardly in the corner, hoping to spot another hesitant attendee to latch on to? The possibilities for discomfort seemed endless. Resolving to arm myself, I made a beeline for the open bar and poured a sizeable cup of wine. Liquid courage in hand, I ventured into the wild. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to find people to talk to.

Soon, a panel of speakers began sharing their leadership stories—some cautionary tales, others rich with pearls of wisdom. Afterward, we were divided into groups for more vulnerable discussions about personal wins and woes in leadership. The conversation started strong but quickly veered into a discussion of parenting and its parallels with managing a team.

This wasn't new to me. Handling immaturity in the corporate world often mirrors the dynamics of child care. But hearing it framed as an epiphany that comes exclusively from parenthood was tiresome. “Having my daughter changed my perspective on work. Nothing is harder than being a mom,” one woman shared. “I love being a dad. I have a purpose now. Work just becomes secondary at the end of the day,” another man chimed in. With every glowing anecdote about their golden children, I could feel my NuvaRing squirm in protest.

Maybe it was FOMO—or maybe it was frustration. I’d been doing the child math, and the answer remained the same: I’m not ready. Still, I couldn’t help but think, “Man, I really don’t have much to add here—work is a pretty big part of my life.” I’ve always felt the world leans in favor of those who procreate, and while I might find myself on that side one day, I wish my current side had more people on it.

When the event ended, I promptly downed the rest of my wine, grabbed my coat, and made my escape. I had successfully forced myself out of the house, but my reward was a new kind of imposter syndrome: the “Who am I without a child?” existential condition.

Growing Up

It’s November, and I’ve realized that waiting for the year to magically improve was the wrong move. I don’t want to be 50, looking back and regretting all the things I didn’t do because of indecision or fear. I say this every year, so when am I actually going to change?

The last time I did something that truly scared me was in 2023, when I got my driver’s license and pushed myself through a grueling data bootcamp. And then 2024 came along... and it was just meh. Why? Because I placed my happiness in the hands of others, weirdly expecting them to fix it for me. That was probably the worst decision I’ve ever made—but no shame. I was burnt out. If I came off as uptight, I’m sorry. Honestly, I wasn’t even thinking clearly

So, I’ve decided to let the rest of this year pass quietly. This time, I’ll keep my head down, stay patient, and ride out the final weeks in silence. ome 2025, I want to focus on doing the things that adult me will be proud of

A solo road trip (preferably under 12 hours)

Two tattoos—a duck and a monarch butterfly

Finish writing a book, aside from my annual memoirs (Amma, look away!) Plan a mother-daughter trip, fully funded by me.

Mean, Green, People-Pleasing Machine

I’d like to believe that, personally, I am a mean person. I don’t like smiling at strangers, nor do I care for them (except maybe a select few). I wait for people to talk to me first, and in the rare cases where I’ve let my guard down, it’s been for the best fucking people. My intuition has gotten stronger, and my patience has gotten thinner. So, it sort of makes sense that I come off as mean to most, but once they get past it—they’re in for good.

The “mean” often comes out when I’m walking down a busy sidewalk, intentionally bumping into men who won’t move out of my way. If someone crowds me on the metro, I’ll rudely ask them to give me space—or, better yet, I’ll make it harder for gate jumpers to sneak in after me. I don’t tip at self-serve kiosks. I shush people who talk during movies. I don’t pick up my cousins’ phone calls. You get the picture.

At work, though, I wear my people-pleaser mask. I hate it, and I despise myself for it. I want to believe I could become cutthroat or bitchy, but I don’t have the brains or the balls to sustain it. Sometimes the mask comes off, but not often enough to make a difference. There are days when I feel like a pushover, and I know it stems from caring too much.

It’s probably obvious by now that work has taken a huge toll on me this year, and I just don’t have it in me to please anyone anymore. So, I’m stuck in this weird limbo—wanting to lose myself in rage but saving it to scream into my pillow at home. I don’t like being this way, but people are fucking frustrating. They’re so trapped in their own heads that they can’t see beyond themselves—and I’m jealous that I can’t simply be oblivious too.

I’m constantly spiraling in this vortex of worrying about how my actions and words impact people. I move out of the way most of the time, factor extra time into my commute to take public transport, and pay for every trip. I pay in cash at mom-and-pop shops because fuck the IRS. I go to matinee shows when the crowds are small. But I still can’t fathom the idea of being mean and actually being comfortable with it.

Family

This year, Sean and I decided to visit both of our families for Diwali and Christmas. It was his first time actually staying with us in New Jersey—an event I was extremely nervous about, let alone looking forward to. I couldn’t help but imagine all the ways things could go wrong: my parents not liking Sean, or worse, Sean not liking my parents.

Adding to my worries was the fact that my family is religious. Sean wasn’t expected to join in on the festivities, but he participated enthusiastically, which surprised and delighted me. Diwali turned out to be a success, even though we were relegated to separate bedrooms.

Two months later, we traveled to Akron, Ohio, to spend Christmas week with Sean’s family. His family is much larger than mine—larger in terms of family members who are close-knit, unlike my family, which is fragmented by physical distance, land disputes, and ego battles.

Our families couldn’t be more different. In mine, dinners are spent silently watching movies together. Sean’s family, on the other hand, thrives on cheerful banter, with everyone talking over each other—and the food. My house lacks the feeling of permanence, as it’s never been a repository for lifelong memories due to our constant moving. Sean’s childhood home, by contrast, was full of life and character, overflowing with cherished mementos. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy seeing everything so lovingly preserved.

After dinner, Sean’s family and I spent hours talking over drinks—a stark contrast to my own family with whom, mornings were more active in conversation. I sometimes think my humor shines more in Tamil, so Sean’s family doesn’t truly know that side of me—not that I was actively trying to hide it. Perhaps things would feel different if Sean and everyone joined me in Chennai, though I’m in no rush for that to happen. I’m content to let time take its course.

You know, I’ve come to love the dichotomy between our families. In mine, I’m the loud one among my quiet, reserved parents and my even more passive brother. In Sean’s family, he’s the quiet one amidst a lively, socially vibrant clan. It’s fascinating to compare and find joy in these differences.

Over the past five years, I’ve worked on defining myself as an individual, apart from my family. But this year, I feel ready to be part of a community again. Maybe my den is getting bigger.

Trust

This book hasn’t been my best work, and it’s okay for me to say that.

I’ve had to cut a lot of chapters and excerpts because so many of them were hung up on the same themes. Basically, work sucked this year, and it was the only thing I could write about. Everything else sort of jumped out of my brain.

I regret not making time to write about the happy moments, but if you’ve read my previous books, you’ll know about my personal vendetta against being happy. I regret not making time for people. Hopefully, in 2025, that will change for the better, and I’ll make space for things that ultimately won’t give me stomach ulcers out of fear of rejection.

Maybe work will get better—but I’m not banking on it. If I could paint you a picture, this year has been the scene in Who Framed Roger Rabbit? where Judge Doom drops a toon shoe into The Dip. In this scenario, I’m the shoe, work is the dip, and Judge Doom, well, let’s just say “shareholders.”

I don’t know if I’ll ever find joy in my career again, and it bums me out to think that I’m probably looking for joy in all the wrong fucking places. I just want to stop running for a bit and stand still—just until I feel like myself again. Like I say every year, I want to write more. I want people to read my books; I want people to love my books; I want people to hate my books. I have shit to say, okay? Stories of my past to spill.

In all honesty, I think this year had to be shitty for a reason. And, not to get aggressively spiritual, I think I’m on the path I’m meant to be on. I had a conversation with my friend Themis earlier this year, and she reminded me that whatever’s meant for you will find you.

It doesn’t matter how much we try to make things stay or plan for things—the universe has its way of leading you to your destiny. Words her mother would tell her, and words I found comfort in.

So, I hope happiness finds you—and finds me.  And leads us to abundance,  To treasures we never thought would be.