Rays of Hope In the small town of Brightvale, nestled between rolling hills and vast fields, life had always been simple. People worked hard, children played in the streets, and neighbors knew each other by name. But as the country's economy began to falter, Brightvale's tranquility was replaced by uncertainty and hardship. Amidst this turmoil lived Amina, a young woman known for her unyielding spirit. Her family had owned a small grocery store for generations, but with rising costs and dwindling sales, keeping the business afloat became a daily struggle. One chilly morning, as Amina opened the store, she noticed an elderly man standing outside. His clothes were worn, and his eyes reflected a lifetime of stories. He introduced himself as Mr. Alabi, a retired teacher who had moved to Brightvale years ago. Despite his hardships, he wore a gentle smile. “Amina, I've seen many hard times in my life,” he began, “but I've learned that even in the darkest moments, there's always a ray of hope. We just have to find it.” His words resonated with Amina, and she decided to take action. She rallied her neighbors, organizing weekly community meetings to discuss their challenges and find solutions together. They shared resources, bartered goods, and supported each other in ways they hadn't before. Slowly, the spirit of Brightvale began to shift. The community garden, which had been neglected for years, was revived. Families grew their own vegetables, reducing their expenses and fostering a sense of togetherness. Amina turned part of the grocery store into a space where people could trade skills – sewing, repairs, tutoring – creating a network of mutual aid. One evening, as the sun set behind the hills, the townspeople gathered in the garden for a communal dinner. Laughter filled the air, mingling with the aroma of home-cooked meals. Amina looked around, her heart swelling with pride. Despite the economic hardships, they had found strength in unity and resilience. Mr. Alabi approached her, a twinkle in his eye. “You see, Amina? In every struggle, there's an opportunity to grow. You've inspired us all to find the light in the darkness.” Amina smiled, realizing that the true wealth of Brightvale lay not in money, but in the unbreakable bonds of community and the unwavering hope that, together, they could weather any storm.
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Sometimes writing a story, even for those who write often, can come to a stand-still. The mind freezes. The pen hovers over the paper. Nothing happens. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. What do you do? Especially if there is a deadline, and the writing must be finished? Obviously, that pen in hand can form words onto the paper. So why not just make it move? Curling out the letters, spelling out the words? Telling the story? Why not? Maybe, just maybe, it's because the mind that forms the story thinks that story will not be good. Thought after thought, reason after reason, picture after picture, and still none of it is an improvement to the mind. The mind just hurts, trying to reconcile to the story. The pen hovers. Then scribbles. Jagged, frustrated, wordless lines and swirls. Then the pen is set aside, the paper pushed away, and the author crosses their arms and stares off. The sun reaches through a window, leafy branches make shifting patterns across the table. The scribbled paper slips off the edge of the table with a sigh, then clicks on the wood floor and lies flat. Still, nothing picture perfect comes to mind. No feeling, translated to words, seems like worthwhile, storytelling material. The author, uninspired, sighs. Who were they, anyway, to write a story? There's a lot of other things they could do besides writing a story. And who would actually want to read their story? Everyone's attention-span is shortened, right? In this age of constant scene changes, where TV shows swap camera angels every two seconds or less, who would care to hold paper in hand and actually digest a story, word for word, verbal description after verbal description? Let alone a story written by me. But wait. Maybe there's more to storytelling than just trying to please the general public. Just maybe. Maybe the story will only appeal to a few, but those few will be just the kind of people you would want to read your story. Because, obviously, they are in touch with what really matters. And what really matters? What really matters is time. Time to look around, to soak in and observe the world around. The ground we stand on, the sky we stand under, far far above, the food we eat, the sounds we hear, the nature around that moves so slow but wins the race. How marvelous, more than all that, is the creativity that stems from observing it all. Creativity that writes a story. Creativity that reads the story, and imagines the story as it flows. But still, still, the pen lays still on the table. The author still has their arms crossed. Still. So story telling is not to please the general public, but it might please a few. It might. So pleasing the few is not the goal either. It's just a bonus, not exactly a goal. Not THE goal. So why? Why tell a story? Why write it? What is the goal? What happens when you write a good story? How do you feel? Something inside you tells you the story is good, and you don't really care how you know it is good, you just celebrate. You feel centered. Grounded. You wrote a story, and it was good. Bring it. That's why. You write because you, beautiful, valuable, intrinsic you, are in that story. You are in that story, and when you write that story, you, in your brilliant image, will be revealed to yourself even more. So if you feel your story will not be good, then just write a not-so-good story. Even though it sounds gross, the best way I can think of to describe it is, just brain vomit. You will surprise yourself.
I recently had my tablet fall out of my modified cellphone tripod clamp. So I disassembled my current cellphone tripod clamp and discovered it had springs in both sides, where my modified clamp only had one spring. I solved that issue by taking three springs from non-functioning pens and put them in the second side. I can now shake the clamp with both hands and the tablet stays in place! That's innovation! I had labwork done yesterday to determine if I still have blood in my urine from the fall last week when the ladder broke under me. I did tell that story, didn't I? If not, I'll tell it soon. Now I'm waiting to learn the results, and if I'm going to need further testing, such as an MRI or a CT scan to determine if there is more damage to my kidney than bruising. After leaving the urine sample I stopped for photos and decided to try a photo of Mt Rainier viewed through my clip on telephoto lens. Definitely not the best photos, but I was able to salvage one through Snapseed editing. It is not perfect, but it is usable. Wishing you all a blessed weekend!
When I tell people I want to study classics, they give me weird looks. “What?” “That's so random.” And I agree; it's completely and totally random. Like many competitive schools nowadays, my classmates — including me — are hyper STEM-focused. Here, you'll find Robotics flyers posted on twenty-three different Instagram stories, enthused student officers screaming at you to sign up for Finance Club, news alerts about our national championship Math Madness team and the like. There's this newfound belief (read: pandemonium) that STEM education holds the key to a secure, prosperous future. And if the pop-up of private, $30k/year schools with STEM-focused, Advanced-Placement-driven curriculums aren't indicative warning signs, I'm not sure what is. A belief? Maybe. I think it's a madness. I've spent most of my time delving into the world of science and math. So I'm not knocking on the merits of STEM education at all; my chemistry research mentors and Science Olympiad advisors would be at the very least offended if I threw away their gifts of knowledge like that. Yet, there's something lost in the neglecting of humanities; in a sea of future mathematicians, entrepreneurs, and engineers like myself, I can count the number of history/literary hopefuls I know on one hand. My interest in classics is recent. I've only just begun to delve into the two-thousand-year-old world, and I'm only starting to put together the pieces of the field's significance. For the most part, classics, like other non-STEM fields, is soothing. It's fun and interesting. I'm fully aware that there's genuine passion and fulfillment in crunching numbers and solving physics problems, but the arts and humanities just strike a different chord — one of free expression, boundless imagination, and infinite understanding. Unlike STEM, I believe classics is relevant in teaching the value of us — our past, our motivations, our fate, our dreams, our limitations — through the lens of myths. As Homer famously says in the Iliad, “Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is the man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.” Classics, unlike many liberal arts fields, draws value in stripping away deceptions and cloaks; it gives us raw anguish and emotion, dissimilar to modern works, which arguably encourage an understanding of complex historical context. But the field of classics is fundamental — there is nothing prior, only other myths in context. As the basis of Western literature and really, civilization, classics is incredibly crucial to unlocking the secrets of famous works. T. S. Elliot's well-known “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” makes clear references to Hesiod's Work and Days and opens with Dante's Inferno — the latter of which literally features Virgil throughout. Elliot also makes references to Shakespeare's Hamlet, which cites the Fall of Troy (the Aeneid), among other allusions I definitely missed. Mind. Blowing. (Or am I just a nerd, and this epiphany only surprising to me?) I imagine the average Biopage reader is well-read; if not specifically in classics, at least with contemporary literature, modern journalism, and the sort. It's something I aspire to be. And for me, and all my fellow science nerds, perhaps the best way to find ourselves is by reconnecting with our roots — even if it's old, dead, white men.
Once upon a time, a man named Paddy dug in the ground to harvest his crop, and found rot. Black, putrid rot. After digging more and more, he only found more of the same. He grabbed up a handful of what was supposed to be a potato, and, after pondering for a second, he suddenly and violently threw it; a long, hard throw, further than he thought he could throw, with fierce, clear adrenaline kicking through his body. But as he looked after his hurled piece of rot, his eyes focused on the Irishman's spear to the side. The landlord's men. A miserable, merciless, loveless lot. Now. Today. Coming to his house. Dropping everything, he turned and ran, faster than he thought he could run, up the hill to his humble stone cottage. He arrived there just as the men came riding at a swift jaunty pace into the hard-packed dirt front yard. His mind was on one thing. He neither turned nor stopped his pace, but hurled himself into the house and straight to that one thing. Along with a few last coins, he grabbed that one precious item, and ran far out back and, digging with his hands in the dry soil he placed that precious thing in the ground and threw some dirt over it. Then, turning, he saw the men ram rod the stone walls of his house. Stones fell and thudded inside the cottage, and he felt his heart thud with them. Like a wild man he wanted to run and fight them all, running into the midst of them like a one-man nightmare such as they had never seen before. With a roar the thatched roof went up in flames, and deep inside him something roared with it. But before he launched himself from his locked trance, heaven's gates swung open, and with a wild rush, it let loose its tears. All was thickly veiled with gray, fast falling, drenching, pouring. Quickly he turned, and threw himself on the ground, over his precious item shallowly buried. When the heaviness dwindled into a light drizzle, he lifted himself from the ground and turned to gaze at the landlord's work. The landlord's men were gone. Tumbled stones and piled ashes dark, damp and glistening held close the earth. Sifting smoke stirred up from it, lifting softly, sweetly, sorrowfully, like a soul leaving a young body, prematurely. And he felt his soul going with it, lifting, drifting, sifting. But not dead. Yes very much alive. More alive than many a living thing. Grief struck deep into his soul, the truest grief, yet not a tear he shed. Sorrow stung his heart, yet still, he rose upward. His precious item buried, he bent and dug it up. There it lay, like a small, premature casket, a narrow wooden box painted black, as long as his arm. His soul was in there, or, at least, a prime defining feature of his soul. Though it lay in a dark box, it was not dead. In fact it was one of the greatest defiers of death. Opening the box, Paddy pulled out his fiddle.
The moment I was brought into this world, I was instantly branded developmentally-stunted, narcissistic and lazy. Apart from being a lethargic preemie (who forced doctors to take him out weeks early), my other crime was being born in the 80's. While newer evidence from psychology (mercifully) defends my generation as suffering from the dual struggles of discovering identity while enduring growing pains of the most rapidly-changing socioeconomic environment in human history, impulsive prejudice built up against Millennials towers over us like Mount Olympus (which, ironically, few detractors would ever climb such pre-conceptual heights to find out whether we fit their expectations). To our elders, strangers (elder strangers or was it strange elders?), we would instinctually be graced as “Generation Me”. Deep in my bones, I knew I wasn't this kind of person. Much of the joy in my youth, for instance, came from volunteering at the hospital or performing songs to soothe weary audiences of their troubles. Partying was a worthless social obligation (starting with boredom and ending with anxiety for the time I wasted). Whether my young mind knew it or not, I was determined to be something other than the selfish, entitled brats Gen Me were destined (by society) to be. It's probably why, at 24, I faced a quarter-life crisis. Days before my 25th birthday, I was unstoppable. Fresh off of earning my black belt in Shorin Ryu karate (a feat some believed beyond me), I raced to the wall in my room, placing the half-English, half-Japanese certificate above my ARCT in piano performance and my medical science degree. I gazed up at my trinity gleefully, only for my pride to vaporize instantly. I had accomplished nothing. Emptiness welled up inside me as I questioned the truth behind those certified proclamations. For all the blood, sweat, tears, time and effort I had poured into those milestones, my patient friend, Walter, from my hospital days (who always blessed me as a ‘good man' whenever we parted) was still dead. My musical performances were little more than transient pleasures. But shaking me most was that a tech at school (I had just finished my 3rd year of pharmacy) died suddenly from cancer. Surrounded by medical practitioners - and all we could offer were our sincerest condolences. Her death was the last straw: fueling me to choose cancer to cure since there's not a single person whose life hasn't been touched by the disease. Unfortunately, continuing to champion destructive treatments (yes, even Nobel Prize-winning immune therapies) in this civil war against our distorted cells (or selves, as it were) will still claim 1/4 of all Canadian cancer patients. With the impending arrival of the largest cancer patient population in history (due to aging baby boomers), 1.2 million baby boomers will die while the luckier 3.5 million boomer survivors will be forever cursed by a myriad of progressive chronic diseases. Three guesses whose generation bears this other impossible burden. Einstein once wrote: “A new type of thinking is essential if mankind is to survive and move towards higher levels”. To me, the answer was easy: non-destructive cures. If cancer isn't threatened, it won't desperately evolve against treatment. Sadly, humans have been killing cancer for centuries. Researching otherwise would be like growing a third head (a second being normal by contrast). Witnessing my (supposedly superior) assessor degrade patients with outdated data for her ego proved that my field also wasn't a solution. This left me one avenue to convey my theories somewhat seriously. Sci-Fi. The sting of incredible backlash still ails me to this day. My parents called me crazy. My colleagues shied away from my radical logic. Even my girlfriend dumped me, thinking I'd choose writing over pharmacy. All they saw was another selfish dreamer enticed by fame and fortune. All I could dream about were a hundred thousand terminal Canadian cancer patients pleading for euthanasia each year. What else could I have done? I shut out my heartache: setting out alone to show people that non-destructive cancer cures can solve this imminent medical genocide. At times I wonder whether publishing Destructive Salvation was worth it. I struggled through rejection, isolation and dark times when I believed my passing might be better on my parents. But in my waking nightmares, I uncovered strength within me: pushing me through crippling anxiety and fatigue I once thought unconquerable. Regardless of my gains or losses, my fire burns brighter than ever to make non-destructive cancer cures a reality. Whether my novel makes a difference is not just up to me anymore, (though I have faith good people will agree with me and want to help). In the meantime, my promise to all cancer patients past, present and future still stands: I'll never stop fighting to cure this disease properly. Not a bad calling for defying one's (preordained) destiny.
I live less than an hour away from San Francisco, a lively city in California that is known for its cultural attractions, diverse communities, and world-class cuisine. However, the city that I actually live in is Fremont, California. Our community loves to stay in our comfort zones and children commonly follow their parents' footsteps regardless of their individual passions; Fremont is much more low-scale than San Francisco for obvious reasons. Parents love to shelter their children from the cruel dangers of the world, while the children work hard not for their own aspirations, but for what society tells them will lead to a prosperous and stable life. But I do not fit in with this common ground; I would rather invest in risks, speak with expression, and follow my own passions. But strangely enough, this exact conservative and sheltered environment around me is what sparked the courage in me to be who I am today. People often fear the unknown, but to me, unfamiliarity is simply an opportunity to confront the topic and further expand my knowledge. Most people in this community insist on staying in their comfort zones and doing only what their parents declare as satisfactory. But I also found another common quality among my peers in Fremont; they all developed a vapid personality and lacked personal motivation. After contemplating these two common traits, I finally made the connection that these students don't have their own dreams and aspirations, but simply follow a hollow path that has no connections to their true passions. Ever since that discovery, I set my own goals where I must confront obstacles and risks with courage, explore different career choices to determine my true passion, and always act on my ethics and beliefs so that I can truly live life to its fullest. My family, friends, and teachers all see that I have an aura of positivity, compassion, and empathy in me that is not present in most students of my age. I use my school's reading sessions to go to the Special Education classrooms and socialize with students diagnosed with developmental disorders. I know that deep down, each and every one of these students is astounding and beautiful, and I do the best I can to bring what they have to the surface. I will always contribute to my city in beneficial ways, from tutoring elementary school students and standing up for what is right, to helping the mentally unstable students in my school. I have an indestructible desire to improve everyone's lives, and I believe that staying informed and always wanting to learn is an essential to improvement. Valuable creations have always been captivating to me, and I am eager to investigate if I can connect my vibrant spirit of empathy and compassion and utilize science to make great differences in our world. The city of Fremont has shaped me into the motivated, mature, and compassionate leader that I am today simply from displaying what will happen to me if I do not act with independence and courage.
It's impossible to get everything, what you want suddenly. When you are sitting in your room or lying in bed and thinking about what you want new phone because all your classmates, has it, remember that in lots of country, children are starving and dying, they haven't got water, you always complain that you haven't got new iPhone or haven't got boyfriend, or you're in high school and you haven't got car when everyone has it, oh really? You think it's important in life? Oh no, if you think like that then you don't know what real life is. Instead of this you must do anything for surrounding people, you have to help them as you can, even little, but do it, this act will have good results in the future.When you have possibilities you must use it for good deeds, are the poor people (for example my family) whose haven't got much money but, they are helping others as much as they can. You must appreciate them. This does not mean that you should not think about yourself, first of all you must love yourself, your soul, your pros and you have to correct the cons. You must believe in yourself. I think that in life belief in god and believe in yourself is most important. Human can everything, if they have faith and sincere desire. (Jemal Qarchkhadze –The Georgian writer). I believe in God and faith in God help me to believe in myself, I feel that whatever I will want to do, I will do it. I take every step of faith in God. If your inner voice tells you that you cannot draw, then you must definitely draw and the voice will be silenced. (Vincent van Gogh).Draw and officially confirm with everyone (including yourself) that you are strong and you can do everything. The second but, also important is love, it's very hard to find true love. Georgian well-known writer, Shota Rustaveli in his poem Vephkhistkaosani writes about love. He says that love is a heavenly feeling, love is something different, not incomparable with immorality. There is a big difference between them. Love isn't when you are with one at the first day and with another in second day. This is just a youth's fun and nothing more. He must be patient and be humble with her and vise versa. Shota Rustaveli is startled when people love each other and they are trying to dishonor each other. I agree with him, this is true love but not everyone is lucky. In my opinion in love, understanding, complementarity, mutual respect and loyalty is important. The creation of human's personhoods, virtues and idiosyncrasies begins with the family. Family members are people, who most of all know you, support you and are always ready to help you. The family must be circle where you feeling yourself comfortable. Majority of attitudes and characters is formed in the family. The child looks at the behavior of his parents and repeats it. In most cases, child becomes like parents. For that they say that a child is a family's mirror.You can see it with yourself, look carefully how they try to be like them. This more visible is in childhood and more less in youth. Before you decide to create a new life, think about it well. Ask yourself the questions: am I ready for this? What kind of mother / father will be I? What example will be I for him? and etc. And now I want to tell you about my family. We live in Batumi, Georgia, I have one sister and one brother, I am older then they. We have different relationship than others. My mother and father have overladen graphic. They are working, for our bright future. I want to be like my mom, even with 1/10. My father is man who is very strong, kind, honest, trustworthy. They say that the first-born daughter is like her father, I agree with them. In the family where such imitable people live, how can we grow up like bad moral person or delinquent? My siblings and I are not propensity to violence, drugs, bad things, hate and this is the merit of our parents. We every day talk about our day, we giving to each other advices and often take in account them. Maybe, I always quarrel with my brother and sister but, I always protect them in public, and I don't give anyone the right to distress or oppress them. I want only good things for them, that's why I often give them notice and advices,they don't like that, but I think that it's my obligation and for that reason I'm doing this. Of course, in life we need success; it's your assessment of your work, the reward that every person deserves. Some will succeed soon, and some need a lot of time. The main thing is not to give up and work-hard. You can use way of Trial and error. One of the main advantages of success is education and education; Every person observes life from their side. You can choose what type of person you will be, everyone have their own choice and truth. everything will come by itself when the time comes, the main thing is that Don't lose your, kind, loyalty, faith, love, friendship, family for success, you don't need money for happiness.
While most students were traveling the world or enjoying their time off from school during summer vacation, I was at home. Sitting in my room with the curtains closed, frequently refreshing my phone in hopes of seeing my schedule for the upcoming school year. I sighed and picked up a glass of orange juice to try and settle my nerves, praying that I wouldn't have the misfortune of getting the toughest teacher in my school: Mr. Smith. Throughout the previous school year, my older sister would come home every day and attempt to frighten me with anecdotes about Mr. Smith's seemingly impossible history tests or endless amounts of homework. “So what?” I responded cockily, “I get far better grades than you, why should I worry?” She paused for a moment. “You might,” she said, leaning towards me menacingly, “But he requires every student to participate in class, or else he'll get super mad. And we all know how much you love using your voice.” I grimaced. She was right. I hated speaking up. From asking questions in class to even calling my grandma on the phone, I never had the courage to speak my mind because of the fear that I would say something wrong. And whenever I did try to raise my hand to answer a question, the butterflies in my stomach would take over, and the overwhelming feeling of nausea would force me to put my hand back down. And I despised myself because of it. The fact that I couldn't start conversations with people, or order food by myself, or tell people what I really thought about their new haircut. So when I refreshed my phone for the millionth time and saw that my period three history teacher was Mr. Smith, I dropped my glass of orange juice and screamed. What if he asks me a question? I thought while walking closer and closer to his classroom, Or makes everyone stand up and share something interesting about themselves? But before I could answer myself, I turned a corner and arrived at his classroom. I peered inside through the open doorway and saw twenty or so kids sitting straight up like statues, their visages completely void of any emotion except for fear. Their brightly colored outfits contradicted the concoction of angst and misery in their eyes, along with the dismal atmosphere of the room. Large, colorful flags drooped down the achromatic walls as if they were trying to cover up the bleakness of the room. I sneaked in, careful not to make any noise, and gently set my bag down next to a seat in the back of the class. Suddenly, the bell rang and Mr. Smith slowly prowled into class, his tall figure looming over all of us while he glared into each and every one of our faces, until he took a seat on a stool in the front of the class. He stayed quiet for a minute before talking about his class expectations. “This class will not be easy,” he said, still scrutinizing our frightened faces, “besides having difficult tests and homework assignments, I require every student to participate.” I sighed and waited for him to say more. “I understand that most of you are scared of speaking up, but I'd like of you to think of it this way. Your voice is the most powerful thing you will ever own, and if you don't use it, you're simply letting yourself down. Who cares if you're right or wrong? What matters is that you tried.” I froze. And in that moment I had an epiphany that changed my life for the better. He was right: what's wrong with being wrong? I was born with the most powerful weapon in the known universe and for the past fifteen years of my life I failed to take advantage of it. Whether it was expressing my political opinions or asking questions about biology or astronomy or literature, I never once used my voice without the fear of saying something wrong. I never once considered that my voice was a unique gift that should be heard. I never once stood up for the ideas that I believed in. I never once truly used my voice. “Hey, you in the back,” I heard Mr. Smith say, stirring me back to reality, “What rumors have you heard about me and my class?” I smiled and eagerly began sharing with the class the stories my sister told me about Mr. Smith's rigorous history class. During the course of that year, I debated whether his class was fitting for me. After all, staying up late studying history is not the most ideal way for me to spend my weekends. But after receiving one of the highest grades in his class from actively participating, I can say that his class was the most enlightening I'd ever participated in. He taught me that a person's voice is more powerful than any weapon or army on the planet, and to not use it is the greatest harm one can do to oneself. I was recently assigned a school project asking what -- in my opinion -- the worst disability is. Blindness? Paralysis? It took me a while, but speaking from experience, I can say with certainty that the worst disability would be to have a voice, but not the courage to use it.
INTRODUCTION: Hi. I am Manisha. I am going to write a story on the topic of "A BRAVE WOMAN". This is my life story. She is the most important person in my life. She is a very brave woman. She loves and cares every on. Let us see her biography detailly in this mini-essay. BIRTH: She was born in 14/2/1976 in Kanyakumari district,. She has two brothers. She was very naughty in her childhood. Every day she used to get beat from her mother. But her father loved her the most. CHILDHOOD: She went to school but she was worst in studies. But however she struggled and finished her 10th standard, But next she had to take a important decision in her life. She had to choose correct group in 11th standard. Her parents asked her to take Accountancy because she was worst in studies. But she said that she will take only Maths Biology. She fought with her parents very much. For their daughters wish, her parents accepted her to take Maths Biology group. She finished 11th and started 12th. But she failed in 12th standard. First time, she lost in her life. Next she cannot clear exam in the school. So she started to work in the field in her village for few months. Next she joined the typewriting class and she finished shorthand and longhand. Next she went to college, but there also she failed. CHANGE IN LIFE: Due to her father's transfer in his office, their family shifted to another town. But there she stayed in her house without going to job. She reached her marriage age, but up to 28 years she did not get married. But In olden days, girls should get married at 23-25 years. But she did not get married. One alliance came at the age of 29. Her parents thought it would be right and they get married to that man. MARRIAGE LIFE: Like every girl she had various dreams and enter into her marriage life. But after few months, she came to know the character of that man. Her parents gave 104 pounds gold and 1lakh rupee in his hand. But he asked more money. He started to beat her everyday and asked money to get it from the parents. She faced many problems in her marriage life. In her home she was grown up like a queen but here she was like a slave. after some days, he went to foreign because he worked in foreign. Everyday in the phone, he used to struggle her. He seperated her from her parents too and kept her in seperate house. She was very upset with her marriage life. HAPPY LIFE STARTS: After one year, she gave birth to a baby girl. She was very happy with that girl baby. She started to live for her daughter. She started to reject her husband and came under her parents care. He got more angry on that. He stopped to sent money. She cannot understand anything and she was confused what to do next. Her parents supported her and help her in the financial conditions. Years went and her daughter grown up and went to the school. She joined her in a good school but the amount was very high. In that case also, she was very strong. She lost all her golds by her husband because he sold all the golds and used. STRUGGLES FACED BY HER: She also sold some golds for her daughters sake. After certain limit her parents also stopped to help her because they also don't have enough money to help her. After that with the help of one member. She got a temporary job in the town Panchayat. First of all, she faced went to the job. She struggled more in the office. Everyday she used to come and cry in the home. She faced more struggles. Little by little she came to learn about the outside world. . After some years, she got divorce and she became a single woman. Her daughter studied in that time. She even didn't get married again. She lived for her child. She worked in the office and started to save money for her daughter. She grown up her child with more care and love. CHILD'S LOVE: She and her daughter loved both very much. Both lived in the world happily. They shared all their secrets. They have a good relationship. She loved her daughter very much. Her daughter also with her support got so much awards. And her daughter also got award from President in Delhi. She was very happy with his daughter. CONCLUSION: At last, I am very happy to say that, "She was my mom", "A BRAVE WOMAN". I am very happy to write this because she is a very brave girl. And she grown up me as a single woman and she faced many struggles. Today I am very proud to say that I am the daughter of my mom.I am writing this, that every should get inspired by reading this story. Thank you. Please support us all. RESPECT WOMEN.