The Invisible Curriculum

There are lessons we learn in school, and then there are lessons we learn simply by living alongside the people who raise us. The deepest parts of who we are today are shaped not only by subjects or classrooms, but by the quiet rhythm of home, the kind of education that unfolds without instructions, without lectures.

Home itself was the first school, and the Moms around me my earliest teachers.

There was the one whose quiet strength shaped me in ways I only understood much later. From her, I learned the importance of doing things well, of practicing until a performance felt polished, purposeful, and perfect. She was the one who placed books in my hands, who encouraged reading not as a task but as a way of expanding the world. With her, I learned to speak up, to express myself, to believe that my voice mattered. She was always available for me, always there. And in that steady presence, I learned what it means to have a champion - someone whose belief in you gives you the courage to dream, the confidence to take that step and the assurance to make it happen.

Then the one whose calm advice and steady reassurance – one that has remained a constant in my life. She is still the first voice I call when something feels wrong - when the body aches or the mind is restless. To me, she has always been “Dr. Mom,” not because of a degree, but because of the confidence and clarity with which she responds, even to the smallest worry. I learned from her what it means to nurture not just one relationship but a whole household with grace. Caring for the elderly alongside her taught me that true responsibility is lived quietly, in the everyday moments no one else possibly sees. From her, I learned what care looks like when it is rooted in patience and love. From her I learned what it is to be a considerate daughter-in-law and a supportive wife.

And then there was the one who held things together with her resourcefulness - quietly skilled, instinctively organized. She was both big sister and aunty, teaching me not through instruction but through example with lessons tucked into every action. The many bike rides, the stops at tiny nooks and corners, the shared cups of tea, each a quiet moment where I learned from her quick efficiency in getting things done and the shared laughter and fun that made even simple errands feel light. That instinct for order, that resourcefulness, that ability to make something beautiful out of the basics, be it the soft, round chapatis or my interest in tailoring and my love for exploring the quiet culture in the nooks and corners of a city - they became an education absorbed slowly, quietly, and deeply from her.

Together these wonderful women shaped an invisible curriculum at home. Kindness was not taught - it was witnessed. Empathy was not explained - it was lived. Music lessons I did not want to attend, the nine evenings of Navaratri when we all had to sit together, show up together - these became lessons in patience, in teamwork, in discipline disguised as tradition.

We speak about balance, about leadership, about empathy, or about being educated in the truest sense. The roots are in the invisible curriculum of home, one that shapes who you become long before you realize you were learning anything at all.

So over to you then: What has been your invisible curriculum?