“Too Spicy - My Mother’s Journey with Acid Reflux and Gastritis” by Madelyn Kris

In second grade I told my friend that the fries served with my elementary school’s lunches were too spicy for me. She reminded me of this conversation years later when we reunited in high school, mentioning that they were just barely dusted with black pepper. Growing up in the bay area, most of my friends were South Asian like myself, so I was met with a response along the lines of “how are you Indian with a spice tolerance that low?” and similar phrases throughout my childhood. I barely grasped it then that the reason my tastebuds couldn’t handle any spice since I was eating only bland foods with no spices or acidic ingredients at home was because of my mom. More specifically, because of her decades long struggle with gastritis and acid reflux, which prevented her from eating anything spicy without having extreme pain and stomach acid flowing back into her esophagus at night. She’s had this autoimmune disorder even before she gave birth to me, with it flaring up being the reason for her having to postpone having me until she was 34 even though she never wanted to. I respect my mom more than I respect any being that has ever walked this earth. She, who studied diligently earning her computer science degree in India so that she could travel by herself to live in Australia and earn her masters, then coming to the United States on a work visa to live in New York as a web consultant, has been working the entirety of her adult life. In addition to this, working in tech has led her to be on numerous occasions the only woman in a male-dominated workspace, and of course, almost always the only Indian woman. Having to constantly compete in a man’s world contributed to the chronic stress that led her to have compromised health, especially since the office building she worked in resulted in her being a survivor of the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center. Working in the South Tower, she was on her way to work when she saw the North Tower get hit, just barely missing being in the center of rubble after the second tower was hit because she happened to be late for work that day. The PTSD she suffered from the event, and returning to her office after the horrific event to half her colleagues no longer there because they were not as lucky as she was, added to her stress as well. Because of all of her past experiences with anxiety and stress, and her current state of health, she has raised me to value my mental and physical well being above all else. When my friends had parents who forced their kids to study through all their waking hours, reprimand them if they got anything less than an A, and continuously scrutinize them for not meeting their standards of academic success, the only thing my mom worried about was if I came home having drank my two mini water bottles in totality. She worried about whether I was happy or not, if I was getting enough sleep and not working into the late hours of the night. The motto she emphasized to me the most throughout my life was to “work smarter not harder”, to not tirelessly overwork yourself to the point of losing your health. Though my food was lacking in spices, she fed me superfoods, vegetables with anti-cancerous properties, and loaded me with probiotics, vitamins, and homeopathic remedies for any ailments I would face in my childhood. She realized the power of stress, the pain that it causes, and the lasting negative effects it yields. Years later, not only can my mom not eat spicy foods, she can barely eat a quarter of a Frangipane desert without feeling it come back up at night. After finally resigning from her job after 27 straight years of work, she can barely speak in interviews without coughing due to her reflux, can’t handle how driving presses on her stomach and makes her pain worse. After consulting with multiple doctors, taking multiple medications over the years (currently being on Pepcid), she’s gotten the same answers over and over again, and nothing has changed. She has an endoscopy scheduled once I start school this month to better understand what is happening in her body and how she can heal her reflux. But even despite her pain, she has persevered continuously, flying to India by herself once a year to take care of my grandparents and spend

time with her, and reach out to local Indian doctors while trying her own ayurvedic treatments. She tries out new supplements every month to see which suits her body best, and adjusts her routine accordingly. She sleeps with special pillows, about five, propping her up so she can essentially sleep while sitting up in order to minimize the reflux. To me, she’s a superwoman, and always has been. While I would wallow in the fact that we could never go out for family dinners since she couldn’t eat the same foods as my dad and I, and mourned that we could never celebrate holidays like Thanksgiving or participate in holiday functions of family friends, I’ve realized that it would be ridiculous to blame my mom for how her illness affects me when she’s the one constantly enduring an endless battle with it. I’m grateful for how she raised me to value my health and my mind, to be intentional in the way I live my life and care for myself. I’m grateful that I couldn’t handle the school fries, because it marked the beginning of my understanding of everything she sacrificed so I wouldn’t have to feel the same pain she did. What I once saw as something that made me different from the rest of my friends, or something that made me feel like less of a “real” Indian, has now become a quiet badge of honor. It reminds me of her strength, the ways she has reshaped tradition to protect me, and the resilience she’s modeled for me every day of my life. I’ve learned to find pride in softness, in being gentle with myself, and in listening to my body. And as I grow older I continue to carry her lessons with me, not just in what I eat, but in how I live.