Author Deepi Purohit Explores Mental Health, Motherhood, & Healing In Memoir

Deepi Purohit's debut memoir is not a polished, linear tale of healing, but an intimate and unflinching account of survival and resilience. Cuckoo in the Vineyard, written in fragments of prose and poetry, sheds light on the lived experience of bipolar II and borderline personality disorder through raw reflections, journal entries, and glimpses into her inner world. Described as a "book of a bipolar, by a bipolar, for the non-bipolar," the memoir invites readers into the often misunderstood realities of living with complex mental health conditions.

In an interview with SheThePeople, Deepi shares how writing the memoir helped her process her mental health struggles, explore the nuances of motherhood, and voice her experiences that are often silenced. Balancing the roles of mother and caregiver while finding her own identity, she speaks about the hidden labour of survival and the strength of continuing to show up.

Deepi Purohit in conversation with SheThePeople

STP: When did you first start penning Cuckoo in the Vineyard? Was there a particular moment, experience, or emotion that sparked the decision to put your story into words?

Deepi: I began writing it after my remarriage. Life looked stable on the outside, but inside, I was still battling bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and old grief. Writing wasn’t planned—it was survival. One sleepless night, I told myself, “If I don’t put this down, I’ll drown in it.” Those scribbles grew into chapters, and eventually into Cuckoo in the Vineyard, a story of second chances and healing.

STP: Take me back to your early days—where you grew up, your educational and professional background, and how you first started writing?

Deepi: I grew up in a small cantonment town, surrounded by the quiet discipline of an army upbringing. Life there was simple, structured, and a little limited in terms of career choices, but it gave me strong values that still guide me today.

Academically, I was always eager to learn. I completed a Bachelor’s in Education, followed by an MBA and a Master’s in Economics. Professionally, I first stepped into the world of banking, where I worked for over six years and was even trained for an international branch launch. Later, I moved into education and taught in different schools, eventually becoming the Head of the Social Science Department at an international school. But the toxic work culture took its toll, and I decided to step away to protect my own well-being.

Writing entered my life during those turbulent times. Living with bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder, I often felt a deep disconnect from the world around me. Putting words on paper became a way to survive, to process, and to breathe. At first, it was just private journaling—scribbles, raw emotions, late-night notes. But gradually, those fragments turned into something larger. Without planning it, I found myself shaping a narrative, and that’s how my journey as an author truly began.

For me, writing isn’t just a profession—it’s a lifeline, a mirror, and a way to connect with others who might be struggling in silence.

STP:  How did your journey with motherhood shape the way you experienced and navigated mental health challenges?

Deepi: When I first became a mother, I didn’t know I was living with bipolar disorder or borderline personality disorder. At that time, I just thought I had to push harder, be stronger, do better, like every other mother around me seemed to be doing so effortlessly.

The struggles, feeling overwhelmed by small things, the sudden bursts of anger, and the numbness were all there, but I had no name for them. I just carried guilt, believing I wasn’t a “good enough” mother.

It was only after my remarriage that I was diagnosed, and suddenly, so many pieces of my past made sense. Looking back, I realised how much harder motherhood had been because I was unknowingly carrying these disorders. But I also realised something else—despite the struggle, my children had always been my anchor. They gave me pride, purpose, and a reason to fight for stability, even before I understood what I was fighting against.

Motherhood, in that sense, taught me resilience. It made me step into healing not just for myself, but for them. And now, with awareness of my mental health, I can navigate motherhood with more compassion for them and myself.

STP: What was the journey of writing this book like? Did you face any hesitation or overwhelming moments while revealing your inner world to the public?

Deepi: The journey of writing Cuckoo in the Vineyard was anything but straightforward. It was raw, emotional, and deeply personal. I wasn’t just writing a story; I was unravelling myself on paper. Some days it felt like therapy, a release I desperately needed. Other days it was exhausting, almost like reliving old wounds I thought I had buried.

Yes, I faced hesitation many times. But the love and support of my husband helped me immensely. There were nights I sat staring at my words and thought, “Am I really ready to let the world see this part of me? What if I’m judged? What if I’m misunderstood?” The idea of revealing my inner world felt overwhelming, especially because my struggles with bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder had been so private for so long.

But then came the realisation that hiding only keeps you trapped. Each time I hesitated, I reminded myself that honesty has power—not just for me, but for anyone reading who might be silently carrying the same battles. That gave me the courage to keep going.

In the end, the writing was both painful and liberating. Painful because I had to face myself without filters. Liberating because, once the story was out, I no longer had to carry it alone.

STP: Motherhood often comes with unspoken expectations, guilt, and sacrifices. In your experience, how did these with your day‑to‑day responsibilities, and what helped you embrace self-compassion?

Deepi: Motherhood came with invisible pressures for me—the quiet comparisons, the unspoken expectations. Before I was even diagnosed with bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder, I often felt like I was falling short. Everyday tasks, school routines, meals, or even smiling through exhaustion were shadowed by guilt. What helped me slowly shift was awareness. 

My diagnosis after remarriage gave me language for my struggles, and with it came compassion. I realised my children didn’t need a perfect mother, they needed a present one. Embracing that truth helped me replace guilt with gentleness and begin living motherhood with more love for them and for myself.

STP: Did you have any misconceptions about mental health that you had to unlearn during your own healing journey? 

Deepi: For years, I believed my struggles made me weak—that mental health was just a matter of willpower, and if I failed to “snap out of it,” it was my fault. That lie nearly crushed me. What I had to unlearn was this: seeking therapy, taking medication, and asking for help is not weakness—it is courage of the highest kind. And healing? It’s not a straight line. It’s falling apart and piecing yourself back together, over and over again, until you finally learn to stand without shame.

STP: From your own experience, how do you see diverse and inclusive mental health conversations in India evolving over the years? Are there any gaps that still need to be filled?

Deepi: ​​When I think of my early years, the silence around mental health was deafening. Growing up in a small cantonment town, you didn’t use words like “bipolar” or “disorder.” Struggle was brushed aside with phrases like “be strong,” “pray harder,” or “everyone goes through it.” I carried that silence into my first marriage and into motherhood, never realising the storm inside me had a name.

It was only after my remarriage and the eventual diagnosis that the pieces began to fall into place.

That was when I saw how stigma had quietly shaped my own beliefs. I had to unlearn the idea that asking for help was a weakness. For me, therapy and medication became acts of courage, not failure.

India has come a long way since then. Young people speak more openly, workplaces are beginning to acknowledge mental well-being, and even celebrities are breaking the taboo. Those shifts matter. They chip away at shame and give people like me the language we didn’t have years ago.

But the gaps remain. Therapy is still out of reach for many. In smaller towns, conversations are scarce, and in educated circles, judgment lingers, especially for women, mothers, or anyone whose life doesn’t fit the “perfect” picture. Marginalised voices are often left out altogether.

For me, true inclusivity means taking these conversations beyond urban, English-speaking spaces. It means being able to say “I feel empty” in any language, in any community, without being dismissed as lazy or weak. Until that happens, we still have work to do.

STP: How has writing this memoir changed your relationship with yourself and your family?

Deepi: Writing Cuckoo in the Vineyard was like holding up a mirror I had avoided for years. With every chapter, I was forced to face the parts of myself I had either hidden or felt ashamed of. That was painful, but it also gave me a kind of compassion for myself I had never known before. I stopped seeing my struggles only as failures and started recognising them as battles I had survived. In that sense, the memoir softened my relationship with myself—I became less of my own critic, and more of my own witness.

With my family, the impact has been more complex. On one side, there was hesitation, fear of judgment, or fear of exposing too much. But once the book was out, I noticed something shift. Conversations opened up that we had never dared to have before. My husband saw me with new eyes, not just as someone battling disorders, but as someone brave enough to put her truth into words and provided me with more security, love and care while children began to understand me not just as their mother, but as a woman with her own story, her own scars, her own resilience. 

So while it was terrifying to reveal so much, the act of writing created bridges. It brought honesty into my home, and strangely, it brought a kind of healing. The memoir didn’t just tell my story—it changed the way we live it together. 

STP: If someone wanted to share their own story inspired by Cuckoo in the Vineyard, what advice would you give them?

Deepi: I would tell them to begin where it hurts, and begin where it heals. Don’t wait until you feel “ready” or until your story is perfectly shaped. Stories are never born polished; they come out messy, raw, sometimes even painful. Let them.

The bravest thing you can do is write honestly, even if the only person who sees those words at first is you. Don’t censor yourself to fit into how you think people expect you to speak. Your truth has its own rhythm, and it will guide you.

And when the fear comes—because it will—remember this: you are not writing to impress, you are writing to connect. Even if one person reads your words and feels less alone, your story will have done its work.

Finally, be gentle with yourself in the process. Sharing your inner world is powerful, but it can also feel exposing. Balance the courage to speak with the compassion to protect your own heart. That’s how healing and storytelling walk together.