A Life Reimagined: Lessons from Loss, Family, and Growth

By Kalpi Prasad

I once believed success meant winning at all costs — the job title, the money, the praise. I confused visibility with worth, and validation with love. But nothing teaches you about yourself quite like four walls, a prison door, and the loss of everything you thought defined you. My name is Kalpi Prasad, and this is the story of how I began again — not with noise, but with purpose.

The Fall

In 2016, my name hit headlines for all the wrong reasons. I was arrested and later sentenced to prison on charges of fraud. I falsified a work visa, misled government departments, and in the process, betrayed the trust of many who believed in me. I don’t shy away from that fact. I was given four years and five months — time that would change me forever. The court described me as narcissistic. Looking back, they weren’t wrong. I was obsessed with status, desperate to prove something to the world, and in that spiral, I lost myself.

But it wasn’t just my freedom I lost. I lost my sister to mental illness and later to death. I lost the respect of people who loved me. Most painfully, I lost time with my family — the very people who had stood by me when I had nothing. I sat in a cell with silence as my companion and guilt as my shadow.

And that guilt grew into something more. I spiralled into a severe depression that left me emotionally paralysed. Days blurred together. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I battled panic attacks, chest pain, and a deep sense of worthlessness that no one on the outside could see. Eventually, I was diagnosed with PTSD — not from a single traumatic event, but from the compounding loss of identity, purpose, and connection. The sentence was supposed to end in four years. But the mental sentence is something I still manage every day.

The Mirror of Prison

Prison is not just a place; it’s a crucible. It boils down your identity until you’re left with what’s true. But here’s the truth many won’t say: prison rarely reforms people — not because they don’t want to change, but because they’re given little support to do so.

There are limited mental health resources. The stigma of vulnerability keeps men silent. You are warehoused, not healed. Punished, not prepared. Most days, you survive by shutting down — not by opening up. And so, the system becomes a revolving door.

There are no comprehensive rehabilitation programs — only punishment wrapped in routine. People talk about rehabilitation as if it’s a process that just happens with time. It doesn’t. It takes structure. It takes belief. It takes compassion. And that was sorely missing.

But in the cracks of that cold, impersonal world, I found unexpected light. I spent hours each day asking questions I had always run from. Who was I without the business suits and bravado? Who had I become, and was it too late to change?

The answers didn’t arrive as revelations. They came in letters from my mum, gentle and unshaken. In the innocence of drawings from my daughters. In the faith of my wife, who kept our family together without ever once letting me feel abandoned.

My mother is a remarkable woman — brilliant, brave, and unrelenting in her values. She never excused my actions, but she never withdrew her love either. My wife, Linh, is the quiet power behind our family. Her resilience during the darkest times gave me a blueprint for how to survive with grace. And my daughters — Uma and Lilah — became my reason to rise every morning and commit to becoming a better man.

The Slow Rebuild

Freedom didn’t come with a clean slate. I emerged from prison into a world that hadn’t waited. People remembered the headlines, not the healing. I had to earn trust inch by inch — not just from the world, but from myself.

I started small: I apologised to those I had hurt, not to fix things but to own them. I sought therapy. I took long walks with my daughters and sat in stillness with my regrets. I built a business with transparency at its core, not because it was marketable — but because it was the only way I could move forward.

The label of "fraudster" still follows me. But so does the label of "father." And the latter is what I wake up every day trying to be worthy of.

On Love, Loss, and the Women Who Made Me

Much of my past ego came from wanting to be seen. I wanted the world to admire me — to believe I had made something of myself. But that kind of validation is fleeting.

The love I now strive for is not applause. It is the quiet nod of my wife when I come home on time. It’s the giggle of Lilah when I read to her at night. It’s the knowing smile of Uma when I admit I don’t have all the answers.

And it’s the memory of my late sister, Raji — a gifted psychiatrist and beautiful soul — who once told me, “It’s not what you’ve done that defines you, but what you do when you know better.” Her absence remains a wound, but also a compass.

Why I Share This

Not to rebrand. Not to excuse. But to contribute.

I share this because stories have power — not to erase our mistakes, but to give them meaning. I’ve walked through shame, silence, and isolation. But I’ve also walked into grace, forgiveness, and an unrelenting commitment to do better.

If you’ve ever fallen — hard — I want you to know it’s possible to rebuild. But the work is slow, and it doesn’t come with applause. It comes with silence, integrity, and the daily choice to live for others.

My hope is that my honesty helps others start a conversation, reflect inward, or extend compassion — whether toward themselves or someone else. We need more real stories, more vulnerability, and fewer masks. This is mine.

I’ve hurt people. I carry that with me. But I also carry hope, love, and a commitment to never go back to the man I once was.

Looking Ahead

This piece is the beginning of a longer conversation — about growth, fatherhood, loss, mental health, and the quiet power of women. Over the coming months, I’ll be sharing more reflections. Not as an expert, but as a man still learning.

I want to shine a light on the hard conversations we often avoid: what it means to take full accountability, how to live with guilt without letting it destroy you, how to love deeply and show up consistently, and how to build a legacy that’s grounded in truth.

I know some doors will remain closed to me. That’s part of the consequence. But I also know that life isn’t just about reopening old ones — it’s about building new ones.

To the ones I’ve failed: I’m sorry. To the ones who held me up: thank you. To my daughters: everything I am now, I owe to you.