100,000 hearts in seven months. Built without shortcuts. Without help. Without compromise. Just sheer stubbornness, grit, and love that refuses to die.

I wasn’t meant for this. I was somewhere else, dreaming elsewhere. But fate threw me into my mother’s fire, and I stayed. What began as helping her survive became an obsession, to make her seen, to make the world feel the weight of her fight.

This woman — this storm — built a life from nothing. We’ve had nights we didn’t know if rent would clear. Days when we ate silence and dreams, and somehow carried on. She had only two salwars, and she borrowed to buy me a ₹400 dress. That memory never left me. That memory built everything.

We didn’t enter this industry, we broke into it. No agencies. No shortcuts. No hand-holding. Just me, bleeding creativity, Amma, holding the foundation intact. Sweat. Blood. Tears. Obsession. Love. Madness.

Amma rises every morning, hands cracked, bones stiff, heart bruised from storms no one knows. She carries everything silently. She swallows hunger, pain, exhaustion, and fear so I can keep moving. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t stop. She simply endures. Every stitch we make is soaked in her fight, her rage, her stubborn love.

And now, 100,000 people carry pieces of her. Her scars. Her fire. Her unbreakable soul. They wear her life, her struggle, her blood, her obsession, in every thread, in every piece we create.

This isn’t growth. It’s proof.
That when a woman decides to rise, the universe bends.
That chaos, when held with love, becomes legacy.
That heartbreak, when carried with stubbornness, becomes art.

So when they ask again “How big is your team?” we smile.
Because it isn’t numbers.
It’s sleepless nights, bleeding creativity, relentless obsession, stubborn miracles, and a life fought and survived.

This isn’t a story of success. It’s survival, styled, shot, sewn.
And we’re just getting started.