My Training as a Good Girl

If there were a survival manual for girls growing up in our society, I’m fairly certain I completed the training. And with flying colours.

The syllabus was simple.

Be polite.
Don’t argue.
Understand everyone’s moods.
Fit in.
Keep the peace.
And above all, be nice.

Like many girls, I believed that when people called you “so mature for her age”, you were doing life right.

In this syllabus, I was an excellent student.

And yet, when the results came in for public acceptance, I ‘failed’.

And this failure, in the eye of what society has deemed “acceptable”, was the most freeing and evolving moment of my life.

Because, from here, I went on to learn a new syllabus called ‘Standing Up for myself’.

The lessons are unfamiliar at first.

Saying no.
Disappointing people.
And most importantly, realising that keeping the peace is not always the same as keeping your dignity.

Slowly, I started doing things that gave me joy and peace. I started asking myself what I really wanted.

And somewhere along this journey, I realised I hadn’t completely lost the good girl either. I didn’t have to become the loud rebel. I learnt that I could choose to be myself in a way that suits my temperament.

I learnt that kindness does not require silence. That understanding others does not mean abandoning yourself.

I learnt that when you respect yourself, those who respect you will still stay, and the only ones that leave are the ones who benefited from your self-sacrifice.

Perhaps that is what “Give to Gain” means to me.

When women begin to use their voices honestly, even if gently, even if imperfectly, we then give others permission, space and courage to do the same. It begins with us.

And in that small act of courage, we gain something many of us were never taught to claim : Space.

A thought I try to remember:
You can be kind without being convenient.

Archana Gopinath

Founder, The Reading Room

Finding Our Voice – Surviving and Shaping the World

Womanhood, in many ways, is a quiet journey of survival. Not always survival in the dramatic sense, but survival in the everyday moments — the subtle expectations, the invisible boundaries, and the constant negotiation between who society expects us to be and who we truly are.

Like many women, I have experienced moments when my voice felt smaller than the room I was in. Not because I lacked ideas or conviction, but because society sometimes teaches women to speak gently, to take up less space, to prioritise harmony over assertion. Early in my journey, I remember questioning myself often — wondering if I was “too much” when I spoke with confidence or “too ambitious” when I stepped forward.

One particular challenge that shaped me was learning to trust my own voice. In professional spaces, especially those that were traditionally male-dominated, there were moments when being heard required twice the effort. It would have been easier to stay silent, to blend into the background, or to wait for permission. But those moments became turning points. They forced me to realise that strength does not always come from confrontation; sometimes it comes from quiet persistence.

Over time, I began to see that surviving in a patriarchal society is not only about resistance. It is also about contribution. Every time a woman shows up authentically, mentors another woman, speaks her truth, or refuses to shrink herself, she shifts the landscape a little.

This is where the idea of “Give to Gain” becomes deeply meaningful. When women share knowledge, encouragement, opportunities, and solidarity with one another, something powerful happens. The act of giving creates collective strength. We gain confidence from community, wisdom from shared stories, and courage from knowing we are not alone.

In my work today — whether through art, storytelling, or conversations about resilience — I have come to understand that our experiences, even the difficult ones, become tools we can offer others. What we give forward often returns in unexpected ways: in connection, in purpose, and in the quiet satisfaction of seeing another woman rise.

Survival then transforms into something more beautiful — not just enduring the system, but reshaping it.

Womanhood is not only about surviving the world we inherit. It is also about helping build a better one for those who come after us.

One line of wisdom:
When a woman stops shrinking to fit the world, she begins expanding the world for others. 

Anupama Ramachandran

Founder, The White Paper Creative

Be Human First – Rethinking Womanhood in a Patriarchal Society

Whenever I hear the phrase “surviving in a patriarchal society,” I often pause and reflect on my own journey. Many of the stories we hear are about struggle and resistance. Those stories are important, and many women carry them with immense courage. I have great respect for them.

But perhaps not every story about womanhood begins with struggle. Mine began with example.

In my home, life was never framed around strict ideas of what a man must do and what a woman must do. Instead, I watched my parents simply do what needed to be done, each contributing in ways that suited their strengths, temperament, and character. There was no constant comparison about equality. There was simply a quiet rhythm of shared responsibility and trust.

The men in my life have shaped this understanding deeply. My father showed me that respect and partnership are stronger than authority. My brother grew up in that same environment and became a man who values and respects women for who they are. From my husband, I learnt that what ultimately matters most is living with honesty, sincerity, and full involvement in whatever we do. When we show up to life in this way, many labels and expectations begin to lose their hold over us.

Perhaps the greatest gift the men in my life gave me was the freedom to simply be – a life, a human being.

Because of this, “being a woman” has never felt like the central definition of who I am. I have come to believe that within each of us there is both strength and gentleness, logic and compassion; what we sometimes call the masculine and the feminine. These qualities are not owned by one gender; I believe they live within all of us.

My work at the National Institute of Speech and Hearing deepened this perspective even further. Meeting people with different abilities and backgrounds from across the world helped me see the extraordinary beauty of human diversity and how rarely we pause to celebrate it.

Perhaps this is what “Give to Gain” means to me. When we live with respect, openness, and kindness, we quietly pass those values on. What we give through our actions and the examples we set shapes the world someone else grows up in.

One thought that has stayed with me through my journey is this: when we live our lives celebrating people for who they are, beyond labels of gender, background, ability, or belief, we quietly give others the freedom to do the same.

Perhaps that is also the spirit of Women’s Day: not only to reflect on struggles, but also to celebrate the examples that show us what a more humane and compassionate world can look like.

Because before anything else, we are simply human beings.

A thought I try to remember:
Be human first. Everything else is only one part of our story.

Aswathy Vinod

Education Consultant

Stop Waiting – What Two Generations of Women Taught Me About Surviving Patriarchy

When fish was cooked at my mother’s house, the best pieces went to the boys. The girls quietly learned to eat the head or the tail. No one called it discrimination. No one argued about fairness. It was simply how things were done. Patriarchy rarely announces itself loudly. It lives in small, ordinary moments that slowly teach girls where they stand.

Every year, International Women’s Day brings conversations about women’s rights and equality. This year’s theme, “Give to Gain,” made me reflect on something deeply personal … how two generations of women in my family learned to survive in a system that quietly expected them to stay smaller.

My mother grew up in the 1960s in a lower middle-class farming family in Kerala. There were five siblings. Her parents worked hard, but neither had formal education. Life revolved around survival, discipline, and tradition. In that world, boys and girls were not treated the same. But the differences were subtle enough to feel normal.

When food was served, the boys received the best portions. When decisions were made, their opinions carried more weight. The girls were raised with an unspoken understanding – their real home was somewhere else, after marriage.

No one explained this directly. It was absorbed through everyday life. My mother never called it unfair. That was simply the culture she inherited.

Forty years later, I believed things had changed.

At 22, I received an opportunity to travel to the Netherlands for work. No woman in my family had ever travelled abroad alone. In fact, none had worked outside the country. I was excited. I imagined the experience would be a proud moment for my family.

When I told my mother, she responded with a sentence that revealed how deeply old beliefs still lived within new generations.

“Ask your brother. He is the man of the house.”

My brother was two years older than me. At that time, he was unemployed. I was younger. I had a job. I had earned an international opportunity. But I still needed permission. Because I was a girl.

Patriarchy is often spoken about as something imposed by men. But many of its rules are carried forward by women who themselves grew up inside those structures. My mother was not trying to limit me. She was repeating what she had been taught all her life – that authority belonged to men.

Moments like these are rarely dramatic enough to make headlines. Yet they shape how women learn to see themselves.

Today, I am a motorbike rider. Not because it was my childhood dream, but because it became a lesson in independence.

When I was growing up, my mother owned a scooter. But I always wanted to sit on a motorbike. Back then, riding one was almost entirely a “boys’ privilege.” I lost my father when I was young, and my brother never rode a bike either. Somewhere in my mind, I carried a small wish: one day someone would take me for a bike ride.

Years passed. At 30, I realised something quietly uncomfortable … I was still waiting. Waiting for someone to make that small dream happen. That day, I decided to stop waiting. I learned to ride a motorbike myself. I have been riding ever since.

The lesson from that experience stayed with me long after I learned to balance the bike.

Many of us grow up waiting … waiting for permission, waiting for encouragement, waiting for someone else to lead the way. But sometimes the most powerful step we can take is deciding to move forward on our own.

That realisation eventually led me to create Let’s Live and a community space called The Orange Room.

Through these spaces, we try to build something many of us never had while growing up – safe environments where people can talk openly about their struggles, learn life skills, and seek support without fear of judgment.

In societies shaped by patriarchy, silence often becomes the norm. People internalise their struggles and assume they are alone. But when someone speaks honestly about their experience, it creates permission for others to do the same.

This is where the theme “Give to Gain” begins to make sense.

When we give our stories, we gain connection.
When we give honesty, we gain understanding.
When we give space for others to speak, we gain stronger communities.

My mother’s generation survived by accepting the rules they inherited. My generation has begun questioning them. Perhaps the next generation will grow up without having to ask for permission to pursue their dreams.

Until then, there is one lesson I carry forward …one that has nothing to do with motorcycles and everything to do with courage.

Stop waiting for someone to come and fulfil your dreams. Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is learn to do it for yourself.

Sherin Noordheen (Founder-Director, Let’s Live)

Today, I have shared my story. In the coming days, you will hear from many other strong and successful women in our Unfiltered Women series … candid conversations on patriarchy, resilience, and the many meanings of “Give to Gain.”

I used to be someone who never enjoyed going out alone. The thought of doing things by myself made me anxious, so I avoided it altogether. I depended on others for almost everything.

But this year, as an act of choosing myself, I took my first step: I went to my internship at The Orange Room alone. Later, as a small birthday challenge during my internship there, I walked into a restaurant by myself and ate alone. It sounds simple, but for me, it was monumental.

The fear of doing things alone didn’t come from nowhere. In my childhood, my parents had to split their attention between me and my sister because we were only one and a half years apart. I was a clingy, difficult child who wouldn’t go to anyone, and in that chaos, many of my needs slipped through unnoticed.

I grew up insecure, guarding my inner world so tightly that I became less expressive. My emotions stayed locked inside. I couldn’t show anger, couldn’t ask for help, and every time I felt low, I simply went quiet. Even getting attention made me uncomfortable, because receiving it felt unfamiliar.

I was bullied for my skin colour, and each hurtful comment pushed me deeper into silence. I convinced myself that I had to handle everything alone – not because I wanted to, but because I thought no one else would understand. Asking for help didn’t even feel like an option.

Somewhere along the way, I searched for a course that felt alive – something that wouldn’t drain me. That’s when I discovered psychology. But deep down, psychology had been meant for me all along. I wasn’t expressive, yet I always encouraged others to open up. Whenever someone shared their pain with me and felt even a little lighter afterward, it made me feel whole. What I lacked growing up, I unconsciously tried to become for others.

But life eventually pressed too hard. I reached a point where I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. Days felt heavy, food tasted like nothing, and nights terrified me. I dreaded the darkness. And even then, I didn’t reach out. I survived it alone- barely, but I survived.

And surviving taught me something I had never considered: doing everything alone wasn’t strength. I wasn’t “handling it”; I was breaking.

Until one day, everything inside me erupted. I acted out of bottled emotions I had ignored for years – and that moment changed everything.

I realised that suppressing emotions doesn’t make us strong; it fractures us from within. Asking for help isn’t weakness. It’s bravery. It’s choosing to live.

During my internship at The Orange Room, things began to shift. For the first time, I stepped into a space built on listening, empathy, and emotional safety. I began understanding myself with more clarity and learned how to support others in the ways I always wished someone had supported me.

The Orange Room didn’t just teach me; it allowed me to become the person I needed when I was younger.

Today, I’m learning to express my feelings with honesty, to accept myself with gentleness, and to trust that vulnerability is a path to healing. I’m grateful that I can now offer others the understanding and space I once lacked.

And I realise that life isn’t perfect even now – but I’m brave enough to heal, grow, and live.

~ Asiya

Writing about any of my personal experiences was the task I was assigned, and the question itself felt really heavy. Ending any of my experiences on a positive note felt puzzling, because when I look back, no memory has enough warmth that I’d want to relive. Somewhere, somehow, the 12-year-old girl who was genuinely happy faded away, leaving behind fragments of distorted memories.

It has been a rollercoaster of emotions and a constant hope that someone who could love and cherish me would save me-because in the end, we humans seek connection, a companion, warmth, and welcome. Throughout all the relationships-friendships, romantic or otherwise-l was never truly myself, and I never wanted to be “me,” because I was afraid of acknowledging the struggling, helpless, and hopeless version of myself.

But I do not want to quit on myself or stop learning about who I am. Rather than staying still, I would always choose small movements, even if they don’t look like steps. And maybe this is my resilience speaking-but whatever…

~ Surabhi S

The author is a Psychology Postgraduate passionate about understanding human emotions, lived experiences, and the journey toward self-acceptance. (more…)

On a random afternoon, I learned that the person I loved to death was not taking the break he had spoken of, but was cheating on me. At that moment, every atom of my life began to turn blue. My breath lost its rhythm and I let it be. That was how shattered I was.

The hurt that rolled down my cheeks still desperately wanted us back. After all, how does a heart let go of what it has carried for a septennium? Grief does not follow logic; it follows attachment.

I did not know then that the day I found out would be the easiest one to survive. Winters always begin gently before they unveil. At dusk, I sank with the sun, and no dawn ever knocked on my windows. Winter became the only season my heart could feel. What began as a quiet chill soon spread, until I froze entirely.

A strange realization slipped in quietly, I had been entangled so deeply with this person that, in his absence, I could no longer trace myself. Untangling felt impossible. Losing who I was, and walking through what followed, became more than I could carry.

My days stretched longer, heavier. I became a prisoner in my own body, limbs frozen to the point where even tears could not be wiped away. Breathing itself grew strained; a single inhale burned through all my strength. All I could do was lie still and sob.

Months passed, and I found myself craving sleep, barely eating. My body transformed into something unfamiliar, incapable of even the simplest tasks. My mind and body ached together, yet to the world, I was simply lazy.

The world moved through seasons, while I remained frozen within. My will to live dropped,and death slowly started to feel like relief. The weight I carried felt heavier than death itself. I battled guilt, the guilt of no longer feeling awe at sunrises or rainbows, even while living in a home that was safe. That guilt pulled me deeper.

I reached a point where I needed warmth, or I would turn cold beyond return. But what the world heard was a joke, that an eighteen-year-old girl had been cheated on. What no one listened to was that she was breaking enough to be done with life.

And yet, light has a way of arriving unannounced.

One day, it peeked through my windows, carrying a warmth so mild it almost went unnoticed. But even the smallest rays can begin to thaw. The icebergs of my self-doubt, Am I worthy of being loved?, began to crack when I noticed two tiny furballs waiting for me to wake, ready to stay awake just so my dark, clouded skies could hold a few stars.

They licked the hurt from my cheeks when I couldn’t. They never left my side.
Aivee and Mila, my then four-month-old puppies.

Tiny rays matter, especially when they are consistent enough to melt even the hardest ice.

I struggled for years to emerge from that winter. But that first ray gave me hope, hope that told me I was worthy of every ounce of love I received. When the clouds finally moved, I could see the stars that had always been there, pouring warmth I could not feel before, as if I was in the fog.

Later, I began again, from the rubble. I built a version of myself I know deeply: a self I can vouch for, a self that can love me even when no one does, a self I can return to when I’ve nowhere else to go.

Being human, it took years to unlearn and relearn. I learnt to sit with endings. I learnt that messiness is part of becoming. I learnt to wake up and find peace within myself, to hold my own heart gently. I learnt to stop running from what felt heavy, and to choose the harder paths that healed me.

I learnt that even the harshest winters can be softened by small, faithful rays of hope and that sometimes, all we must do is be kind to ourselves until spring arrives.

I lost years to winter when no rays reached me. But as I write this now, sitting in one of the warmest places I have ever known, The Orange Room, I ask this of you: when you need warmth, reach for it. We are here, with all that we have, to help nurture your spring into bloom.

There was a phase in my life when I honestly didn’t recognise myself. Before I even had a name for what I was going through, every day felt like dragging my body through mud. I had no energy, no interest, nothing felt exciting anymore. Getting out of bed felt like a full-time job. But I still pushed myself to go to work, because I didn’t want everything to fall apart.

My sleep was a mess, I cried for no reason, and I felt exhausted even after doing nothing. I kept telling myself, “It’s just a phase,” but deep inside I knew something was off.

Then one day, it all hit me at once. I had a breakdown so bad that I couldn’t stop crying. My chest tightened, I couldn’t breathe properly, and I genuinely felt like I was losing control. That panic attack was my wake-up call. That was the moment I realised I can’t keep going like this. I need help.

So I reached out for medical support. That’s when I learned I had anxiety, PMDD, and depressive traits. My doctor told me to slow down, take things gently, and even suggested a change of atmosphere. It wasn’t easy, but I resigned from my job and took a one-year break. At the time, it felt like everything in my life had paused.

The hardest part of that break wasn’t the free time, it was the constant feeling that I wasn’t good enough. I kept thinking, “Did I quit because I’m weak? Will I ever be able to handle work again? Will I ever feel normal?”

Those thoughts hurt more than anything else.

But healing isn’t dramatic. It’s slow. It’s small. And it often looks boring from the outside.

During that year medication helped stabilise me, reading became my escape and craft-making gave me small pockets of calm

Looking back, I realise something important:

It’s completely okay to slow down.

It’s okay to rest.

And I actually deserve support and compassion,just like anyone else.

After one and a half years, I finally went back to work. And honestly, it felt like a blessing. I got a job in a comfortable, supportive environment where I felt understood. I didn’t have to act strong or pretend to be someone else. I could just be me. And that feeling of being accepted as I am healed parts of me I didn’t even realise were hurting.

Today, life isn’t perfect. But it’s mine. And I’m learning to live it with more kindness toward myself.

If you’re going through something similar – anxiety, PMDD, depression, or just a tough phase – just remember – take your time. Start again if you need to. Ask for help. Healing is slow, but it’s real. And it’s absolutely possible.

“Sometimes, you don’t grow wrong. You just grow in the wrong room.”

For most of my school years, I lived with a quiet ache, the feeling of being slightly misplaced. I had friends, routines, and marks on report cards, yet something inside me stayed untouched, unseen. I often felt like a visitor in a space that wasn’t meant for me. The classrooms felt heavy, the subjects distant, and I carried the silent belief that I was average, ordinary, and not someone who fully fit anywhere. But life has gentle ways of waiting for the right moment.

COVID paused the world, and when it resumed, my life led me toward the decision my seventh-grade self once made without understanding: Psychology.

And suddenly, the world shifted its shape around me.

“And then the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk to bloom.”

Image credit: © The Anaïs Nin Foundation. All Rights Reserved.

— Anaïs Nin

Stepping into psychology felt like stepping into light. College didn’t just teach me theories; it taught me myself. For the first time, I was in a space where my softness wasn’t a misunderstanding, where my curiosity wasn’t strange, and where my quietness didn’t need to apologise. I became someone who was seen. Someone who was appreciated.Someone who finally belonged. It felt as if a part of me that had been sleeping for years finally opened its eyes and recognised itself.

“When a flower doesn’t bloom, you fix the environment, not the flower.”     

Image credit: © Alexander den Heijer. All Rights Reserved.

— Alexander Den Heijer

Psychology gave me language for emotions I had carried since childhood. It showed me that belonging is not about fitting everywhere. It’s about finding the one place where your inner world finally meets the outer one.

And today, being part of Let’s Live, I carry that truth with me. I want to help create the kind of spaces that once saved me — soft, safe, understanding spaces where someone who feels invisible can finally exhale and be seen.

“You will bloom in the place that feels like sunlight to you.”

If you feel out of place right now, I hope my story reminds you gently:

You are not hard to love, you are not difficult to understand, and you are not meant to shrink yourself to fit into the wrong spaces.

Your place exists.

And when you find it, you will bloom without even trying.

Death and darkness are normal for me. What can shake an average person comforts me, likely due to the varied experiences I have had ever since I was born. At 1 1/2years of age I was considered medically dead while kept alive by machines for a month. As a kid until today I continue being a mischief and misfit in everything I do and everywhere I go.

Self-harming began early in my life before age 6. This isn’t considered normal yet it is a normal reaction to an irrational childhood of being locked in toilets for hours, being left under the care of maids, uncles and horror porn movies that kept me glued with curiosity and not fear. As an adolescent popularity in school kept me alive though yet lonely. Being called mad for cutting my own hair, lesbian for dressing like a boy, slut for talking to boys damaged my self-created worth pushing me towards comfort found through drinking and smoking. I was treated for my deviancy, and vandalism after I ran away from home, cycling 156kms to another state where I discovered a world where men liked boys and I looked like one. Freedom came with a price which forced me to return home 36 hours later yet I was not happy about it and wished I would never return. Everyone was angry with me for having run away, for making them worried, yet no one genuinely inquired about what happened when I was away, so I continued living my own lie having given up on adults. A psychiatrist diagnosed me as a transvestite and suggested sex change to my parents. This complicated things between us, having them decide on drastic measures by sending me to various fixing camps aka tough love camps. I realized my own horror movie had just begun as these camps are meant to break your spirit, tear you apart emotionally, mentally, physically, sexually and spiritually through tactical military style behavioral strategies. I returned home each time a different person hating myself and my parents further, although my obedient nature was now loved by all as I did as I was told, dressed as I was given, listened and followed every rule of how to conduct myself as a girl.

I was moved to India in 96, under the pretext of a 2 month holiday which turned into 6 years. During these years, there was a lot of back and forth that interrupted my studies. Each time when I was beginning to settle with a new set of friends, gaining confidence in my studies I was forced to leave my studies owing to some mood swing a parent had. My insomnia that began at age 14 only increased. I thought and felt I was an imbecile as I could not keep up with the pressures of constant change and learning in a different language, culture and society. Back then Indians thought Bermuda shorts were underwear and so I was repeatedly teased by other adults, forcing me to dress in salwar kameez and turn into a good Indian girl. By 2001, I lived on the streets sleeping under benches or abandoned rooms in college while my diet consisted of alcohol, cigarettes and drugs when I could afford them or sell a part of myself for it. I would return home to shower or eat and leave under the excuse of staying at a friend’s. Arguments and fights led to my breakdown among many other things. By the end of 2002, I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia, followed with schizoaffective in 2007, and personality disorder, sleep terrors, seizures and dissociations in 2012 after being operated for a brain tumour.

I have killed myself many times throughout it all – each time asking myself ‘I got the concoctions right, why did I survive?’ A young friend – the only real one I had throughout my schizophrenia treatment told me ‘Didi, have you not got it? You want to live so much that you will not die. Your spirit won’t allow you too. You told me this yourself.’ Her words have never left me. I have come to acknowledge and accept that irrespective of how disturbing or damaging my hurdles in life were, of authority trying to break my spirit, my affair with death was not about killing myself but to kill that thought, or person I held responsible although I couldn’t make them accountable. Why was I hurting myself when there was enough done to me? As I teach my teenage students in school I have come to grow with them as a human, to know that being kind and compassionate to myself is what matters. I do not need to self-sabotage or victimize myself, there are others to do it for me so I might as well enjoy living life to the best of who I am and not how others have made up of me.

My experiences, labels, abusers do not dictate my life, identity, intelligence or path. I always have lived my own path, it is for that reason they wanted to fix me each time. We easily give our power to others even in the minute we blame them for what they did to us. This sense of agency is not theirs but mine alone. What I do with it is my power and as long as I don’t play the victim card even with society and the stigma being evident through the varied diagnosis, no one has the power to use it against me. We are all capable of adapting, camouflaging and moving further, it is why we have survived what we have. The next step is to live and love ourselves. The rest just follows through effortlessly.

— Val Resh–