“I will not be ‘feminine’, you can’t make me ‘feminine’. I will be a monster, and a man, and a woman, and myself.” — Virginia Woolf
In 7th grade, my swimming teacher called me fat. I didn’t have my glasses on when he said it to me – and without them, all my senses cloud too. I was moving from one side of the pool to the other when he said that to me, slouched in a plastic white chair that sagged under his weight and his enormous belly button – my first coach after moving to India. It took me a second to comprehend what he had said, and when I did, my feet felt like they were sinking into the tiles.
Later, when my parents asked me what I had said to him, I told them a standard response – that he could not call me such a thing and that it was wrong for him to do that. It came out, not because I wanted to lie or mislead them, or so that they would have some glorified version of me in their head, but because I wanted to believe that I had said that – because I felt that in that context, that was what was supposed to be said. When they praised me for standing up for myself, I felt startled and a fraud. It hit me that I hadn’t been some hero in my own story, a feminist girl I was so proud I was, a young woman capable of holding her ground.
Instead, all that came out was an incoherent blob of words – a stammer of buts and trailing hows and tears threatening to flow down my cheeks in anger and shame. It felt like someone had cracked open the salt shaker, poured it over a puckering wound and dug their fingers just to make sure it hurt.
That day, I did not pack my bag and leave the class immediately. I stood, sulking on the other end of the pool, silently crying and brooding. After 10 minutes, a girl, younger than me, was asked by sir to come and get me. I didn’t want to but I listened to him as he explained himself to me – saying that he said it to other girls too (pointing to another girl in a higher batch than me who was slightly larger than I was) and that she took it well so then why couldn’t I? He made it seem that it was all my fault – that I was an overreacting, emotional, illogical, attention-seeking little rat and that he was only “looking out for me”. He wanted me to shut up and stop crying because it didn’t look good in front of the parents. He made it seem like it was some sort of “betrayal”.
At the end of class, he made me race with all the “pent up anger”.
I broke my personal best time.
***
Mostly, I’m a person who is assured of her thoughts – who is light-hearted and bubbly and carefree – friendly and chatty – especially around people I am comfortable with. Mostly, it seems that I speak my mind fearlessly. I’m opinionated, loud and articulate.
But a lot of the time though, it isn’t true – and more times than I would like it to be.
Recently, I wrote a poem that made me think of an incident in which I was none of these things – in which I tucked my voice inside of me with shame.
It was at a family member's home and there was a young girl who was maybe 3 or 4 (or 5, I don’t know). At the time, there were guests in the house due to an upcoming familial event – and as it often happens, the little girl was getting a lot of attention because she was small and beautiful and a child.
Out of all these people, there was one person that made me specifically uncomfortable: an uncle of mine (who would be her great grand uncle). The way he held her and “played” with her – the way he touched her and spoke to her and how his eyes seemed to linger on some parts made my internal alarm bells go off like crazy. It was nothing too overt or explicitly wrong – but in my eyes, it seemed like a violation, subtle but there – with the potential of it being something more.
At that moment, I felt like it was my fault for feeling this way – that I was overreacting and overanalyzing a situation that did not need it, that I was “too much of a feminist” and a “man hater”, and that it was “none of my business” – that there was something wrong with me because I kept seeing bad intention and malice in places where it may not be. I felt if I even tried to speak out – people would think I was ridiculous, that they would say I was disrespectful and dirty-minded and cruel to think so lowly of a family member. Her mother was right there and she didn’t seem to have a problem with it, so why did I?
I did what was the easiest thing to do – the all-familiar feeling of shutting my own voice down. I watched, through cards, UNO and board games, the little girl in his hands, in silence, feeling like I was smaller than her, and my voice even smaller.
***
These were only a few of several instances where I self-censored myself – in which I didn’t stand up for myself or my thoughts, or where I let people trample over me and the people I cared about. There were times when people told me jokes that I really did not like or appreciate and yet I pretended I found them hilarious. There were times when people used words and terms insensitively and rudely which I laughed through.
Maybe in some of these instances, if I lived them again, I would do what I had done before – maybe it was wiser to shut up – maybe it is wiser not to waste my energy. Why fight when it is pointless?
***
A friend of mine told me once about an incident that happened in her building. She was on the swings with two of her friends. One of them (a guy) made some rude or homophobic joke. My friend did not know what to say to him. But the other girl simply told him, light-heartedly, matter-of-factly, unbothered, that it wasn’t a nice thing to say.
Her remark seemed to slap him in the face – simply because it was said without any weight or anger and yet still assertively. She didn’t pick up a fight, she wasn’t rude – and as quickly as she had mentioned it – she moved on to the next subject.
She had been kind and yet she stood her ground.
She didn’t let herself go unheard
***
In 2016, at the age of 8 – turning 9 – I made my first New Year’s Resolution. In my diary, I drew two stick figures – one with a large circle for a torso and another without the circle: a now vs what-I-want-to-be illustration.
I wrote that I was “fat”.
I have never been overweight
I was eight.
In 2024, now at the age of 16 – turning 17 – this is my New Year’s Resolution: to be myself and unashamedly so. To be kind to people but to also be fearless and outspoken about my opinion. To be brave and honest when it is difficult. To stop saying sorry as a defence mechanism – for things that are not in my control nor my fault. To stop smiling and laughing at jokes that I do not find funny and to speak out if I find them offensive. To not let go of my values and conform just because I want to be liked. To be myself, even if it means I’m emotional or “hysterical” or “overreacting” or even being “stupid” – to be assured of who I am and that I matter and that I am loved and I deserve love from myself.
I am tired of self-hatred. I am tired of self-censorship. I am tired of beating myself down for the things I could have or should have done – or the things I did or did not say.
2024 is the last year before I graduate from school – a year of college admissions, examinations, predicted grades, resumes, sacrifice, late nights, essays and work, work, work.
It all terrifies me – the whole prospect of growing up and leaving home and everything in between. It scares me – knowing that rejection will happen, dreams may be shattered and that this year is probably the most important year of my life.
So amidst all of that – this is my message for myself – for all the versions of myself that spent late nights crying and beating myself up (sometimes physically) on the bathroom floor – desperately wishing I was someone else.
To try to define your worth by any metric set out by other people is catastrophic: that if you don’t have this SAT score, then you are dumb; or that if you aren’t this skinny or have this nose or this skin colour or don’t look like this, you are not “worth it”; or that if you don’t get this admission or work in that company or earn a hell lot of money, you are not successful. Your worth does not need to be defined by any metrics at all – regardless of anything – it is there.
To love yourself you don’t need to sugarcoat your faults and mistakes or not want to improve. It is to take care of yourself and be kind – to accept yourself now and build up slowly, with dedication, without being so harsh when you stumble. It is to love yourself even if you are being “unproductive” or “lazy” or need a day off. It means to love yourself regardless of how you look in the mirror – it is to know that it has never and will never define your worth. To love yourself is to know that sometimes it is okay not to love yourself, to be angry at yourself, to break, to blunder, to be confused and lost – but in the end, it will be okay.
You will be okay.
You are okay just the way you are.
You are more than okay.
You are loved.
Thank you so much for reading my blog. I hope you enjoyed this post — one that is a bit more personal than previous ones — but one that I enjoyed writing.
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Lots of love,
Aastha
You go Aastha! I have tremendous appreciation and empathy for younger authors like you who are paving the way. Yes to ALL of this. Find that angry, frustrated, horrified, pissed off feminist voice inside you that says ‘this isn’t okay’ and NURTURE it! Raise it like a child, like an essential part of you. Of course, don’t be reckless with it either, but trust yourself enough that you’ll find the balance. That voice is political consciousness, your ethics and all of that, but it’s also your intuition! Which is tremendously important.
If your experience is anything like that of the average Indian women, you’ll find many, many people who dislike this voice of yours, and the fact that you’re nurturing it instead of letting it die. Do not let it die! Let each annoying, devils-advocating, ‘don’t take it so seriously’ detractor add further fuel to your intuition. You don’t need everyone to be okay with your voice; but find those who do! And nurture each others voices together in dialogue and solidarity. Life might feel harder at times, but it’s better than letting your strength die in silence. Super proud of you. x
Aastha, as a grown woman who loves her curves allow me to say this, first of all you are beautiful and brave and the fact that you couldn’t stand up this one time doesn’t say anything about your courage. Second, your swimming teacher is a piece of shit for fat shaming young trainees and I hope he meets a grown woman one day to show him his place. Maybe you will be that grown woman in a few years. Hugs 🤗