Devastated. Scared. To the Point of Feeling Numb.
A letter to daughters — my own, yours, and every girl born into a world that still sees her as “less.”
Some days, the pain doesn’t arrive with noise or thunder. It arrives quietly—like a slow-burning grief. Today feels like that. A kind of devastation that doesn’t make you cry, but numbs you instead. A kind of fear that comes not from strangers, but from the people whose love you thought was unconditional.
I’ve had this conversation with my parents so many times now—too many to count. But somehow, it hurts more today. Maybe because I can feel myself running out of ways to explain the same truth:
That patriarchy is not tradition.
That equality is not rebellion.
That daughters are not burdens struggling to fit into a template carved centuries ago.
I try to explain that society is no longer stuck in some war-ridden regency-era reality where a woman’s survival depended on a man’s name, shelter, wealth or protection. The world has changed. Women have changed. But somehow, the beliefs at home haven’t.
And all of it — every argument, every tear — always circles back to one thing:
The name.
That one word that decides whose lineage continues, whose identity is “kept,” whose legacy “matters.”
It breaks me to realise how deeply we’ve been conditioned to believe that genetics matter less than a surname—that a daughter carrying her father’s blood is not enough, but a son carrying his father’s name is everything.
How do you fight a belief carved into centuries of social habit?
How do you undo conditioning that lived inside your parents long before you existed?
Because from the patriarchal lens…
A woman taking her husband’s name is proof of acceptance.
A woman keeping her father’s name is proof of rebellion.
And a man?
A man never has to explain anything at all.
This fight is not loud. It’s not aggressive.
It is silent. Suffocating. Slow.
A fight that happens in living rooms, not stadiums.
A fight where you bleed quietly, while everyone else insists this is “normal.”
A fight where you are forced to choose between love and selfhood.
A fight for belonging… in your own family.
It’s strange — we speak publicly about equality, about empowering women, about raising strong daughters.
But inside our own homes, we are still expected to obey rules carved by men who lived in times when equality wasn’t even a thought.
And yet, they say society has progressed.
Has it?
If a woman still has to sacrifice her identity to validate her marriage?
If daughters are still expected to “leave” and sons are expected to “carry forward”?
Look at history.
Even something as horrifying as sati pratha was once “tradition.”
Women were burned alive on their husbands’ pyres—
not because it was right,
but because patriarchy disguised cruelty as culture.
And that changed only when a man—whose voice the system valued—finally spoke up.
His voice was heard because of his gender.
And a new world was born because one man dared to challenge what countless women could not.
Change has always required rebellion.
Change has always demanded sacrifice.
Change has always come with backlash.
That’s how feminism emerged—not as a trend or social media slogan, but as a desperate cry for survival.
A movement born from women who refused to die lesser, refused to disappear, refused to surrender their dignity and dreams.
They were mocked, shunned, labelled.
But they stayed.
They fought alone, bruised, misunderstood.
And today… I feel like one of them.
Because right now, it feels like we are only a handful—
quiet equalists, gentle rebels, emotional warriors—
fighting not against the world, but our own family structures.
Not demanding dominance, but craving the same affection, acceptance and pride that our brothers receive effortlessly.
This fight takes something out of you.
It’s not just a battle of words.
It’s a battle of love.
And love wounds deeper when expectations turn into invisible chains.
I find myself questioning:
Must every daughter pay this price?
Must every generation sacrifice a piece of themselves?
Must we always negotiate our right to exist as whole individuals?
And then, I turn to mythology—
the stories older than the patriarchy we’re fighting.
In Shaivism (from Indian Mythology), the feminine is not submissive.
It is supreme.
Shakti isn’t Shiva’s shadow.
She is his source.
His equal.
His essence.
His energy.
Without Shakti, Shiva is Shava — a lifeless, inert form.
She does not dissolve into him.
She stands beside him.
Not owned.
Not renamed.
Not absorbed.
Not erased.
In real Sanatan Dharma, the feminine is not meant to shrink.
She is meant to complete, not surrender.
But somewhere along the centuries, patriarchy rewrote scripture to suit its convenience.
Somewhere, society reduced Shakti to a surname change.
Somewhere, culture became cage.
And here we are—
still bleeding from wounds we didn’t create,
still fighting battles our daughters shouldn’t inherit.
Because when a girl chops off her father’s name and takes up her husband’s, her identity is treated like a disposable garment—worn until marriage, discarded after.
A man never has to do this.
A man is never asked to prove loyalty by erasing his roots.
So why is a woman?
Why must daughters always be the ones to adapt, adjust, accept, absorb, let go?
Why is every sacrifice expected from us?
Why is our belonging always conditional?
Why does equality still feel like disobedience?
And so I ask — not just as a woman, but as a mother:
When your daughter is born, will you really feel proud watching her give up the very identity you nurtured in her?
Will you truly be okay watching her shrink herself to fit an old tradition you know deep down is unfair?
Or would you want her to grow up whole—
mind intact, identity intact, freedom intact?
Would you want her to carry your name with pride?
Would you want her to walk into marriage not as someone’s daughter handed over, but as someone’s equal partner?
If this fight scars me, let it.
If this journey isolates me, let it.
If this argument repeats a hundred times until I am exhausted, let it.
Because if my pain today ensures my daughter grows up unburdened,
then the wound is worth it.
If my voice cracks today so hers doesn’t have to,
then the breaking is worth it.
If I must lose acceptance to gain equality,
then the loss is worth it.
My daughters—whether born of my womb or my words—
may you never be afraid to carry your own name.
May you never apologise for wanting fairness.
May you never feel small inside your own home.
May you never inherit these invisible shackles.
May you rise without needing permission.
May you belong to yourself first.
Maybe this generation will rebel softly.
Maybe this generation will bleed quietly.
Maybe this generation will be misunderstood.
But maybe—just maybe—
this generation will be the one that breaks the cycle.
And if that is the destiny,
then let this heartbreak be part of the price.
