In my oldest memories, I don’t ever see my face. I don’t know how I used to look. But I remember the chaos around me — a house full of drama and violence.
We lived in a joint family.
Every evening until late at night, there would be loud fights — not just banter, but real fights. Every night my mom would cry and wish for death. We would sit there, watching the drama, crying, clenching our hearts tight, praying for peace.

My mom had been through hell. She was an ideal woman — smart, intelligent, great at taking care of her family, and never missing a bit in raising her children. She always thought of everyone before herself. Yet, what she was met with was a hell she didn’t deserve. When I think of all that, I realize that if it were me, I might have given up on life. She also thought of it many times, but looking at her children made her step back.

There were taunts and torture every day, coming from my uncles — annoying her, abusing her, sometimes even physically. I remember how I always wished I could make peace between everyone. I would sit with my cousins and plan — we’d speak well about each other’s parents, hoping maybe then the adults would think well of each other too. I learned that from movies. I tried everything. I don’t know — I was too young to believe in such things. Every night I would think, how can we have peace in this house? What can I do?

By the time there were three of us sisters, the fights got worse. My uncle would taunt my mother, triggering her by saying she only had daughters, and my parents couldn’t bear a son.

As a child, I was deeply impacted by the idea that boys were considered a prize, while girls were a burden.

The good part is, our parents never let us feel any less. They gave us the best they could — and they still do. But there were moments when, unintentionally, their actions reinforced the idea that having a boy was preferable.

I was an optimistic child. I told myself I would become “enough” for them — I would do everything they expected from a boy. Maybe that’s what pushed me to become a brilliant student. Still, I remember certain moments that broke my heart and left me deeply hurt, carrying the sadness for days, only to work harder to prove a girl’s worth over a boy’s.

There were two incidents when my parents seemed very happy about the possibility of adopting a son from our close relatives. One family almost “sold” their child but later changed their minds after a clash, taking the baby back after he stayed with us for about ten days.

I felt like we were a burden — like maybe we shouldn’t have been born in the first place, because we were not enough. That’s how it felt. I remember how everyone, including my sisters, was so happy about the baby, but I burst into tears.

I have always believed that whatever life gives us is enough to live with — we just need to learn how to use the tools we are surrounded with. So I never understood the obsession with “must having a boy.” I always thought, why can’t we change this belief? Why are we fighting with destiny?

But maybe that betrayal wasn’t enough for them. A few years later, my aunt gave birth to another boy, and again, they decided to hand him over to my parents. Again, there was celebration — songs in their praise, family cheering. And again, I cried. I told myself, you are not enough, you are not wanted. No matter what you do, no matter how many trophies or medals you bring home, this is not what they want.

But God had other plans. At the last moment, my aunt and uncle changed their minds. Another uncle — greedy and financially unstable — then offered his own son, saying we could adopt him if we wanted. It was clear he was bidding his son for a better future. This time, my parents said no. After that, the matter was never raised again.

Still, I know in their hearts, the will to have a son remained.

As time passed, our circumstances improved. We were always taken care of, always provided with what they could give. They never loved us less. But still, somewhere inside, they longed for a son — because society said that’s what made a family “complete.”

The story was the same for all of us sisters. But I internalized it the most. I took it upon myself to be the “boy” — to be the support for my parents.

Without realizing it, I carried this into my 30s.
During my childhood, I kept my hair short like a boy, wore clothes like a boy, built myself to be strong, trained in martial arts, studied harder than anyone, burned myself out. My every action came from one thought: Will this make me man enough? Will this make me enough support for my family?

There were moments when my father almost said it — if only you had been a boy… He had no idea how those words shattered me, how they made me feel I wasn’t enough yet, that I had to work harder.

Somehow, it also made me into a capable human being. No man in my family has ever achieved as much as I have — at least not until now. My parents now often say, “girls are no less than boys.” Do they truly believe it? I think now they do.

I wrote all of this to understand my own nature — of always being the protector, of standing for my family, of prioritizing them over my own needs. I’ve been doing this unconsciously, not realizing that I neglected the one person who needed me the most — myself.

With time, things changed. My siblings got married, had kids, my parents became senior citizens. But where am I?

In the race of being the “man,” I lost sight of my own future.

Now that everyone has their own lives, now that they don’t need me — except occasionally, for financial support or emotional venting — I feel lost.

Was this all I lived for? Of course, I don’t blame anyone. No one ever asked me to be this way. I chose to be the man.

But what now? Where am I? What do I have?

I feel alone. A person who never cared for her future now has no idea how to build one for herself.