Before I was even a thought, a flicker in the dark, my existence was already weighed and measured—found lacking, unworthy, a shadow where light was expected. My parents had wanted a boy after my elder sister, a son to carry their hopes and the family name, a living proof that their lineage would not end with daughters. But when the news came that I was a girl, a strange silence fell over them, a silence so heavy it pressed against the walls of the hospital room and seeped into my mother's bones.
I wonder if they grieved me before they ever held me—if their dreams folded quietly into themselves, disappointed whispers lost in the sterile air. My mother, weakened by pain and illness that gripped her like a cage, thought about ending me before I could even begin. I hear the echoes of that thought, sharp and cold, slicing through the fragile thread of my earliest memories—if only in the way a shadow suggests a shape.
And then there was my paternal grandmother. Stern and unyielding, wrapped in the old ways, her eyes sharp as the truth and twice as unforgiving. She scolded my parents, her voice a thunderclap that shattered their hesitation. "Let her live," she said. "You cannot decide who deserves to be born." I imagine her standing tall, a fortress of patriarchal paradox—her love for boys unquestioned, yet here, fiercely, she protected me, the unwanted girl.
I hate her sometimes for what she represents, the suffocating weight of traditions that still cling to us like vines. Her love was not gentle, not free—it was tied to expectation, to the power of sons. Yet, paradoxically, she was the gatekeeper of my life. For that alone, I owe her my gratitude, bitter and tangled.
I came into a world where I was already less—less desired, less celebrated. And maybe that's why I carry this strange cocktail of resentment and respect in my veins. The bitter taste of being unwanted and the sweet relief of being here, nonetheless. The world was not ready for me, but I was stubborn. I was born.
Sometimes I ask myself: What did I do to deserve this starting line, this uneven ground? Could I have fought harder before I even existed? Was my existence a rebellion? A quiet defiance whispered through generations? And as the questions swirl, one thing is clear—my story did not begin with joy. It began with a struggle I was too young to understand, yet it shaped every step I would take.
I am the daughter of disappointment and stubborn hope. The child who was almost silenced before the first cry. And now, this voice you hear—the one writing these words—is the one that refused to be silenced.