The Weight of Being “Different”.......

 A long post alert !!! When someone asks me, what are you doing these days, I am doing this, writing and I am proud of how far I have come. 

This morning, during a conversation with a family member, the question came up:

“Why did you turn out so different from the rest of us?”

Different.

It wasn’t said as an insult.
It wasn’t said as praise either.
Just… different.

And I’ve been sitting with that word all day.

I don’t know when it started. I really don’t.

Maybe it began in India, sometime in the 70s or 80s, sitting on the floor with my sisters watching Rajani , a TV show which aired on every Sunday morning. Rajani was just a homemaker, a regular woman, a mother. Ordinary on the outside but— she was extraordinary in spirit. If something was wrong, she didn’t shrug and move on. She confronted it. She spoke up. She pursued accountability. She was fearless. 

The 10–12-year-old me wanted to be her.

Back then, if you missed an episode, that was it. No rewinds. No second chances. I hated missing it so much that I even resented going to church at times as it aired at the same time.

Around those same years, I was learning about the legendary Rani Lakshmibai — Jhansi Ki Rani — who fought a war with her child strapped to her back. Courage wrapped in motherhood.

I wanted to be her too.

And then there was Indira Gandhi, India’s Prime Minister at the time. A woman leading a nation. A woman standing at podiums, surrounded by men, speaking with authority that did not tremble.

As a little girl, I didn’t understand policies or politics. I didn’t understand controversy. I didn’t understand the weight of her decisions.

I only understood this:

A woman could lead a country.
A woman could command space.
A woman could be decisive.
A woman did not have to apologize for taking up room.

I remember watching her on television and feeling something stir in me. Not that I wanted to be a politician, but that I wanted that presence. That steadiness. That unapologetic ownership of her voice.

And I had a strong , present Father who pushed me to dream big. 

Later, I would grow up and learn that leadership is complicated. That power is complicated. That strong women are admired and criticized in the same breath. That history does not treat them gently.

But as a young girl, what stayed with me was simpler.

She did not shrink.

And I wanted that too.

She was assassinated before I fully understood the world she was navigating. But the image remained — a woman at the top.

Looking back, I realize how many images of strength surrounded me — on television, in history books, in leadership. Women who did not shrink.

But here’s the part no one tells you when you’re ten.

You grow up.

Real life is different.

Real life has repercussions.
Real life has safety concerns.
Real life teaches women to calculate risk before raising their voices.

As a young girl, there were invisible boundaries. Not because my family stopped me — they didn’t — but because the environment did. Safety shaped behavior. Culture shaped caution. You learn quickly that being bold is different for girls. It carries weight. It carries risk.

Speaking up had consequences.

Being bold as a woman is rarely received as leadership. It is often labeled as difficult. Dramatic. Too much.

So I learned restraint — not entirely by choice.

I realized I couldn’t be fearless.
I couldn’t charge into every injustice like a television character.
I wasn’t leading a nation.
I was navigating hallways, classrooms, later workplaces — always calculating.

Mostly about safety.

But I never fully swallowed that fire.

The Rajani in me never died.

The Jhansi Ki Rani in me never completely disappeared.

And maybe the part of me that once admired Indira Gandhi got buried somewhere inside of me.

Years later, I became a mother.

Now I had to be a Rajani. A Jhansi Ki Rani. Not for the world — but for my children.

Not only was I a mother, I was a woman watching other women. I have known only a handful who found the courage to leave unhealthy situations. I have known far more who stayed silent. Who endured. Who suffered quietly.

And I didn't become a mother, I became a mother to a daughter.

A brown girl born in America. Growing up in a country where, at the time, many ceilings were still unbroken, many are still unbroken. She didn’t have many women who looked like her in positions of visible power.

So I realized something: if she didn’t see role models out there, she would have to see one at home.

The Rajani in me surfaced when someone disrespected an effort.
The Jhansi Ki Rani in me surfaced when protection was needed.
And maybe the part of me that once admired Indira Gandhi still straightens my spine in certain rooms.

Sometimes I’m tired of being the one who speaks up.

Sometimes being “different” feels like strength.
Sometimes it feels isolating.

I was  often labeled as difficult. Dramatic. Too much.
But  then that familiar voice inside whispers, If not you, then who?

Sometimes I wish I could just sit there and not care.

But I do care.

Maybe that’s what becoming “different” really means.

I didn’t become Rajani.
I didn’t become Jhansi Ki Rani.
I didn’t become Indira Gandhi.

I became a woman who can’t sit quietly when something feels wrong.
Carrying their spirit into everyday moments.
Fighting tiny wars.
Carrying my children — sometimes literally, sometimes emotionally — while navigating rules I didn’t create.

Refusing to normalize disrespect.
Refusing to shrink.
Refusing to forget that a woman’s voice is not a background noise.

Maybe I learned early that strong women are rarely universally liked — and maybe that’s why “different” never fully frightened me.

As we talk about celebrating women, empowering women, honoring women, I sometimes think the quietest revolution is this: choosing not to swallow what feels wrong.

On reflection, I don’t feel different from my family. I feel shaped by stories — and women — who gave me permission to believe my voice matters.

Maybe I didn’t become any one of them.

But I carry a small, stubborn ember of each.

Maybe I learned early that strong women are rarely universally liked — and maybe that’s why “different” never fully frightened me.

Maybe “different” just means I never learned how to look away.

And honestly?

I hope that never changes.

As International Women’s Day is celebrated, I find myself thinking about the women who shaped me — the ones on television, in history books, and in positions of power, the ones who did not shrink. I also find myself thinking about the real life women,  women who broke barriers and made history ,who show up in living rooms, classrooms, workplaces, and concert halls ; the ones who didn’t make the headlines. who protected their children fiercely, who endured and still stood tall.

Maybe honoring women isn’t only about celebrating the loud victories.

Maybe it’s about recognizing the everyday moments when a woman chooses not to swallow what feels wrong. Strength does not always look like a battlefield or a podium.

Sometimes it looks like refusing to shrink.

 And I think about the woman my daughter is becoming.

If she ever feels “different,” I hope she understands what I am still learning: that sometimes different is just another word for brave.

 When was the last time you spoke up — even in a small moment — because something inside you wouldn’t let you stay quiet?

Have you ever been called “different”? Did any of you watch Rajani?
Did it feel like a compliment… or a warning? Were you inspired by any women, real life and or fictitious?
Have you ever felt the weight of being the one who speaks up? Do you ever wish you didn’t? I would love to hear from you.

Here is a link to the title song of Rajani, it explains her character. 

https://youtu.be/6mMMzNS1r6E?si=xSbYWRRg607riP3c