There are words said to children that don’t sound cruel at the time.

They’re whispered, laughed, tossed around at dinner tables or in between sighs of disappointment —

but they land like stones.

They settle in the hearts of little girls and shape the way they breathe,

the way they dream,

the way they learn to love themselves… or not.

I was one of those little girls.

Born into a world where, even before I could speak,

there were already expectations stitched into the very fabric of my future.

The Ancient Preference for Sons

In many Asian families —

even those wrapped in modernity —

there lingers a shadow.

The unspoken, centuries-old belief that boys matter more.

Boys are the legacy-bearers.

The ones who carry the name.

The ones who will supposedly stand beside their aging parents

as daughters vanish into someone else’s family.

Girls?

We are raised, loved, and prepared to be given away.

And when a family does not yet have a boy,

they keep trying.

Trying, as if daughters are placeholders.

As if our lives, our presence, our very beings

are something to endure until a son arrives.

And though I was loved,

I heard those whispers.

Felt those comparisons.

Not just from strangers —

but from family, too.

Even my own mother, in moments of frustration or fear,

has said things I still carry like shards in my chest.

That I am not contributing to society.

That I’m becoming worthless because I have not yet married.

That I’m missing my “last chance” to have children.

As if I, a woman with a mind, a heart, a soul,

can be reduced to a womb with an expiration date.

The Fire They Didn’t Expect

I know my mother didn’t mean to wound me.

Like many women, she was raised inside the same cage she now unknowingly holds up.

She was taught to believe that a woman’s worth is measured by her husband’s success,

by the children she bears,

by how well she bends without breaking.

But the thing is —

some of us are born with fire in our bellies

that refuses to be extinguished.

And I was one of them.

I tried, for a time, to entertain the idea

that maybe I would fold myself into those expectations —

find someone “good enough,” marry by the right age,

quiet the fire and wear the mask.

But I couldn’t.

Because I was born to burn through illusions —

not inherit them.

Too Smart, Too Strong, Too Much

There is a bitterness in society’s tone when it speaks of women like me.

Women who don’t shrink.

Women who dare to speak with depth.

Who study, who achieve, who rise.

We are often told —

“You’ll scare the men away.”

“No man wants a woman who’s too smart, too strong, too successful.”

“As a woman, why study so much? Why aim so high?”

And behind those questions is the same old fear —

the same discomfort that patriarchy has always had with powerful women.

Because when we rise,

we force the world to rise too.

We hold up a mirror that reflects its inadequacies,

its cowardice,

its refusal to celebrate what it cannot control.

Marriage Without Love Is Just a Paper

I will never marry because I’m told to.

Because the clock is ticking.

Because society deems me incomplete without a ring.

No.

I will only marry — or not marry — from a place of sovereignty.

Because if love does find me,

it will not ask me to bow.

It will not ask me to choose between my fire and its comfort.

It will rise to meet me.

And if it does,

then whether or not we have a marriage certificate means little to me.

Because love, in its truest form,

is not validated by paper.

It is sanctified by truth.

By intention.

By freedom.

I Was Not Born to Be Small

I was not born to shrink so someone else could shine.

I was not born to quiet my voice so others could feel more comfortable.

I was not born to trade my dreams for approval.

I was born to live fully.

To love fiercely.

To choose deliberately.

To be a woman who is whole,

not because a man chose her,

but because she chose herself —

again and again and again.

To the Women Reading This

If you’ve ever been told you’re too much —

too loud, too bright, too strong, too strange —

I want you to know:

You are just enough.

And if you’ve ever been asked when you’ll get married, have children, settle down —

know that you don’t owe anyone an answer.

Your life is your altar.

Your body is your sacred space.

Your timeline is holy.

Let them talk.

You?

You rise.