Growing up as a woman in Indian society often feels like having your wings clipped before you even learn to fly. For many of us, marriage is presented as an inevitable milestone, but for me, it has always felt more like a shackle than a choice. In our culture, women are expected to carry the weight of sacrifice, submission, and compromise—even if it means silencing their dreams. My conviction against marriage isn’t just a rejection of tradition; it’s a refusal to live the life I’ve seen unfold before my eyes—a life where a woman becomes invisible in her own home, as though her identity begins and ends with the title of “wife.”
Her struggles have always been a reminder of what marriage can strip away from a woman—the dreams, desires, and even the self-respect that once defined her.
The reality of this hits especially hard when I look at my mother. Every woman’s story is different, but for me, it has always been her life that showed me what marriage can truly be. My mother, like so many women, has lived her life in service to others—yet she has rarely received the respect, appreciation, or care she deserves. She entered a marriage, as so many women do, with hope, only to find herself locked in a perpetual struggle to survive. My childhood memories are filled with images of her sacrificing her dreams, her peace, and her autonomy for a family that often failed to see her beyond her role as a caretaker. The very home she worked so hard to build felt more like a battleground, where she was mistreated, silenced, and denied the chance to truly live for herself.
When can a woman like her finally stop and live for herself? When does she get to enjoy the peace she has more than earned?
Even today, I see her longing for a sense of belonging—not because she lacks shelter, but because a home should be a place of love, respect, and mutual care. And what she has been given is a place filled with expectations, but not with the freedom or joy she deserves. Her struggles have always been a reminder of what marriage can strip away from a woman—the dreams, desires, and even the self-respect that once defined her.
Yes, society claims to have moved forward. We are no longer bound by the archaic, violent practices of the past—no more “sati”, no more dowry deaths, at least in theory. But the expectations still remain suffocating, especially for women. If a husband is too “busy” to do something with you, the onus falls on you to sacrifice that wish, that dream. Society still expects us to marry, bear children, and live within roles crafted for us. But no one discusses the toll it takes on our bodies, minds, and souls.
Your life is no longer your own; it becomes entangled in the needs and demands of others, and slowly, you fade into the background.
Pregnancy, for instance, is romanticized as a beautiful journey, yet no one talks about the pain or the irreversible changes to a woman’s body. Motherhood becomes another chapter of self-sacrifice, where a woman is expected to put herself last. Your life is no longer your own; it becomes entangled in the needs and demands of others, and slowly, you fade into the background.
I’ve watched this happen to my mother, day in and day out, and it’s a reality I cannot accept for myself. The weight of her sacrifices rests heavy on my heart. Each time she gave up a part of herself for the sake of others, she lost a piece of her spirit, her joy, her identity. I remember the countless times she put aside her own wishes because someone else’s needs were deemed more important. I watched as she took hit after hit—both emotional and physical—shielding me from a world that seemed determined to crush her.
But through it all, she remained my constant. While everyone else blurred around me, shifting and fading, she held my hand and guided me through the fog of life. She took the brunt of the blows so that I wouldn’t have to. Her strength is something that still astounds me, even though I know it came at a terrible cost. She became my shield, but that shield now bears scars—scars not from life’s natural challenges, but from the people who betrayed her, abandoned her, and left her to face the world alone. Each scar is a testament to the battles she has fought, not for herself, but for me.
Her body, once strong and capable, now struggles with the weight of age and illness. Her knees ache from years of hard work, yet she keeps going because, as a housewife, there is no retirement.
Sometimes I imagine a different life for her, a life she might have had if things were different. “What if, in another life, she chose herself first? What if she chased her dreams, explored every corner of the world, and never looked back?” I see her laughing in Tokyo streets, dancing beneath the Eiffel Tower at midnight, never having to settle or give herself away. In that life, she would carry no weight of sacrifice, her eyes free from the exhaustion of dreams given up for others. Yes, in that life, I don’t exist—and maybe that is why she doesn’t carry the weight of sacrifices on her shoulders, her eyes aren’t tired from the dreams given up for someone else. I wonder if she thinks of the life she gave up. If she ever wonders who she might have been without the burden of raising me. And sometimes I do catch glimpses of that woman. The one she could have been in the way her eyes light up, talking about her favourite things, or how she hums to songs from her youth. In that life, she is bound only by her own needs. But in this one, I carry her sacrifices within me—her hopes, her dreams, her sadness—all woven into who I am. I can only hope I’m enough to make it all worth it, to give meaning to everything she gave up and the life she chose instead. Perhaps, in some other world, her eyes sparkle with joy, not exhaustion from dreams she let go of for others.
As the years pass, I see the toll that this life has taken on her. Her body, once strong and capable, now struggles with the weight of age and illness. Her knees ache from years of hard work, yet she keeps going because, as a housewife, there is no retirement. There is no rest. Society has never allowed her the luxury of putting her feet up and enjoying the fruits of her labor. When can a woman like her finally stop and live for herself? When does she get to enjoy the peace she has more than earned?
The thought of her growing older, weaker, more fragile—it brings tears to my eyes. I fear the day when she is no longer able to be the anchor in my life, and I fear that society will never truly give her the recognition she deserves. She was my rock, my friend, my guide, and yet, she never got the chance to be those things for herself. What does a woman like my mother get in return for a lifetime of service? A world that continues to demand more, without giving her a moment to breathe.
I have seen my mother lose herself, bit by bit, until the person she once was is only a memory. That is not a life I can choose. That is not a path I can follow.
This is why I refuse to marry. I cannot walk into a life that demands so much from women and gives so little in return. I cannot be asked to sacrifice myself, my dreams, and my peace for a system that only sees women as caretakers and homemakers, never as individuals with their own rights to joy and freedom.
For so long, marriage has been presented as the ultimate goal for women in Indian society, but for me, it is a trap. I have seen what happens to women when they are forced into roles that strip them of their autonomy. I have seen my mother lose herself, bit by bit, until the person she once was is only a memory. That is not a life I can choose. That is not a path I can follow.
My mother’s strength, her resilience, her sacrifices—they have shaped who I am today. And because of her, I know that I deserve more. Every woman does. We deserve to live lives that are free from the expectations of others, free from the need to constantly give up ourselves for the sake of others. We deserve to spread our wings and fly, unburdened by the weight of a society that refuses to see us for who we truly are.
If my words resonate, there’s more waiting for you at Her Campus MUJ.
Come by and say hi—Drishti Madaan.