On the double standards in raising daughters vs marrying them off
TW: Suicidal ideation, anxiety, coercion
Where do I begin?
I am a 28-year-old “older” daughter with MBBS and MPH degrees, and a full-time job in a field I absolutely love and feel deeply passionate about. I’m preparing for my USMLE steps while juggling a full-time job, my health, meals (often meal-prepping), cleaning, doctor and dentist appointments when needed, and workouts. I’m fully financially independent and actively paying off my student loan.
I love dancing, and every Thursday, I take formal Kuchipudi classes — I also practice on other days because I take it seriously. I used to read a lot more, but due to time constraints, I now read or listen to books and review them much less than I’d like, but I still do. I also enjoy exploring new restaurants and staying in touch with family and friends.
Do I love keeping busy? Sure.
But as someone in therapy for anxiety, and a lot of introspection behind me, I know that I do so much of it just to be worthy of my parents’ love. I often feel like a disappointment, because I’ve been made to feel that way — even though my parents say they’re proud of me, I know they’re not satisfied.
I’ve always been pushed to work harder and do better.
- I got a 9.5/10 GPA in my 10th SSC (state board, Andhra Pradesh).
- I ranked #2 in the state during my 11th boards.
- I lost my grandfather in January 2014 — he was my whole world.
- I didn’t receive the emotional or mental support I needed.
- I gave my 12th boards in March and my medical entrance in May of the same year.
- I got a combined 96.8% in 11th and 12th (because 12th boards didn’t go as well).
- I ranked around 1050–1060 in the entrance (don’t remember exactly).
Could I have done better? Sure. But I remember hearing my parents telling people I didn’t perform well because I lost my grandfather. While that might be partly true, I couldn’t help wondering — why was an excuse needed? Was my performance that bad?
I got into a government medical school.
In my first year, I got 2 distinctions out of 3 subjects. I missed the overall distinction, which made me sad. But still — 2 out of 3!
My dad wasn’t happy.
I still remember the day he lashed out at me in front of close relatives, saying I’d been a constant disappointment in his life since 10th grade. I was 18.
That was the first time I wanted to kill myself. I thought about how easy it would be to hang from the fan. I laughed bitterly, thinking it might break — our house was old. I didn’t know what to do.
But I survived, never feeling enough, always feeling I had to do more.
In school, I had the opportunity to swim, skate, run (I was the fastest 100m runner in school without training), play hockey, and basketball. Many of my coaches asked me to join classes. But I was never sent. Let’s be honest — I have a lazy dad.
Don’t get me wrong — I absolutely love him to pieces, and I wouldn’t want anyone else in his place. I cannot imagine my life without him. I have felt the immense love he holds for me.
But both things can be true.
He can be the best dad, and also the one who put this unbearable pressure on me.
I’ve seen parents bend over backward to give their kids the best opportunities. I don’t think I got those shots. I was given the bare minimum — which I’m extremely grateful for — but I could’ve done without the outrageous expectations that came with it.
I think I was forced to grow up too soon.
My mom told me in 5th grade that we weren’t financially stable and I should stop asking for things.
In 9th grade, I needed a new uniform — mine was faded, and I was getting punished at school. Instead of asking, I saved up every rupee I’d ever been gifted to buy one myself. Months later, when I was almost successful, my dad finally said, “Oh, let me get it for you.” Not when they saw my faded uniform, but when I’d nearly solved it alone.
In med school, I needed a laptop for PG prep. It took 8 months to get one. I don’t even remember how long it took me to ask. My med school fees were 10,000 rupees a year, by the way. And it’s not that we were poor, I’ve seen money spent in other ways. Also, dad wanted me to clear both Civils and PG entrance while doing my very gruelling internship. 🙃
So basically, I was a financially insecure, underconfident ball of anxiety, hoping someday I’d make my parents proud.
I chose research over clinical practice.
Did I get support? Yes, immense support.
But I had to lie — had to say I was doing this while preparing for my Steps. I knew deep down that was a huge lie.
I won the Academic Excellence Award during my MPH. Did it make them happy? Sure.
But it still wasn’t enough. Why? Because I wasn’t in clinical practice.
I remember hearing:
“How can I tell people that you’re in public health?”
Yes, I’m venting. But only because:
If it was so important to put that much burden on my then little shoulders and still make me feel like I’m not doing enough (while outwardly praising me),
WHY ARE YOU NOT HOLDING MY FUTURE HUSBAND TO THE SAME STANDARDS?
“The family is great!”
“They’re not asking for a dowry!”
“They’re very interested in you!”
All fine. But if I don’t feel it, I don’t feel it.
Can you please not pressure me into marriage?
I’m scared.
As strong as I am in standing against manipulation, I’m scared I might give in — not because I want to, but because I don’t want to keep fighting for you to hear me.
I don’t think I can fight for much longer while doing everything else I’m doing.
A cherry on top?
The nonchalant comment from my parents:
“Oh, it would’ve been nice if you found someone in our caste yourself and saved us the time.”
You know what the problem with that is?
My mom once told me during med school that she would absolutely kill herself if I brought someone home.
Here’s hoping I don’t have to settle for someone who dims my shine.
Here’s hoping I find someone who doesn’t think I’m “too much,” and wants to live life with me.
Here’s hoping I meet someone as passionate as I am — if not more.
Here’s hoping I never have to marry a homophobic, racist, or toxic “macho” man.
Because honestly, I would rather die than call such a man my husband.
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