My mother is always restless and tired. A strange mix of high and low energy, like a storm trying to hold itself together.
She moves like she has forgotten something. Rests like she’s guilty for pausing. Eats like the food might vanish if she slows down. She goes through the day like a guest in her own life.
I’ve watched her apologise for everything –
for food that wasn’t hot enough,
for not anticipating someone’s needs,
for needing something herself,
for speaking too long,
for taking her time.
I’m more like my mother than I care to admit. But it is easier to write about her. And the women around me. We’re everywhere.
Women saying sorry for being tired. Not the cute, Instagram kind of tired, but the bone-deep, soul-sore, I carry too much and no one sees it kind of tired.
Women saying sorry for being angry.
For raising their voice.
For not smiling back.
For being “too much.”
For feeling like a person, not a mascot.
Saying sorry for the mess in their homes, in their heads, in their healing. Life is messy. Women have been taught to drown it in chai and keep serving.
Sorry for taking up space. Sorry for needing help. Sorry for leaving. Sorry for wanting more. More money. More time. More room to not be okay.
It’s not always some big injustice. It’s quieter than that.
Eating last. Saying “I’m fine” when you’re not. Letting someone talk over you and pretending it didn’t sting.
It doesn’t look like sacrifice. It looks like habit.
This quiet bending. This constant adjusting. This way we smooth things over before they wrinkle. It adds up.
We shrink without thinking. We forget what we wanted. Not because anyone told us to, but because we’ve always done it this way.
This is a reminder to stop. Say it with me, quietly and steadily: No.
Now let yourself exist at full volume.