Yes, you read that right. Now that I have grown up, I no longer want to be like my mother- but why? What happened? What changed?

I remember when I was growing up- all I ever wanted to do was exactly what my mother was doing. I wanted to wear a saree (an Indian piece of clothing) if she was wearing that. I would pretend to wear vermillion (or sindur, if you know) with talcum powder because I saw my mother do it. I would carry around a shoulder bag in my grandparents’ house because she was doing it. Again, I wanted to become my mother growing up. So, what about now? And when I say I don’t want to become like her- am I talking about things I just mentioned? Or am I now focussing on things that actually matter? I believe the women out there reading this blog right now knows exactly what I am talking about.

As you grow up, you slowly get acquainted with the various nuances of life and start seeing the world in shades of grey. The simplicity of childhood is long gone and with that the ability to see the world in black and white- and then it dawns upon you. Becoming your mother doesn’t only mean wearing that pretty saree, carrying that shoulder bag around and wearing the vermillion in the parting of your hair- it has deeper implications. It was at this juncture of my life that my viewpoint changed- my viewpoint about my mother. Yes, I still wanted to be her but I understood that becoming exactly like my mother would mean doing all of those things I just mentioned a couple lines ago despite the emotional situation she was in. It would mean carrying that shoulder bag in addition to the emotional baggage of the family she was already carrying. Becoming her would mean showing up at the “party” in that beautiful saree even when everything around her crumbling down. I realised becoming my mother would mean becoming the epitome of strength in the face of apocalypse and sacrifice my wishes, my dreams and just become a shadow for the family I get married into. When I realised this- one question kept me up at night- am I ready to make this sacrifice? Am I ready to let my own self go for someone else? And to my surprise the answer kept coming back as “no”.

This blog might be longer than usual- if I can find the right words- so I hope you stay with me. I have grown up in a small flat in Kolkata surrounded forever by family. My childhood memories are good with a few hiccups here and there. My mother made a home out of what was barely even a house and I had the time of my life there. But now that I have grown up- I see what I overlooked back then. Now that I have grown up, I see the cracks my mother so expertly concealed with her smile. I see the unpaid emotional labour she carried on her back like an invisible shawl—quietly absorbing tension, diffusing conflicts, and always putting herself last. I see the silences between conversations, the tiredness behind her eyes, the sacrifices she never announced because that’s just what women were expected to do. I now recognise the courage it took to stay, to hold the family together, to be the anchor no matter how turbulent the storm. And while I admire her immensely for all of it, I no longer aspire to wear those burdens as my own badges of honour.

It’s not rebellion. It’s not ingratitude. It’s simply a different kind of awareness—a choice. I want to live a life where strength doesn’t always mean silent endurance. Where love doesn’t equate to self-erasure. Where being a woman doesn’t mean becoming invisible in the service of everyone else’s needs. I want to create my own definitions of femininity, resilience, and family. And that might mean breaking a few inherited patterns, challenging expectations, and choosing paths my mother never had the luxury to explore. But maybe, just maybe, in doing so—I’m still honouring her, not by becoming her, but by allowing her sacrifices to give birth to a life where I don’t have to make the same ones.

I often wonder if my mother ever had the time to sit and think about what she wanted from life. Not as a daughter, not as a wife, not as a mother—but just as herself. Did she ever dream of writing a book, traveling alone, or starting something of her own? Or were those dreams slowly buried under responsibilities, expectations, and years of putting others first? The older I get, the more I realise how rare it is for women like her to have the space to even ask themselves those questions. And it makes me sad. Not just for her, but for the generations of women before her who never even knew they had a choice.

That’s what makes the “no” in my answer feel heavy. It’s not just a rejection of a lifestyle—it’s a conscious, maybe even selfish-sounding, act of reclamation. I want to honour my mother by choosing differently. I want to prioritise my emotional wellbeing, protect my aspirations, and build a life that makes space for both love and independence. I want to be present for the people I love without losing myself in the process. I want to show up in the world as a whole person, not someone who constantly has to split herself into pieces just to keep everything afloat.

Still, I’ve come to understand that choosing a different path doesn’t mean turning my back on her—it means carrying her strength forward, just in a new form. My refusal to become a silent pillar doesn’t erase her legacy; it redefines it. I am not walking away from her story—I’m building upon it, brick by brick, adding chapters she didn’t get to write. And maybe one day, if I have a daughter, she’ll look at me with the same awe I once had for my mother. But she’ll also know that she can choose to admire me without needing to become me. Because that, too, is love. And that, too, is freedom.

This one’s for you mom and all the beautiful mothers out there! And these are few snippets from life ❤️