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{shortcode-24c739c1d1d83b710f8447c507916ea4a7c2a26b}rowing up, Mama emphasized what it meant to be a “strong” woman — to be financially independent, confident, professionally developed, and physically able to support herself. She’d often grab my little arms and remind me, “This is what will get you through life. Strong bones and a strong foundation.”
Mama would point out examples of weakness in women who were obsessed with what others thought about them, women who didn’t push themselves to be their best.
For this, she was never easy on me. If I signed up for something, I’d finish it properly. If I hated summer tennis camp, I’d play my hardest every day of the week. If someone said something mean to me at school, I’d give it right back to them.
I saw Mama as a model for what it meant to be strong: a professor, master teacher, and mother who seemed to handle the ups and downs of life with ease. But at times, as a young woman, I didn’t quite understand why she seemed so averse to the idea of weakness.
My family’s traditions are rooted in a world where autonomy is a foreign concept for women. While I am fortunate enough to have access to a world of knowledge, obtaining an education was a distant afterthought in the lives of many of the women who came before me.
My grandmother was married before she even finished high school. Her mother? Perhaps even before that, though no one quite knows her story, because the lives of women were never important enough to note down or record.
These women’s sacrifices — the abuses they suffered and the lifelong restrictions they endured — seemed to pour out of my mother. As we passed by familiar landmarks on sleepy Tennessee mornings, I listened to story after story about women tormented by their husbands or families, stories of women unable to fight for themselves. Whether it was an alcoholic husband or abusive in-laws, the worst part was the realization that these women never had the chance to escape. The system in which they lived disallowed any and all resistance.
It became apparent to me that Mama straddled two worlds: she was both intrinsically connected to the women that came before her and painfully aware of the endless possibilities of what this new nation had to offer.
My family has changed. Women are encouraged to go to college, and many hold jobs. Yet even I, generations removed, feel the tension between my world and my family’s roots. When I was born, an elder in the family took the liberty of buying blue baby clothes, quietly expressing their distaste when a baby girl was born instead.
When my family visits India, I see a switch flip in my mother, as she instinctively slips into a familiar pattern of cooking and cleaning, performing exactly as a traditional woman “should.” I see her holding herself back, speaking only when spoken to, surrounded by people yet completely alone. I see myself doing the same, unwittingly. My movement becomes limited by the constraints of what is “proper,” and my usual eagerness to share my feelings and opinions becomes quashed by the norms of my family members. The details of my life — my passions, creative outlets, thoughts, and dreams — are not of interest in this context. During moments like these, I feel like a version of my mother: deeply connected to my culture, yet pulled towards a life that is so far removed from it.
My mother’s immigration was her way out from the worst of what these norms ask of women. Her education, her Ph.D., was hard-fought, the very tool to pull her from her situation. Her time here wasn’t easy — money was tight, coursework was challenging, and America didn’t always welcome her warmly — but she had a keen realization: the pain of independence and self-determination was far more bearable than the pain of deprivation, of the patriarchy, of control.
When she became a mother, Mama pushed me to choose that pain. Her strictness wasn’t cruelty but instead protection, a rebuttal of all the forces that could hold me back. She has always witnessed women whose lives were dictated by men’s expectations and encouraged me to set my own standards. Slowly but surely, she built up a web of experiences of self-inflicted discomfort that led to my growth, forcing me to understand that I am limitless in my capabilities.
Whether it was the countless hours spent learning piano, an activity I initially hated, leading to me to understand my own creativity or late-night swim practices that pushed me to my physical limits, my mother truly never gave me a break. I understand now, however, that my mother wanted me to be constrained only by the limits of my imagination. Through these experiences, I was able to transcend; I was given a chance, unlike any other woman before me, to make a name for myself in any way I chose. I realized that my mother’s aversion to what she saw as weakness was a rejection of any path that would have allowed me to be exploited for my vulnerability.
However, now, when I hear about the women who came before me, who have suffered physical and emotional abuse and spent their lives toiling for their families, I see a different side of them. I note their quiet strength before anything else — the intensity of their spirit, the vibrance of their love, and the way they nurtured other women is what has brought our family to this time, a time in which one of their granddaughters can attend Harvard and build a life just for herself.
They are just as much responsible for my success as I am. Without their sacrifices, a woman like me would never have had this opportunity. And even as they were forced into terrible situations, they had the resolve to keep going, to remain loving.
I’ve started to understand that these women would not want for me to just survive — they would want for me to thrive. For me to do this, I can’t carry everything on my own shoulders.
I realize that strength isn’t just enduring pain but also sharing it with others. When I feel the stress of Harvard’s endless academic pressures weigh down on me, I turn to my friends, comfortably able to express my pain. Vulnerability is no longer something I can be exploited for. Instead, it has become my greatest asset.
Sometimes, I feel the familiar urge to push through, to pretend that I’m not hurting, and to stay silent. I used to believe that to truly honor the memory of my foremothers, I needed to tolerate any challenge that life threw at me without complaining. However, I see now that these women’s strength wasn’t derived from what they endured but in the way they supported others through it all.
I’m learning that strength can look different. It can be found in the simple statement: “I need help.” It can be in choosing to share my burden with others, in being comforted and listened to.
Perhaps what Mama taught me about weakness was just the beginning. Strength is soft and sweet and exudes love over all. I am not less for leaning on others — I am more.
—Ira Sharma, a Crimson editorial editor, can be reached at irasharma@college.harvard.edu.
