“The Burden of the Past”

Life begins with our first breath and continues until our last. Throughout this journey, time divides our lives into three parts: the past, the present, and the future. We know little about the future, but what about the past?

Our past shapes our present. The two are so closely connected that no one can create enough distance to completely undo what has already happened. Yet, I believe that is the essence of life. Personally, I have never regretted anything enough to tell my story, but I have carried enough guilt to write it. Some guilt is born from our actions, while some is placed upon us the moment we are born. You may wonder how that is possible. It is possible in societies where people hold stereotypical beliefs where the birth of a girl is considered a burden while the birth of a boy is celebrated.

Yet both breathe the same air, speak with the same voice, and carry hearts that beat the same way. If there is any difference, it lies only in the roles society assigns them. A woman brings motherhood, a man brings fatherhood, and together they carry generations forward.

I was born into a joint family—a group of people connected by blood, but not always by hearts. My mother already had two daughters before me, and there was pressure on her to give birth to a son, even though that was never in her control. The belief was that an heir was needed to inherit the land. And then I was born, in the cold weather of November, in freezing air that covered the world in silence. I never understood then what that cold air was trying to tell me not about the season of my birth, but about the coldness of life and humanity. My mother somehow managed to create a small space for me in that enormous house, but she could not create one in their hearts, because what they valued most was masculinity, not femininity.

Here lies a bitter truth: in darkness, no matter how many thorns are thrown in your way, you still have to keep walking to find the light.

I grew up learning silence before speech. At meals, I learned to wait until others were served first, even if my hunger was louder than my patience. When my brothers spoke, their words filled the room. When I spoke, I was often told to lower my voice. I remember once asking why I couldn’t go outside to play like them. The answer was simple, sharp, and final: “Because you are a girl.” That was the first time I understood that my existence came with conditions I did not choose.

I faced many opinions, many curses, and many shattered nights I never deserved. But my voice was stolen by those who believed a boy deserves to speak, not a girl who gives birth to them. In all this time, I never realized when my existence started building guilt inside me.

Today, after years have passed and after stepping out of that world, I can finally say I was never the one who carried guilt—it was placed upon me by those who never questioned their own hands.

Life is never fair. But somewhere between breaking and breathing, I learned to make it mine. Because we all deserve love, attention, and care. I do not belong to that silence anymore. That house, once filled with voices that made me smaller than I was, now lives only as an echo in my memory. I no longer ask for space—I create it. I no longer wait for permission—I exist without it.

The past still walks beside me, but it no longer leads. It became ink beneath my skin, but I learned how to write with it instead of bleed from it. And if this story has a voice beyond mine, let it say this:

Some wounds do not destroy you.

They teach you how to become unbreakable.

Note: This is a work of fiction inspired by the unspoken voices within my society and the experiences many individuals face. While the story itself is not a direct account of my life, some of its emotions are drawn from real situations I have personally experienced.

The intention is to reflect shared realities, not a single personal narrative.