âWhatâs one toxic beauty or gender standard you internalized from South Asian TV or Instagram? How did it impact your mental health?â
“My name is Meherunissa Altaf Qureshi. I was named after my dadi, who used to say a womanâs name should sound like poetry when spoken aloud. But for most of my life, I felt like I was failing that poetry â like I was a clumsy first draft in a world that demanded final edits.”
“The most toxic standard I internalized? That a womanâs silence is more beautiful than her voice. That a ‘good girl’ is quiet, fair-skinned, slim-waisted, and endlessly accommodating. South Asian TV reinforced this day in and day out. The heroine was always demure, crying prettily while being insulted, enduring cruelty like it was her destiny. And then, Instagram came along and added another layer â now you had to look like that perfect girl and document it all, flawlessly, in soft lighting with a chai aesthetic and a caption about self-love you didnât actually believe.”
“I used to overthink every word I said. Every picture I posted. Every outfit I wore. I filtered not just my face, but my feelings. Iâd tell myself, âDonât be too opinionated, Meher. Donât laugh too loudly. Donât be too dark in the summer. Donât eat too much at the wedding. Donât question elders, even when theyâre wrong. Donât be too much of anything.â And I thought that made me strong â that I was being the ideal daughter, the ideal woman.”
“But it didnât make me strong. It made me hollow. I lost years of my life in silent comparison, in body shame, in self-censorship. I had anxiety attacks I didnât even know how to name. I didnât feel like Meherunissa Altaf Qureshi anymore. I felt like a copy-paste of every character who gave up her dreams because someone told her being a good woman meant being small, invisible, and agreeable.”
“The turning point? I remember standing in front of the mirror, wiping off my makeup after a friendâs wedding, and asking myself, âWould I ever let my daughter grow up believing this about herself?â That broke me. And that saved me.”
“Now, Iâm reclaiming myself. I speak even when I shake. I write even if no one reads it. I wear what makes me feel good. I call out aunties who body-shame girls at parties. I post my real face, with real skin and real shadows. Because Iâve realized something no serial or social media ever taught me â my worth isnât found in someone elseâs approval. Itâs in my voice, my story, and my refusal to stay small.”
“So no, Iâm not soft-spoken like the women on TV. But I am soft-hearted and strong-willed. And thatâs more than enough.”
âCan we stop blaming young South Asian girls for having low self-esteem when the media around them constantly tells them theyâre not enough?â
“My name is Zoya Farheen Malik, and I want to say this loud and clear: South Asian girls were never the problem. The problem is the world we were raised inâthe aunties who pinch your waist at weddings and call it love, the serials that glorify women who suffer in silence, and the influencers who tell you to âembrace your natural selfâ while being fully filtered in ten different ways.”
“We grew up being told that fair skin is beautiful, but dark skin is ‘bold’ or ‘brave.’ That being outspoken is ârude,â but being too quiet means you lack personality. That you should study like a doctor but behave like a doormat. And then people have the audacity to ask why we struggle with self-worth? Please.”
“When I was thirteen, I learned how to contour my nose before I learned how to say no. I knew how to pose to hide my thighs before I knew how to stand up for myself. I spent years trying to be the version of âprettyâ and âpoliteâ that would finally make me feel enough. But the finish line kept moving. And it broke something inside me.”
“So yes, let’s stop blaming South Asian girls for having low self-esteem. Start blaming the double standards, the skin-lightening ads, the judgmental gossip, the reel-perfect feeds, and the rigid ideas of beauty and femininity weâve inherited like some cursed family heirloom.”
“And instead of telling us to âjust be confident,â maybe ask what youâve done to make us feel seen. Safe. Valid. Loved. Because confidence isnât born in a vacuum. It grows where weâre watered â not where weâre constantly pruned.”
âIf South Asian movies showed therapy, boundaries, and self-love the way they show shaadis and sacrifices, would our generation be mentally healthier?â
My name is Anamta Riaz Khan, and I need to say this â not gently, not politely, but truthfully: South Asian girls didnât wake up one day and decide to hate themselves. They were taught to.”
“Taught by the television dramas where the fair, soft-spoken girl gets everything and the dark-skinned, outspoken one is the villain. Taught by ads selling whitening creams disguised as âglow,â by Instagram influencers selling us perfection through 10-step filters, and by aunties who tell you to lose weight before your rishta pictures go out.”
“We werenât born doubting ourselves. That came after years of being told our body hair was ‘unfeminine,’ our natural lips were ‘too dark,’ our ambition was ‘too much,’ and our skin tone was something to be fixed â not embraced. Then they ask, âWhy are girls so insecure these days?â As if itâs some sudden epidemic we invented ourselves.”
“I internalized all of it. I remember skipping meals before family weddings, editing the texture off my cheeks in every photo, and apologizing just for taking up space. Not because I wanted to â but because the world around me told me Iâd be more lovable if I were less me.”
“So no, weâre not going to keep blaming girls for reacting to a system built to shrink them. Instead, letâs start holding accountable the industries, cultures, and mindsets that made them feel unworthy in the first place. And maybe â just maybe â if we stop feeding them shame, theyâll stop starving for validation.”
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