Apporva arya

“I still can’t comfortably make a ponytail.”

A girl casually told me this during a 1:1 career counselling session.

I thought it was a hair problem.

It wasn’t.

Years ago, she was studying IT. Her father was against her education and probably expected her to eventually give up.

But she completed her first semester—with great marks.

Without even owning a laptop.

She practised in college labs and cheap coaching centres.

So when she went home, she thought:

“Maybe my marks will finally convince Papa.”

She asked for a basic laptop.

Even second-hand would do.

Instead, she was beaten so badly that she spent three days in the hospital.

At one point, she was dragged by her hair.

Years later, the physical wounds healed.

Some memories didn’t.

But here’s my favourite part of her story:

The girl they thought couldn’t survive an IT degree is a Senior Developer today.

She eventually bought her own laptop.

Earned her own money.

Built the career they doubted.

And created the independence she once had to beg for.

But parents need to understand something:

Your child succeeding despite your cruelty doesn’t mean your cruelty made them successful.

She didn’t succeed because she was beaten.

She succeeded despite it.

And maybe that’s the most beautiful comeback—

She became everything they thought she couldn’t…

without becoming the kind of person who hurt her. ❤️

20 hours ago | [YT] | 19

Apporva arya

I’m the first working woman in my family.

And perhaps one of the hardest parts of being the first is that there is no blueprint—only boundaries you slowly learn to break.

I grew up watching women dedicate their lives to their homes and families. I respect their sacrifices deeply.

But I also learned:

You can respect the choices of the generation before you without making their limitations your own.

When you choose career, financial independence, networking, travel, learning, or simply a bigger world, not everyone will understand.

And they don’t have to.

You don’t need permission to outgrow the environment you were raised in.

Sometimes, generational change begins with one person deciding to imagine more.

Be that person. ❤️

1 day ago | [YT] | 16

Apporva arya

Growing up as a conservative-raised Indian millennial introvert meant mastering the art of blending into the wallpaper.
In a world that worships the loudest voice, networking felt like torture. Here’s how we actually thrive:

🧵 A thread on navigating life quietly:

1/ Ditch the mixers: Skip awkward networking events. Instead, bond over shared activities like pottery classes or book clubs where small talk isn't forced.

2/ Curate your circle: You don't need 100 friends. Find that one person who matches your wavelength and protect your energy fiercely.

3/ Embrace solo dates: Living life to the fullest doesn't mean a packed party schedule. Take yourself to quiet cafes, art walks, or peaceful weekend getaways.
Your quietness isn't a flaw to be fixed. It's a sanctuary.
How do you protect your peace? ✨

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1 day ago | [YT] | 11

Apporva arya

I once had a roommate in Hansraj College. Let’s call her Aparna.

Brilliant. Polite. Extremely studious.

She had fought her way into one of the best colleges, but within the first semester, her parents came to take her home.

Not because she was failing.

Because—

“Log kya kahenge?”
“Ladki bahar rehkar bigad jaayegi.”
“Hamare ghar ki ladkiyan itna nahi padhti.”
“Shaadi ke baad jo karna hai kar lena.”

What broke my heart was watching an intelligent 18-year-old calmly defend her dreams while grown adults defended relatives’ opinions.

She eventually had to leave.

Years later, she got married.

Recently, after almost seven years, I spoke to her again.

She is a dietitian now.

She studied again, built a career and created an identity for herself with support from her husband.

The daughter everyone feared would “bigad jaayegi” turned out absolutely fine.

But life had its own irony.

Their son grew up, chose his own partner and eventually built a separate life.

Today, both children have their own worlds.

And many of those relatives whose opinions once mattered so much?

They aren’t around.

Now her parents call her, miss her and ask her to visit.

She loves them—but she remembers too.

And that made me realise something:

Parents, your children will eventually grow up.
Relatives will eventually go home.
Society will find another family to gossip about.

What remains is the relationship you built with your child.

So before sacrificing your daughter’s education, freedom or dreams for “chaar log kya kahenge,” remember:

Those chaar log won’t sit beside you when you’re old.

Your children might.

But only if you didn’t spend their childhood teaching them that society mattered more than they did. ❤️

2 days ago | [YT] | 30

Apporva arya

The Hardest Part of Being the First Working Woman in Your Family

I am the first working woman in my family.

Sometimes, I feel people only talk about the financial freedom that comes with being the first.

Nobody talks about the loneliness of it.

I grew up surrounded by women who were homemakers. My extended family was largely the same.

And before someone misunderstands me—this is not a post disrespecting homemakers.

Running a home, raising children, caring for a family, and holding everything together is real work.

But there is something uncomfortable we don’t talk about enough:

Your environment eventually trains your mind.

Imagine waking up every morning to the same four walls.

Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry. Children. Family responsibilities.

Sleep.

Repeat.

For a year.

Then five.

Then ten.

If, alongside that life, you don’t have hobbies, friendships, financial awareness, travel, learning, social interaction, technology, networking, or simply a world that belongs to you—

your world can slowly become smaller without you even noticing.

The problem isn’t being a homemaker.
The problem is when your home becomes the boundary of your imagination.

I have seen homemakers who are incredibly sharp and updated.

They travel.

They socialize.

They understand money.

They have strong opinions.

They keep learning.

They know what’s happening in the world.

They have identities beyond the roles they perform for other people.

And then I have seen the opposite.

Women who sacrificed so much of themselves that eventually sacrifice became the only acceptable way of living.

And that’s where things become complicated.

Because sometimes, when one woman decides to live differently, her freedom feels like rebellion to those who were taught to adjust.

Suddenly, you hear:

“Why do you need to earn so much?”

“Why are you so ambitious?”

“Why can’t you just be satisfied?”

“Why do you need to travel alone?”

“Why do you need so many friends and connections?”

“Why can’t you live like everyone else?”

And somewhere underneath all these questions is another uncomfortable one:

“If we never imagined this life for ourselves, why do you think you can have it?”

That is probably one of the hardest parts of being the first woman in a family to choose a different path.

You aren’t only building a career.

You are questioning an entire definition of what a “good woman” is supposed to look like.

And I have learned something important:

I don’t need to convince everyone.

I don’t need to explain every ambition.

I don’t need to announce every plan.

I don’t need approval from people who have never lived the life I am trying to build.

And most importantly—

I don’t have to disrespect their choices to protect mine.

Maybe their definition of a fulfilling life is different.

That’s okay.

But their ceiling doesn’t have to become mine.

I can respect the women who spent their lives taking care of their homes and still decide that I want something different.

I can love them and still outgrow their worldview.

I can understand their fears without inheriting them.

Because perhaps being the first working woman in a family isn’t just about earning your first salary.

Sometimes, it means becoming the first woman to say:

“I respect the life you chose—or the life circumstances chose for you.
But I am allowed to discover what my life can become.”

And maybe that’s how generational change actually begins.

Not by hating the women who came before us.

But by refusing to make their limitations the inheritance of the women who come after us.

3 days ago | [YT] | 78

Apporva arya

I used to think having friends was a favour someone was doing for me.

After being hurt by fake friends, I started feeling lucky just to be kept around… even when I wasn’t treated right.

I ignored disrespect, forgave too fast, and blamed myself when people left.

Until I realized something powerful:

Friendship is not charity.

I’m not lucky to be chosen—people are lucky to have me too.

So I stopped chasing, stopped proving, and stopped shrinking myself just to be accepted.

Now I know:
Some people leaving isn’t rejection… it’s protection.

And I’d rather sit alone than lose myself trying to be kept.

Because the real glow-up is this:

I’m no longer grateful for scraps of attention—I’m grateful for my own company. ❤️

4 days ago | [YT] | 61

Apporva arya

I spent years absorbing disrespect instead of answering it.

Someone embarrassed me? I went quiet.
Someone made me feel unwanted? I tried harder to belong.
Someone crossed a boundary? I convinced myself to “adjust.”

Because I was raised to believe silence meant maturity.

But something has changed.

Now, if a room constantly makes me feel unwanted, I don’t fight for a chair there. I leave.

If someone disrespects me, I don’t carry their words home and question my worth.

I return the energy where it belongs.

My biggest comeback isn’t becoming louder, colder or revengeful.

It’s becoming the woman who no longer needs acceptance from people who once made her question herself.

I survived by staying quiet.

Now I’m going to thrive by taking my own side.

5 days ago | [YT] | 41

Apporva arya

Nobody raises the eldest daughter.
She grows up while helping raise everyone else.

She was the child who became “samajhdaar” a little too early.

The one who heard:

“Tum badi ho, tum samjho.”
“Chhote hain, adjust kar lo.”
“Mummy-Papa ko pareshan mat karo.”

So she learned to swallow anger.
Hide tears.
Solve problems nobody asked her to solve.

She became the responsible daughter.
The protective sister.
The emotional support system.
The girl who somehow “handles everything.”

And everyone became so comfortable with her strength…

they forgot she needed someone too.

The saddest part about being the eldest daughter?

You spend your childhood becoming the person everyone can depend on—

and adulthood secretly wishing,

“Kaash ek baar koi mujhe bhi bole…
Tu rehne de. Main sambhal lunga.” ❤️‍🩹

1 week ago | [YT] | 60

Apporva arya

I know a woman who lost almost every relationship in her life… while desperately trying to save just one.

She had everything.

Parents who cared.
Brothers. Bhabhi. Children. Relatives. A whole family around her.

But there was one relationship she was taught to protect at any cost — her marriage.

“Pati Parmeshwar hai.”
“Shaadi tootni nahi chahiye.”
“A good wife adjusts.”
“Log kya kahenge?”

So she adjusted.

Then adjusted a little more.

She tolerated disrespect.
She tolerated aggression.
She tolerated emotional abuse.

Slowly, saving her marriage became more important than saving herself.

People who loved her tried to make her see what was happening.

But every person who questioned her husband eventually became the enemy.

And every time she had to choose between the people who loved her and the relationship that was hurting her—

she chose the relationship hurting her.

Today, the saddest part isn’t that she stayed.

It’s what staying cost her.

She lost relationships.
She lost people’s trust.
She lost respect.
And somewhere along the way, perhaps she lost herself too.

We teach women how to save marriages.

But rarely do we teach them:

A relationship that requires you to sacrifice your dignity, safety, identity and every person who genuinely loves you is not being “saved.”

You are simply being destroyed while keeping its name alive.

Marriage deserves effort.

But no relationship deserves worship at the cost of yourself.

Maybe we need to stop teaching our daughters only “ghar jod kar rakhna.”

And start teaching them—

“Khud ko tod kar koi ghar nahi bachta.”

1 week ago | [YT] | 30

Apporva arya

Some daughters lose their fathers.

Some daughters spend their whole lives grieving a father who is still alive.

Imagine being a little girl who cannot remember her father ever asking:

“Are you okay?”
“Did you eat?”
“I’m proud of you.”

No warm hugs.
No feeling protected.
No memory of running to him when the world became scary.

Instead, the memories are of anger, insults, fear and constantly wondering:

“What did I do wrong?”

So she becomes the good daughter.

Best marks.
Best grades.
No unnecessary demands.
Always trying harder.

Because somewhere inside that little girl lives a belief:

Maybe if I become good enough, Papa will finally love me.

Then she grows up and realizes the most heartbreaking truth—

There was never an exam she could top to earn the love a child should never have had to earn.

People talk about fatherless daughters.

But rarely about daughters whose fathers were physically present and emotionally absent.

They don’t just grow up without a father figure.

Sometimes they grow up spending years unlearning the belief that love has to be earned through achievement, obedience and suffering.

Some childhood wounds don’t come from losing a parent.

They come from never having the parent you desperately needed.

1 week ago | [YT] | 44