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Now, inspired by the increasing number of Indian women who have taken matters into their own hands, I’ve begun trusting my intuition and discovering what works for me. Truth is, there was always a piece of me that knew the collective vision was not synonymous with my own. It took me until my late 20s to understand why it was so difficult for me to become a doctor, a path that so many South Asians before me had been wildly successful in. Sometimes it also means letting go of one “acceptable” or “conventional” career and charting your own course in another-one you feel far more passionately about. It means striving for financial independence and choosing your own partner in your own time. It means taking risks, honoring yourself, and speaking up for what you believe in.
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If you had asked me years ago, I’d have begrudgingly responded that it meant abiding by the linear trajectory set by generations prior, meaning you had to go to college, obtain a respectable job, get married, buy a house, and have children. The good beta at home, the high achiever at school or work, and the person you are when you’re alone … but who are you when you’re alone? And how do you navigate staying true to yourself as an individual while also remaining respectful of your family and roots? What does it mean to be a first-generation daughter of the diaspora? It’s a constant reconciliation of two worlds, a balancing act of expectations lived through parallel lives and code-switching. You’re not American enough here, nor Indian enough there. Still, there’s an often-overlooked sense of separation that comes with being raised as first generation-always one degree removed from belonging. Each time I look in the mirror, my eyes meet a product of their hard work and sacrifice, and, for that reason, the stakes have always been high. For every question they ask my brother and me in Hindi, a response in English follows, and, with that, a lingering sensation of the continued distillation of traditions throughout time. They forfeited established careers for entry-level jobs and traded their children being raised alongside grandparents and cousins for the rare international phone call or trip abroad. They left everything they knew-their motherland, native tongue, culture, cuisine, customs, and loved ones-to fly across the world to a foreign land where nothing was promised, but everything was possible. My parents immigrated to the suburbs of Chicago from the state of Uttar Pradesh in India during the ’90s. Underneath, however, I was burned out and floundering to uncover my identity through bouts of depression and anxiety. On the surface, I was following the prescribed path to success, happiness, and fulfillment. I engaged in clinical and lab research, and then moved to Washington, D.C., to work in health policy while simultaneously attending graduate school at Georgetown University with the intention of eventually applying to medical school. As a premed student at Case Western Reserve University, I took dreaded organic chemistry and the MCAT (twice). I say I “believed” I’d be a doctor because I embodied it in every way. I, in turn, would smile and try to envision a future where I was treating patients while wearing a white coat and stethoscope. I made the choice by my own volition at the ripe young age of five, and my parents would beam with pride as they shared the news with friends and family.
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Growing up as the eldest child and only daughter of Indian immigrants, I believed I’d be a doctor.