Cauvery sent us this article to time with Women’s Day but as she herself observed, everyday is women’s day. And so even though it is a little late, we are publishing this.

– The Editor

Sharing something I wrote for Women’s Day. April is here so it may be a tad late, but I also believe every day is Women’s Day. So it may not be all that late either!
I am very good at finishing things.

Emails. Deadlines. Lunch boxes. Arguments in my head.
I am less skilled at sitting down without earning it.

Rest has always felt like something I have to qualify for.
As though somewhere, someone is checking whether I’ve done enough to deserve stillness.

Even leisure must multitask.
If I watch something, I’m making a to-do list.
If I sit down, I answer messages.
If I pause, I justify it.

For years, I didn’t dislike myself.
I just negotiated myself.

Adjusted tone.
Lowered volume.
Apologised quickly.
Made jokes about my own flaws before anyone else could.

Now, as I’m pushing into my forties – not quite there, but close enough to see it – something has shifted.

The urgency has softened.
The need to impress has thinned out.

And I’ve started noticing her.
My daughter.
Watching.
We’ll look at old college photos and she’ll say, “Ma, you’re so pretty.”

Not you were.
You are.

And I’ll begin, out of habit – “Yes, when I was ­thinner…”
She stops me.
“Stop it, Ma. You’re beautiful. It doesn’t matter if you’re thin or not.”
She says it firmly. Like she’s correcting a grammar mistake.
And I smile – not because she thinks I’m pretty.

But because she knows what kindness is.
And she knows how to use it.

When I bump into something and apologise instantly, she says, every time,
“You don’t have to apologise, Ma. It was an accident.”
So now, I don’t comment on my double chin.
I don’t hesitate to ask for the plus size if that’s what fits.
I don’t let passive remarks slide off my back — I question them. Calmly. Clearly.
Because my thirteen-year-old must know that questions are part of our rights.

If I’m tired, I say it.
“I’m tired today. Can you fill my cup?”

And when I see she is tired, I ask,
“How can I fill your cup today?”

These are not loud teaching moments.

There are no speeches.
No dramatic declarations.

Just small corrections.
Small permissions.
Small shifts in posture.

And then –
She is not memorising my words.
She is studying my permission.

So now, when I sit down in the afternoon light and do nothing at all,
when I let a chore wait,
when I say, “I’m tired,” without explaining –

I am not being indulgent.
I am rewriting something.
Not just for me.

But for the girl who is learning, quietly,
what a woman is allowed to be.

— by Cauvery Kesavasamy
cauvery.kesavasamy@gmail.com