Culture has always been very important in my family, making it no surprise that my parents’ only expectation for me—their first child—was to be proficient in their native tongue. They enrolled me in the free Bangladeshi equivalent of Sunday school, where I learned to read, write, and speak in Bangla. There were extra art and music classes. It was supposed to be an opportunity for creative freedom, but that was quite the opposite of what I got from the program. The restrictions felt surprising. I was only six years old when I equated femininity with silence.

Every Sunday, while the boys around me would play soccer and run around with enthusiasm, I sat still and watched. My teachers told me to act like a lady. In nearly every culture, women are supposed to be sweet and gentle. For South Asians, that part is somewhat extreme. There’s this term: domestic wife. The word “domestic” is typically used to describe a trained animal, but I’ve always heard it in relation to the strongest of women in my family.

I truly tried to dismiss the limiting aspects of Bangla school, but I didn’t want to be disrespectful to my teachers. To make matters worse, I came home to see exactly what I’d learned at school. My beautiful and humble Nanumoni—Bangla for grandmother—was the epitome of a perfect South Asian wife. My teachers would be proud of her. To this day, she looks after my grandfather with a smile on her face, even when the task is difficult. Her arms may be frail, but her will is strong. At the time, I understood the doubts of my culture to be a weakness, something that would never make me as strong as Nanumoni.

As I neared my teenage years, I had more and more doubts. I would subdue these thoughts, remembering that if my grandmother could do it, then so could I. Deep down, I knew that to be false. However, when everyone tells you that something should be done a certain way, you start to believe it. I thought that my desire to speak out made me less of a woman, when it was really what made me strongest. I loved every part of Nanumoni’s quiet nature, but I couldn’t push myself to be someone who disagreed with every part of my being.

At this point, I was stuck in a middle ground between domesticity and rebellion. There was so much going on in my head that I couldn’t translate into words. It seemed that I had to be on one side or the other to function. My passion came in bursts, and I struggled to communicate the very thoughts I had stored for several years. I’d spent so long silencing myself that I wasn’t sure how to focus on my voice anymore. I felt uncomfortable showing myself to the world.

The next step would be the most difficult. I had to say something out loud. It was easy to hide in elementary and middle school, where everyone had memorized my façade. High school was a place where I could either further disappear into the crowd or take a risk and walk with my head held high. I saw a convenient moment to choose the latter.

The icebreakers in my classes weren’t just first impressions to my new classmates but my first impression to myself. It felt surreal. For the first time, I wasn’t hearing someone else speak when I opened my mouth. I heard myself.

For the last three years, I’ve taken every chance at speaking up, and it’s gotten me to where I am today. I strengthened my public speaking skills, and with them came a new sense of leadership. Words become a tool of inspiration, and I quickly realized that I could use my newfound voice to shed light on important matters. I learned that I was fighting for people who didn’t have the privilege of speaking up for themselves.

Everything had always come down to my struggle to stay true to my culture. My parents never intended for it to happen, but they got caught up with teaching me the conservative customs that simply cannot work in today’s society. I had to learn on my own that there is nothing wrong with mixing modernity with culture. I could continue to speak Bangla, but this time, to speak it louder.

Traditions do have roots, but branches reach far past the ground, sometimes into places we’d never have imagined. It works similarly with culture. We all start in the same place, but what we do there is completely different. My Nanumoni and the women at Bangla school may be women who preach silence, but I am a South Asian woman who holds power in her voice.