My mother’s existence was shaped by silence. She came into the world in India, where a woman’s value was assessed through her responsibilities: how well she nurtured others, how quietly she endured adversity. She embodied obedience. Her aspirations were grounded, her tone soft. She never expressed a viewpoint.

At one time, I believed that by becoming a doctor (a woman with a profession, a passport, a voice), I had truly liberated myself from that silence. However, the field of medicine has a tendency to reflect back reality.

As an OB/GYN, I engage with women from both my mother’s age group and my own, who continue to apologize for their mere presence. They murmur about their suffering. They falter when seeking clarification. I recognize that same restraint, that same apprehension of judgment, that same subdued tone that resonates through generations of women conditioned to be insignificant.

Recently, I’ve come to understand that silence is not solely a cultural legacy; it’s a national one too. Nationwide, women’s bodies are once again subject to legislation, scrutiny, and limitations. The discourse feels reminiscent. My mother’s silence suddenly feels very close at hand; it serves as a caution.

I reflect on the privileges I have enjoyed: education, independence, and options, alongside the countless women who were denied these. And I ponder: How have we advanced so significantly, only to begin regressing? Why is it that we still have yet to elect a female president? Why weren’t we prepared for Hillary? Why do we still waver with Kamala?

We proclaim our commitment to equality, yet we still react negatively to women who lead with confidence. We encourage our daughters to pursue anything they desire until they actually attempt it. Then they’re deemed “too ambitious,” “too emotional,” or “too much.”

In reality, we are not as distanced from the world of our mothers as we prefer to believe. The elements that muted them: patriarchy, domination, and trepidation towards female empowerment, have merely adopted new appearances.

Discovering my own voice has been both an act of defiance and appreciation. Through my profession, and through Ask Akka, the platform I established for open dialogue about women’s health, I’ve realized that silence benefits no one. Discussing our bodies, our rights, our requirements; that’s how we pay tribute to those women who were unable to.

I no longer perceive my mother’s silence as a weakness. I view it as a means of survival. But I also recognize the toll it exacted: her happiness, her freedom, and her identity.

Thus, I voice out now, not solely for myself, but for her. For my patients who still speak in hushed tones. For my younger self, who believed that being good equated to being silent. For every woman who has been labeled too much, too noisy, too assertive.

We honor our mothers not by carrying on their silence, but by choosing not to replicate it. Progress is not a constant state; it is a decision made every day.

And I opt to speak. Loudly, thankfully, and unapologetically. Because our voices do not constitute a threat. They represent our legacy.

Priya Panneerselvam is an obstetrician-gynecologist.