I feel deep, heartfelt gratitude, Jessica, for sharing your story so vulnerably and to all others who have shared too. It takes immense courage to turn pain into power and silence into voice. Your words reminded me that we’re not alone.
My leadership has not come from privilege, but from pain, survival, and relentless self-belief. I am a survivor of sexual violence — abused by cousin brothers I once tied rakhi to, believing they would protect me. That betrayal left scars I couldn’t name then. Living in a remote village, mental health was an unknown concept. I slipped into deep depression, began cutting my own hair, and lived in emotional isolation. It was my mother — her quiet strength, her unwavering presence — who helped me survive when there were no therapists, no language for what I was feeling.
And yet, I rose. I became the first girl in my father’s family to complete a Master’s degree, the first to travel outside my hometown alone, the first to take up a job in another city. I chose the path of purpose. I began with Teach For India, working with children from under-resourced communities — and their resilience reminded me I wasn’t alone. I worked as a climate educator, cleaned garbage spots in Bangalore, only to be questioned by relatives: “Did you leave home to clean trash?”
But I’ve learned I don’t owe explanations. My leadership isn’t about validation. It’s rooted in dignity, empathy, and conviction. Every struggle — from my trauma to being questioned for my choices — has deepened my compassion and shaped how I lead.
I lead by holding space, by choosing love over silence, purpose over fear. Leadership, for me, is not loud — it’s layered, grounded, and quietly radical. I want to walk not just for myself, but for every girl who has been told to stay small.
