Today, when I look back, I often ask myself: why didn’t I take a stand for my daughter? Why did I let them do this to me? What made me so weak that I couldn’t fight back, even as I was being tortured — emotionally, physically, silently?
And every time, one answer echoes in my mind.
It’s the same voice that has followed generations of women. The voice of society. A society that demands silence from women. That teaches us to be submissive, to endure, to accept — even when what we’re being asked to accept is slow destruction. Even when that destruction takes the life of the most precious thing we hold — our child.
Growing up in Pakistan, I was constantly told what women can’t do, what they shouldn’t do — but rarely, if ever, was I told what women need. No one talks about what women deserve: care, protection, emotional support — especially during pregnancy, when their bodies are creating life, and their hearts are more vulnerable than ever.
We treat childbirth like an expectation, not a miracle. We ignore the pain behind it. We forget that a woman carrying a child is carrying the weight of the world, too.
Instead of being nurtured, women are judged. Silenced. Told to endure quietly. And far too often, the cost of that silence is unbearable.
I know it firsthand. I lost my daughter because I was surrounded by neglect, by people who ignored my needs and a society that taught me not to speak up. A society that forced me to silence my instincts, my cries for help, and ultimately, my grief.
Society will not change on its own, and we, as women, cannot afford to keep suffering in silence
My daughter didn’t just die — she died of neglect.
The kind of neglect that begins long before a tragedy unfolds.
She died because her mother was neglected emotionally, physically, and repeatedly.
She died because of the comments her mother endured. The toxic environment she was forced to live in. And the worst part? I wasn’t allowed to grieve her.
In our society, women are rarely allowed to complain — not even during pregnancy. If you speak up, you’re dismissed with, “Every woman goes through it, what’s the big deal?”
But what people fail to understand is that every pregnancy is different. Every body is different. Every story is different. I went into labour at six months, gave birth to a daughter who fought for her life for two whole days — and then I lost her. They buried her before I could even say goodbye. They didn’t show me her face. They didn’t let me hold her one last time. My grief was silenced — again.
Why is a woman expected to stay calm while her world is falling apart?
Why must she maintain peace in a house that offers her no peace in return?
Why must she cater to her in-laws while standing on the edge of unimaginable loss?
Is that fair? Is that even human?
This isn’t just my story.
The only difference is — I’m strong enough to speak it out loud.
But if you look around, you’ll see countless women living with the same unimaginable pain, quietly, silently. They don’t have an outlet.
Not because they don’t want to speak — but because no one has ever truly listened to them.
They have been silenced from the beginning.
This deeply rooted patriarchal system is destroying women — emotionally, mentally, even physically — at every level.
And tragically, more often than not, this cruelty comes not just from men, but from other women: mothers-in-law, sisters-in-law, even other female relatives who have internalised the very systems that once oppressed them.
We don’t stop to ask what this trauma does to a woman’s mind, to her sense of self, to her capacity to heal. We don’t offer her mental health support, therapy, or even space to cry.
And then, we have the audacity to blame her for mood swings, for being emotional, for not being normal.
But how can a woman be expected to act normal in a world that refuses to care for her pain?
How can healing begin when society won’t even acknowledge her wound?
But enough is enough.
I have decided to end the silence, for myself, and for every woman around me who has been forced to swallow her pain just to keep the peace. We need a change. And that change starts with me.
I chose to get up and heal. Not because it was easy — but because it was necessary.
And in that process, I created something I wish I had when I was at my lowest. Mental Workout with PA — a space born from my pain, built for healing. A space for every woman who needs to return to herself. A space that allows you to do the one thing women are rarely allowed to do in peace: Breathe.
It starts with one breath. And from there, a life can begin again.
Society will not change on its own, and we, as women, cannot afford to keep suffering in silence. It’s time. Time for women to come together. Time to stop waiting for permission.
Time to begin choosing ourselves — our healing, our voices, our breath.
We have spent lifetimes making space for everyone else. Now, we must make space for us.
For our bodies, our grief, our strength, and our joy. It’s time to breathe — not for anyone else, but for ourselves.
And from that breath, we rise.