The Essay that got me into Ateneo

probably not the sole reason that i got admitted but oh well! some info are redacted

To be a Punjabi Woman

I could hear the wind howling in my ears as I walked along the winding roads of Punjab, a region in northwestern India. I eventually slowed my pace so my grandmother, with her weak knees, could catch up. The endless sight of young, green wheat fields kept us company. The warm sunlight caressed my face when an aunty I had never met approached and asked my grandmother about my mother. From their conversation, I gathered that this lady hadn’t seen my mother in quite some time and was glad to know she was back.

Her pleased, relaxed expression shifted into a slight frown when she asked about me. “Is this X’s daughter?” she asked in Punjabi. “Yes,” my grandmother replied. “The older one?” she asked again. “She’s in [],” my grandmother responded. “No son?” she asked, finally acknowledging my presence with a smile. I nodded faintly in greeting. “None,” my grandmother replied with a dull smile. “Doesn’t matter. There’s not much difference between daughters and sons nowadays,” the woman said cordially, ending the brief interaction before continuing on her way in the opposite direction.

That brief exchange lingered in my mind. I replayed the scenario repeatedly, dissecting the tone, words, expressions, and movements of that lady during our afternoon walk. She was not just speaking for herself but also echoing a sentiment that has persisted throughout the history of Punjabi culture, including the present.

“Keepers of dignity and honor” — that is the title often given to daughters. Dignity and honor, however, are fragile and leave no room for mistakes. A Punjabi woman walks on eggshells, under the scrutiny of hundreds of magnifying glasses, judging her clothes, domestic skills, and social interactions. Education is often not on that list.

The encounter with that lady, along with countless other moments like it, became my earliest lessons in understanding injustice and discrimination. These experiences were not fleeting observations but pivotal moments that fueled my determination to excel in everything I do. They were not just about proving my worth but about challenging a belief system that has persisted for generations.

I realized early on that a single individual’s achievements might not overturn deeply entrenched cultural norms overnight. However, it has made me resolute in my ambition to be a beacon of what women can accomplish when provided the right opportunities — even if that influence begins within the confines of my extended family.

My greatest reward is seeing my mother use me and my elder sister as examples to her siblings, relatives, and friends who worry about their daughters’ futures. She speaks of our achievements not with boastfulness but with a careful balance — presenting our paths as possibilities for their daughters, too. In her way, she challenges the old echoes, suggesting that with the right support, their daughters can also dream beyond the confines of tradition.

My younger cousins have told me they look up to me and that my journey gives them courage. It is in these moments that I realize the true power of representation. It reminds me that every step I take isn’t just for myself; it’s for them — for all the girls who watch from the sidelines, hoping to break free. This simple, personal mission drives my commitment to pushing boundaries: to show them that they are enough, that their dreams matter, and that they can carve out their own paths, no matter how winding or uphill it might seem.

Even outside Punjab, the same discriminatory beliefs persist among Punjabis in the Philippines and around the world, though there are signs of change. Girls like me aren’t supposed to attend universities like Ateneo de Manila University. We are often socialized not to dream. We’re expected to enroll in a nearby college, get an education for the sake of it, and then get married. My application to Ateneo is an act of dissent — an assertion of having a dream and actively pursuing it.

As I long to walk again along the winding streets of Punjab, I think of the same path my grandmother and I once took. The fields may still be green, the wind may still howl, and the warm sunlight may still touch my face. This time, however, I hope to walk with my head held high, feeling a sense of purpose as I see other girls along the way. I want them to know, as I do, that they too can break through barriers and chase their dreams, just as I have strived to do.

Amidst it all, there is no other way to describe my fortunate circumstances — the time, the zealous support of my parents — than qismat, destiny. My cultural roots are also destiny. Despite the odds, being a Punjabi woman has instilled in me a grit that I will carry forever.