How medicine reflects women's silence

My mother’s life was defined by silence. She was born in India. In a world where a woman’s worth was measured in duty: how well she cared for others, how quietly she endured. She was obedient. Her dreams were practical, her voice gentle. Never shared an opinion.

I used to think that by becoming a doctor (a woman with a career, a passport, a voice) I had escaped that silence for good.

But medicine has a way of holding up a mirror.

As an OB/GYN, I sit with women from my mother’s generation, and from mine, who still apologize for taking up space. They whisper about their pain. They hesitate to ask questions. I see that same restraint, that same fear of judgment, that same quiet deferential tone that echoes across generations of women taught to be small.

And lately, I’m realizing that silence isn’t just a cultural inheritance; it’s a national one.

Across the country, women’s bodies are once again being legislated, judged, and restricted. The conversation feels like déjà vu. My mother’s silence is suddenly not so distant; it’s a warning.

I think about the opportunities I was given: education, autonomy, and choice, and the generations of women who never had them. And I wonder: How have we come so far, only to start sliding backward? How is it that we still have never elected a woman president? Why weren’t we ready for Hillary? Why do we still hesitate with Kamala?

We say we value equality, but we still bristle at women who lead boldly. We tell our daughters they can be anything, until they actually try. Then they’re “too ambitious,” “too emotional,” or “too much.”

The truth is, we are not as far from our mothers’ world as we like to think. The forces that silenced them: patriarchy, control, and fear of female power, are simply wearing new clothes.

Finding my own voice has been an act of rebellion and gratitude. Through my work, and through Ask Akka, the platform I created to talk openly about women’s health, I’ve learned that silence helps no one. Talking about our bodies, our rights, our needs; that’s how we honor the women who couldn’t.

I no longer see my mother’s silence as weakness. I see it as survival.

But I also see what it cost her: her joy, her autonomy, and her sense of self.

So I speak now, not just for me, but for her. For my patients who still whisper. For my younger self, who thought being good meant being quiet. For every woman who has been told she’s too much, too loud, too assertive.