Akolia's Avenue

Written by: Devika Anand

Thank you so much to Isha for letting me publish a post on her blog, I can’t wait to see this blog take-off!

For the most part, I was a happy child. My anger was limited, but always targeted at one thing: men. Somewhere around the time I realized that Barbie’s dream house wasn’t reality, I started to connect the dots. Every major problem the world had ever experienced? Yeah, those were made by men. Wars? Men. Climate change? Men. The existence of the word “mansplaining”? Definitely men. So, at 8, I thought, “Yeah, I’m probably better off just hating all of them. It’s safer that way.” I had constructed such a solid fortress of ideals at a young age. It helped me educate myself on the realities of being a woman in a man’s world, but came with a few cons. 

And I, a little girl, thought I had figured it all out, even before I step foot in middle school.

At age 11, I was signing reproductive rights petitions like rent was due. I subscribed to every feminist newsletter I could find, devouring words that assured me I wasn’t crazy for thinking the world had a major gender issue (which I wasn’t). I proudly wore my feminism like a badge of honor, but not in a way that celebrated womanhood. No, I carried it as a shield to protect me from the dangers of becoming the very thing I despised.

Marriage was my main point of contention. Growing up, it was pitched as the gateway to freedom—the bizarre, contradictory idea that my autonomy over my body would only come once I was married. This was the golden ticket to achieving my own voice, my own desires, and my own place in the world? My mom would always tell me, “You can go anywhere once you’re married.”  I could never understand it. If marriage was freedom, what was I supposed to do in the meantime? 

I thought I had it all figured out. I was all-or-nothing: no emotions, no pink, no vulnerability, and certainly no men. Those things, I convinced myself, were inherently antifeminist. They were weaknesses. Being a girl meant being strong, and that strength was rooted in detaching from everything that could make me soft, could make me human. 

But somewhere along the way—through high school, through college—it started to crack. Slowly. Imperceptibly, at first. I couldn’t understand why it was so difficult to feel joy, to embrace the more nuanced, delicate parts of life. I clung to my ideology with a stubbornness that now feels exhausting. I became so good at fighting for the rights of women that I forgot what it meant to actually be one. Somewhere along the way, I missed the point of being a girl—to laugh with abandon, to revel in the softness, to [insert something funny]

It wasn’t just about embracing emotions—I was also fighting insecurity. I wanted to fit in so badly. As much as I had rejected the need to conform, I couldn’t help but long for approval, to belong to something bigger. As a student at a PWC, I couldn’t help but notice how I wasn’t blonde, how I didn’t have clear skin, how my hair wasn’t soft and slick straight, and how I wasn’t skinny with toned abs. All I could see was how I wasn’t a top sorority recruit. I tried so hard to adhere to the male gaze, to go to frat parties and catch the eye of some random guy. And let’s be real—probably a white guy because for some reason, that meant I was actually attractive. It was also so superficial, but I was convinced this was it, I had the key to confidence and I had hit my peak. So here I was, falling into another extreme: hyperfemininity but tailored to the male gaze, missing the point yet again.

I would’ve never admitted these thoughts—God forbid someone knew I was faking my confidence. I have worked so hard not to be ashamed of this era of my life, but falling into this low was what kick-started the realization I needed to make.

Now, as a senior in college, so much has shifted. I still enjoy dressing up and going out, but I no longer feel the need to wear eye-catching outfits that don’t suit my body type or scream for validation. I splurge on makeup, I love to shop, and, I unapologetically indulge in trashy reality TV like Love Island and Too Hot to Handle. I’ve learned to cherish my emotions, even the messy ones, and I’m not afraid to cry or share my feelings. And the biggest surprise of all: I’m in a relationship with a man I love, with no fear of being minimized for my vulnerability. But I also love to read, to stay intellectually curious, and pursue my ambitions. I’m fiercely independent, unapologetically feminist, and driven in ways that continue to push me forward. These things are not mutually exclusive

I had been missing out on the beauty of being human—the complexity, the contradictions, the messiness of our emotions, and the soft power that comes from embracing them.

It took me years to learn that being a feminist doesn’t mean rejecting femininity. Feminism isn’t about negating the parts of me that love to be soft, that enjoy the color pink, that crave love and vulnerability. It’s about owning all of it, about acknowledging that women are not monolithic. We don’t have to choose between being strong and being sensitive, between being fighters and being lovers. The two can—and should—coexist. The strength of women lies in our ability to be fully human.

I still fight for women’s rights. I’ll always fight for equality, for justice. But now, I do so with a heart that has room to love, to feel, and to be vulnerable. Because I’ve learned that real power isn’t about being immune to emotion—it’s about letting yourself feel everything and still moving forward. That’s what makes us strong. That’s what makes us capable. And that’s what connects us to one another.

I am not perfect by any means, and I still work to learn and unlearn a lot. But I do so now, embracing my femininity and realizing that I am stronger and more independent than ever—but also more emotionally tuned than ever.