Everyone says this generation doesn't talk.
That we keep too much to ourselves, hide in our phones, sleep too much, avoid real conversations.
But no one asks why.
It's not because we’re doing something illegal.
It’s not because we’re damaged.
It’s because we’re stuck — right in between two completely different worlds.
One is online, where people seem free. Not because they’re at parties or doing drugs — but because they’re living life on their terms.
They’re talking about their emotions.
They’re setting boundaries.
They’re leaving jobs and relationships that don’t feel right.
They’re unlearning guilt.
And then there’s the other world — the one at home.
Where money might be there, but understanding isn’t.
Where people still believe there's a checklist:
Study well. Obey. Get a job. Don’t talk back. Stay quiet.
Where asking for space feels like rebellion.
Where sadness is treated like a phase, and rest is seen as laziness.
We’re not trying to disrespect our families.
We’re just trying to survive two realities that don’t align.
So we stop talking — not because we have nothing to say,
but because no one around us really hears it.
That’s where the silence begins.
And it’s not just the older generation.
Even the younger ones in the family — cousins, siblings, people barely a few years older —
they act like they get it. Like they’re “modern.”
But they’re stuck too.
Still caught in the same checklist — just with better phone cameras and some Facebook ideas.
They want to believe the system works.
That if you study, stay quiet, earn well, and marry on time, things will automatically fall into place.
So when someone like me questions it —
when I say I’m tired, or that something doesn’t feel right —
they panic.
They misunderstand.
They think I’m being rebellious, dramatic, “too emotional.”
They say, “You think you know too much.”
Because if I’m right, then everything they’ve committed to might fall apart too.
To them, a child — even one in their twenties — shouldn’t know this much.
Shouldn’t speak like they’ve seen the world.
Shouldn’t feel this much, ask this much, want this much clarity.
Because deep down, they’re scared.
If one person breaks the ritual, what happens to the tradition they’ve spent their whole lives trying to follow?
So instead of asking why I’m struggling,
they just stick tighter to the rules.
And treat my silence like attitude, and my questions like disrespect.
Sometimes, the conversations at home start off nice.
Someone asks how I am, or sits next to me and talks like they care.
And for a second, I think — maybe this is one of those rare soft moments.
But it always changes.
One small thing I say turns into a lecture.
A reminder of what I didn’t do, what I should’ve done, how I’m falling short.
It’s like they can’t help themselves.
The warmth doesn’t last.
And I go back to being quiet, because now I remember why I stopped trying in the first place.
It makes me not want the soft moments anymore.
Because I know what comes after.
That’s what people don’t see.
Not the arguments. Not the yelling.
But the weight of never feeling like you’re enough.
Even when you’re not doing anything wrong.
Even when you’re doing your best.
I don’t want attention.
I don’t want praise.
I just want to be allowed to exist without constantly being made to feel like a disappointment.
I’m not lazy.
I’m not lost.
I’m just tired.
Tired of surviving in a space where I’m always on edge.
Tired of proving that my effort has value, even when it doesn’t come with results.
Tired of being told how I should feel, what I should want, and who I should become.
So if I don’t talk, it’s not because I have nothing to say.
It’s because every time I do, it hurts a little more.
So no, I’m not asking for your goddam pity, which will not pay my bills today or tomorrow.
I know how this all sounds —
like one of those “Ananya Pandey problems.” that you people keep taunting me about.
But just because the pain isn’t loud or dramatic
doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.
Some of us are just breaking in quieter ways.