The Quiet Pressure of Becoming: Lessons from My Mom and Devil Wears Prada

When I texted a friend that I was writing my next post on feminism/gender, his response was immediate: “Are you sure? Writing about feminism as a man might be tricky.” And he isn't wrong. So let me begin with a disclaimer—not the kind you slap on a controversial take to dodge backlash, but a genuine acknowledgment. I know that reading a decent share of feminist literature doesn’t make me some oracle on womanhood. Nor do I pretend to understand what it’s like to navigate the world as a woman. What I do have is a perspective based on experience, one that’s been challenged and reshaped in the past few months. So don't treat this post as a manifesto, and it’s definitely not a performance. It’s just me thinking out loud, fumbling toward clarity. 

That being said, lets begin with a recap of my summer.

This summer has been nothing short of amazing for me. Having my mom with me—really with me—every single day was something I didn’t even realize I was craving. It felt new and familiar all at once. 

Sunday Breakfast and Reading!

I’m at this point in my life where I’ve figured out my passions, my hobbies, my rhythms—and now, I can finally talk to my mom as a person, not just as “Mom.” Coming home from work and seeing her face light up, returning from the gym to find breakfast waiting, staying up too late because some random conversation kept spiraling deeper than either of us expected. I genuinely have no complaints; it’s been a phenomenal summer.

But here’s what I didn’t expect: I thought I knew my mother. I mean, how could I not? But I realized this summer that I didn’t—not really. Maybe that’s on me for never asking enough questions, for not being curious enough, or maybe distance and time have made it harder. I don’t know. 

What I do know is that I found myself wondering over and over: how has my mom stayed so positive? How did she do it all and still smile through it?

Birthday Happy Hour!

And that—that is where this blog post begins. This post is me trying, maybe for the first time, to put words to the messiest, most complicated thoughts I’ve had. Thoughts about gender, about feminism, about philosophy, about my mom. I’m not pretending I’m some expert. None of what I’m saying is revolutionary in the academic sense. But for me—for how I see my culture, my family, my mom—these thoughts have been nothing short of eye-opening.

Background

It started so innocuously. I was joking with my mom about how some husbands we know rave about their favorite dish their wives make but have no clue how to make it themselves. I told her I couldn’t wrap my head around that. How can you love something so much and not even once be curious enough to ask what’s in it? How could you not want to know how to make your favorite meal? And from there, the conversation spiraled. My mom began telling me stories I’d never heard. Stories about the things she did, the things she gave up, and the experiences she buried before we moved back to India my sophomore year. Stories about stress I never saw, trauma she never shared, and thoughts she kept hidden.

Teenage Smita!

And it hit me. Harder than I let her see. It hurt. Here I am, day after day, writing, exploring, chasing happiness, trying to build this full, intentional, passionate life—and across the table is my mother, who never got to do that. Who was forced into a role as a housewife she didn’t choose. I’m not saying that being a housewife is a negative thing—far from it. And I’m not suggesting her path was shaped by explicit coercion. Honestly, I could see myself happily being a househusband one day. But what hurts is knowing she never got to ask herself if that’s what she truly wanted.

And I kept asking myself: Why? Why was she never given that chance? Why didn’t she get to backpack through Europe, or stay out too late finding herself, or spend her twenties figuring out who she was, like I’ve had the privilege to do?

And the more we talked, the more I came to realize that even she doesn’t quite recognize how much cultural expectations quietly, persistently influenced her path. Her life decisions weren’t solely shaped by oppressive forces—there were joys, and moments of real choice too. But those societal norms and whispered messages about what a “good” woman looks like; they loomed in the background, shaping some of the regrets she carries.

Our favorite neighborhood pie spot

I wanted to understand. So, naturally, my mind went to philosophy. I started digging into what Eastern and Western philosophies say about gender—about how roles we live with get assigned, justified, enforced.

The western philosophy I chose to deeply explore was Philo Perception of Women by Dorothy l. Sly that mostly explores the contemporary catholic philosopher Prudence Allen’s ideas in her book the Concept of Women. My understanding of the eastern philosophy on this topic is predicated on ancient and modern ideologies on Confucian and Buddhist philosophy. 

What does western philosophy say about gender equality?

Well, that depends on which strain of thinking you look at—but it’s clear that the conversation hasn’t exactly been unified. Some of the oldest voices in Western philosophy, like Aristotle, unapologetically framed women as biologically and morally inferior; a notion that laid groundwork for centuries of intellectual and institutional patriarchy. 

But more recent feminist philosophers have tried to untangle that legacy. Prudence Allen, a contemporary Catholic philosopher, outlines four major historical frameworks: sex unity, sex polarity, sex complementarity, and sex neutrality. Each has its own take; from arguing that men and women are basically the same and should be treated equal, to insisting that women and men are fundamentally different and must play separate roles. 

What struck me the most, though, was how even the more “positive” models—like sex complementarity—can quietly trap women in boxes that seem respectful but still limit freedom. It’s like saying, “Sure, you’re powerful—but only in this one particular way.” Even thinkers like Simone de Beauvoir pushed back on these neatly wrapped ideas, arguing that gender isn’t some natural destiny, but something imposed; a set of expectations passed down like a script we never agreed to. 

Western philosophy, at its worst, justified inequality. But at its best, gave us tools to question it.

Mom and I at Lincoln Park

What does eastern philosophy say about gender inequality?

That’s where things got even murkier. Confucianism doesn’t talk about “gender” the way we do. It talks about roles. Balance. Harmony. 

Yin and yang sounds beautiful on paper: equal halves, neither superior. But in practice—especially post-Han dynasty—yang (associated with men) took the spotlight. Yin (women) became passive, secondary. That philosophical shift wasn’t just abstract, it seeped into how families were structured, how women were treated, and what they were allowed to do.

At the heart of it were the Three Obedience's and Four Virtues, a Confucian moral code that defined the "ideal" woman. The Three Obedience's demanded that a woman obey her father before marriage, her husband after marriage, and her son in widowhood—her loyalty always tethered to a man. The Four Virtues: chastity, proper speech, modest appearance, and diligent work—prescribed exactly how a woman should carry herself. See, these weren’t just life tips, they were blueprints. They told women how to talk, how to dress, how much space they were allowed to take up. And education? It existed, but mostly to make women better caretakers, not thinkers or dreamers.

Even so, glimmers of resistance surfaced—early Confucian feminists, and modern reinterpretations seek to reclaim harmony without erasure. But the legacy is hard to shake. Eastern philosophy may have started with balance, but somewhere along the way, that balance tipped—and women bore the weight.

My Two families!

Devil wears Prada 

I have said this so many times before, but I swear the universe has its secret way of inserting the perfect moments of inspiration into my life when I need them most. Just as I was knee-deep in these thoughts—my mom and I finally watched The Devil Wears Prada. Somehow, neither of us had ever seen it. 

On the surface, it’s a glossy “chick flick”—all couture and sharp one-liners. But beneath the surface, it’s far more existential. I’d even argue it’s a psychological thriller (bold take I know). Yes, it takes place in the fashion industry. Yes, it stars women. But no, it’s not about fashion; its similar to how Whiplash is not really about music and Black Swan is not really about ballet. 

The story follows Andy Sachs, a fresh-faced aspiring journalist who lands a job as the assistant to Miranda Priestly, a character loosely based on Vogue’s Anna Wintour. Andy begins the film grounded, self-assured in her serious aspirations of being a journalist, rolling her eyes at the superficiality of fashion. But soon, she finds herself bending—then warping—herself to survive in an environment that demands total devotion. 

Miranda & Andy at Paris Fashion week

But this isn’t just a job. It evolves into a slow burn of self-erasure.

The power of The Devil Wears Prada lies in how quietly it shows Andy slipping away from herself. Her transformation is not dramatic; it’s incremental. A pair of heels. A missed birthday. A swallowed opinion. Her descent into her new persona isn’t dramatic—it’s quiet. And that’s what makes it terrifying…because it feels real? She keeps telling herself it’s temporary. That she’s in control. But the deeper she gets, the less she resembles the person who walked in.

And here’s the crux: no one is forcing her to stay. There’s no locked room, no abusive boss screaming in her face every day. Instead, the pressure is ambient, atmospheric. This pressure is shown throughout the movie with almost every character glorifying her job, everyone would say, “People would kill for that job”. As if, these responsibilities that at times make her miserable is somehow worth it because of the glamor society puts on it. 

Andy's Fashion Transformation

This kind of pressure is one that makes you question whether you’re being “difficult” for wanting boundaries. It’s the kind that makes you think success only counts if it hurts. It’s not coercion either, I see it more as social gravity; and at times it can be incredibly gendered in how it manifests.

Andy doesn’t just conform; she willingly, and even strategically, adapts. Because that’s what societal pressure often looks like: not outright violence, but quiet submission disguised as progress.

Andy & Nate finding closure at the end of the film

Smita Nayak's Story:

Smita Nayak's story echoes Andy Sachs’—only it’s the Indian version, less Manhattan and high fashion, more Keonjhar and family duty. And just like Andy, she didn’t start off with conservative barriers hemming her in. Quite the opposite. Smita comes from a progressive family. She excelled—math, debate, sports. When they moved from Keonjhar to the city bustle of Cuttack, the pressure shifted. Not from home—but from classmates, neighbors, and even family at times. She was called “Kali” (dark-skinned), “Asundar” (ugly). These insults (let’s face it, that’s what they are) were delivered under the facade of jokes. But we all know jokes can dig in and stay.

And they did; she stopped chasing dreams and started chasing validation. If not beautiful, then selfless. If not admired, then indispensable.

Smita at school!

I remember this conversation vividly. As my mom and I prattled on this notably breezy summer evening with the window open—letting the wind cool our tiny studio, I kept gently pressing—Why did you feel the need to be good? Matter of fact, what is your definition of “good” and who did it come from?—She paused, sometimes unsure, perhaps startled by the realization that she had never asked herself those same questions. And maybe for the first time, she began to consider that some of her most regretful life decisions weren’t simply personal missteps or a lack of will.

Together, we began tracing the invisible outlines of a script she hadn’t realized she’d been following. They were choices shaped, in part, by internalized expectations about what a "good woman" should do. Expectations set by society, expectations that didn’t always scream, but whispered. Over time, they told her how much to give, how little to ask, and how quiet to become in order to be loved, accepted, safe.

Smita's story isn’t one of total loss or victimhood. She made choices. But those choices were often bounded by a frame she didn’t build, and more importantly—didn’t always see.

That’s why The Devil Wears Prada resonated so sharply. Watching it with her, I saw something I didn’t expect. Not just recognition, but a kind of mourning. Miranda Priestly never forced Andy to change, she just created an environment where nonconformity felt like failure. In the same way, no one Smita's life ordered her to sacrifice her career or question her worth. But the air around her—the social gravity—made it seem like not changing was failure.

Luxembourg!

Both Andy and Smita had what it takes to thrive in any direction. Their intellect, resilience, and ambition were never in question. But does capability equal freedom? I say no, not if the rules were written without you in mind.

When I asked my mom whether she chose to leave her job at the bank to raise my sister and I, she said, without hesitation: “I knew I just had to. There was no other option.” And I believed her.

See, that’s the cruel trick of expectations—it makes constraint feel like duty. The world makes many women believe that adaptation is empowerment. That to be strong is to survive any circumstance without complaint. That sacrifice is synonymous with love. But real power, real love comes from having options. Don't you think that my mom should get to ask herself if she even wanted to leave her job to take care of her kids?

Smita, for most of her life always carried a nagging feeling that she was falling short in everything she did, and that feeling chipped away at her confidence throughout her life: In hindsight, I think she’s always felt like that— no matter how hard she worked, because she was set up to feel that way. You can’t win a game designed to keep moving the goalpost and you sure as hell can’t feel whole in a life measured by someone else’s idea of “enough.”

As someone who’s biggest fear is unfulfilled potential, that ache—that unspoken tension between potential and pressure—is what stayed with me long after the credits rolled.

Smita & Friends

My view on modern feminism

After months of reading, thinking, talking—and now watching—I’ve started to see modern definition of feminism/gender not as a doctrine, but a living question: What does freedom really mean?

I’ve come to realize that the definition often feels like a balancing act between two competing ideas: the push for equality, and the recognition of difference. And these two principles are constantly trading places in the spotlight. But here’s the problem that keeps circling in my head: you can’t talk meaningfully about equality unless you also have some concept of sameness. And yet, if you push sameness too far—if you insist that everyone is the same all the time—you start to erase the differences that people actually live, feel, and value. That tension, between honoring difference and demanding equality, feels like the beating heart of every feminist debate I’ve come across.

But I think that debate at times can miss the deeper point.

What really matters (in my opinion); what underlies every story in this post—is agency.

Chicago Riverwalk!

Because if you zoom out, the tension isn’t just about men versus women, east versus west, tradition versus modernity. It’s about the right to shape your life without being quietly edited by forces you can’t even see. It’s about whether you get to choose who you become—or whether the world decides for you before you even begin.

Smita didn’t get to ask herself what kind of life she wanted. Her dreams were stapled to someone else’s expectations, someone else's convenience, someone's else's approval. Andy Sachs did have a choice—but watching her fall into the same traps made me realize how persistent these pressures are, across borders, cultures, and industries.

Both Eastern and Western philosophies offer glimpses of liberation; Buddhism’s genderless nirvana, Beauvoir’s existential awakening—but they remain buried under centuries of social infrastructure asking women to carry everything gracefully and quietly.

The differences between genders—emotional, physical, social—are real. I’ve lived them, and so have you. But those differences should never write the whole story. They should never decide the ending. My mom’s life was shaped by a script she didn’t get to edit. Mine, so far, has been a process of writing my own. That shouldn’t be a luxury. That should be the default.

So you may be asking what do I think feminism is? Maybe it’s not an ideology. Maybe it’s a lens. A refusal to look away from the lives quietly shaped by expectation. A call to ask—who benefits from the roles we’re told to play?

More than anything, it’s a commitment. To rewriting the script—not just for women, but for anyone who has not realized their life didn’t quite belong to them.

I don’t want you to agree with everything I’ve said here. In fact, I hope you don’t. I hope this post lingers with you—not as a polished argument, but as a splinter. Something to come back to. To sit with. To press against your own life and ask: What have I chosen? And what was chosen for me?