“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” — Marcel Proust
Some conversations do not end just because the meeting ended. They remain with you, sitting quietly in your thoughts long after the zoom room has emptied.
Over the past month, as we began our workshops with the Grameen Jyothi fellows, I have often found myself returning to the stories shared in the spaces, and I am noticing a shift in how I look at the world ( and myself, sometimes).
These are stories of people working at the frontline, of women mentoring other women, of girls facing gender-based violence at home, in workplaces, and within systems that were never made to protect them.
Honestly, each workshop feels less like a professional engagement and more like entering lived worlds that exist parallel to mine. I sit there less as a facilitator and more as a listener. Sometimes I am a mere observer from what feels like a vantage point, and yet emotionally, I don’t think one can stay distant. I find myself absorbing the weight of what people share in these workshops, feeling the emotions that are not mine but are somehow reaching me through a computer screen and an internet connection.
And with every passing session, I am reminded of something uncomfortable: there are people in this world who do not have the luxury of choice.
They wake up each day and have no choice but to step into resistance, against structures that suppress them right, left, and centre. Recently, one fellow spoke about her relationship with the hijab —a word that literally means ‘cover or veil’, and how it has been imposed on her since childhood. She spoke about never truly understanding it, never wanting it, yet feeling pressured to continue wearing it every single day. I, too, am a hijabi woman. But my relationship with the hijab is entirely different. I wear it as identity, as belonging, as something that I have chosen for myself. It signifies more than a piece of clothing for me. As she spoke about her reality, I felt like we stood on opposite ends of the same symbol.
I tried to imagine her life, living with something that feels compulsory rather than chosen. I tried to place myself in her shoes. And realized that I couldn’t fully do it.
I could empathize.
I could listen.
I could respect her truth.
But I could not be her.
A teammate recently used the phrase “privilege shame,” and it lingered with me long after. There was a fleeting sense of guilt in recognizing that parts of my life have been easier, that some freedoms I experience are not universal. When you notice that what feels normal to you is inaccessible to someone else.
I did feel it, a small, sharp sense of guilt for having what I have. For living a life where certain battles were never mine to fight. But sitting with that feeling also brought clarity. This life, however easy or difficult it may appear in comparison, is my reality. Someone else’s hardship cannot invalidate my experience, just as my comfort cannot diminish theirs. In spaces of social impact, we often believe that to care deeply we must carry everyone’s pain, but unchecked empathy can quietly turn into self-erasure. And that helps no one. We are not meant to dissolve into the struggles we witness. Compassion must coexist with emotional boundaries; otherwise, the very lens through which we hope to understand the world becomes blurry by guilt rather than grounded.
Each workshop continues to open new windows for me, into resilience, contradiction, strength, and vulnerability existing all at once. I leave each session humbled by the courage of fellows who continue to do the work they do despite their personal struggles. I am grateful to our fellows and my team for allowing these spaces of reflection to exist. Perhaps the work is simply this: to keep listening, to keep learning, to remain open to lives different from our own, and to welcome new perspectives without losing sight of who we are.
Here’s to witnessing more realities while not losing the grip of my own!
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