Witching Hour: How Do I Teach Her? — WordsByEkta🌿
Witching Hour: How Do I Teach Her?
It's 2:14 a.m.
The house is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that amplifies everything inside your head.
She's sitting on the bathroom floor again, hugging her knees, the cold tiles pressing into her skin. The baby is asleep — finally. Her husband is in the other room, maybe asleep, maybe scrolling, maybe wondering what version of his wife will greet him in the morning.
This version? She doesn't even know who she is.
She feels like a visitor in her own life. Her reflection in the mirror is no longer a familiar friend but someone she observes cautiously — pale skin, tired eyes, hair thinned from post-pregnancy. The body that once walked confidently into client meetings and led presentations now winces from fissures, fatigue, and the fog of overwhelm. The body that once earned applause now just... endures.
And this endurance comes with no medals.
She wonders, not for the first time, how she's supposed to teach her daughter anything — about life, about courage, dignity, boundaries, womanhood — when she herself is still learning it all. When she's still figuring out how much to bend, and when not to. When sacrifice in a relationship is noble, and when it turns into silent surrender. When to speak, and when to stay quiet. When patience becomes self-erasure.
She wants to raise a confident daughter — one who never confuses her worth with her wallet or her apron. But what if her daughter grows up watching a mother who left her job — not because she didn't love it, but because the world around her made no room for working mothers without guilt? What if her daughter believes that home is solely a woman's domain because that's what she saw?
And it eats her up, because she knows that in Indian households, even now, it's the women who cook, the women who adjust, the women who shrink so others can stretch. Her husband often tells her, half-joking, "If you want change, start a 'Nari Morcha.' But don't expect society to catch up overnight."
He's open-minded, yes. Supportive, in many ways. But even his words carry the weight of realism — that it might take two more generations before what she envisions becomes the norm. And whenever they discuss patriarchy, he points out society's standards with calm logic. But she yearns for him to say, just once, "Yes, it's unfair. Yes, patriarchy is a problem." Not just for her sake — but for their daughter's.
It hurts more than it should — not because he's wrong, but because he's not fully with her in that moment. Because being right isn't the same as being on your side.
So where does that leave her?
She thinks about the subtle ways patriarchy seeps in — not always loud, not always cruel, but persistent. In the jokes passed off as tradition, the compliments laced with control, the invisible tally women keep of how much they've given up without protest. Sometimes, her husband laughs at those wife jokes forwarded in family groups — about nagging, about overspending, about mood swings — without realizing the weight behind them. He doesn't mean harm, she knows that. But it stings. Because the woman in those jokes isn't just a stereotype; sometimes, it's her — the one who left her job, made their house a home, endured pain in silence, and still smiled.
She remembers their conversations — his realism clashing with her restlessness. He tells her change takes time, that maybe it'll take another generation to undo centuries of roles carved in stone. And while he means well, supports her in many ways, there's an ache in knowing that fairness for her might only ever be a future her daughter inherits — not a present she gets to live.
Caught. Between the past that raised her and the future she hopes to raise. Between tradition and rebellion. Between duty and desire.
Tonight, her mind is pacing. She worries not just for herself but for her daughter — how to protect her from the world's ugliness. From the quiet violence girls are taught to swallow. The kind of hurt that leaves no bruises but shapes their sense of worth.
She's feeling all the emotions at once.
And then, like a gust of wind, her thoughts spiral: one day, her daughter will leave this home, holding someone else's hand. She'll belong to another family. And they — her parents — will have to get used to her absence. That thought alone bruises her heart.
And then the guilt sets in. About the way she sometimes speaks to her own mother — irritated, impatient. She aches with the knowledge that one day, her daughter might speak to her the same way.
The woman breaking down on cold bathroom floors, the one who stitches herself back together without letting anyone see the seams?
She doesn't have answers. Not yet.
But she knows this: she wants to be seen. And more than that, she wants her daughter never to feel invisible. Never to have to earn her place at the table. Never to mistake selflessness for silence.
The tiles under her are still cold. But something in her chest feels warmer. Not peace — not yet. But a flicker.
And sometimes, a flicker is enough to make it through the night.
She wipes her face and stands slowly. Her body hurts. Her heart aches. But she moves — toward the crib, toward the life she brought into this world, toward the woman she's still becoming.
Because if her daughter ever asks,
"Mama, how do I know when to bend and when to stand tall?"
She wants to be ready to answer.
And that begins with learning herself.
It's 2:36 a.m.
And she is still here.
✍️ Written by WordsByEkta🌿
🖋️ Emotional Storyteller | Writing what hearts never say aloud
💌 If you connected with my way of saying hard truths — often overlooked but deeply felt — explore one of my free letters:
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