I never used to call myself a feminist. In fact, I thought feminists were too headstrong in a world that needed adjusting. Words like dramatic and even attention-seeking were the ones I used to describe them. I would roll my eyes when I saw a debate online, thinking, ‘Why does everything have to be about feminism?’ I chose to live in a bubble of borrowed peace, of convenience, of quiet denial. Somewhere deep down, I believed that if you played smart, if you adjusted well, you could navigate this world without needing to make so much noise. I didn’t say it out loud, but that was the world I chose to see. As it turns out, bubbles are fragile things. They are very good at giving you the illusion of protection—but all it takes is one sudden touch and it bursts.
Sometimes that sudden touch is painful. A breakup that leaves you hollow, a betrayal that makes you question the very ground beneath your feet. Sometimes it is someone important leaving and you realize how much of your life has been spent on conforming to rules that were never yours. Other times, the touch arrives gently, almost kindly—a good person walking into your life and holding up a mirror. The kind of mirror that doesn’t distort but simply reflects. It shows you the places you’re struggling when you shouldn’t have to. The situations where you are contorting, twisting yourself into impossible shapes for the sake of “fitting in.” And it asks you—Why?
It can also be something as simple as a book. Just words on a page, explaining basic human rights. And you read them thinking, ‘This is it? Just this? Shouldn’t this be obvious?’ And yet, you catch yourself realizing that your whole life you’ve been maneuvering, strategizing, finding loopholes to claim what should have been yours by default. You wonder: Is this accessible to everyone?
And then there are moments that aren’t theoretical at all, moments that live in the body. The everyday loss of freedom: You’re coming home late, clutching your keys like a weapon, scanning the shadows. Nothing happens, but that very nothing feels loaded. You realize half your brainpower is spent on survival, while men your age walk whistling, headphones in. The unfairness is invisible until it becomes unbearable.
That’s how bubbles burst. Not with a bang, but with a sting of clarity.
I remember one of my biggest revelations came from the people giving me permission when I didn’t ask for it. Sentences like, “We give you permission to work,” or “We give you permission to stay out late.” For the longest time, I never heard the violence in that sentence. It felt like receiving a permit for living, but that permit felt like a privilege. Then one day the bubble thinned and I heard it for what it really was. Suddenly it sounded like control. It was ownership dressed in benevolence. And that realization filled me with anger, the kind that coils in your gut and refuses to leave.
That’s the tricky part about bubbles—they don’t burst neatly. They splinter. And the fragments stay with you. You start noticing them everywhere, catching sharp little edges in conversations, during family dinners, in the workplace. You hear yourself questioning things you once ignored: Why is she treated like she’s too much? Why does he get away with being careless? Why are some women praised for obedience while others are shamed for ambition?
It’s hard to describe what it feels like, this slow-growing rage. It isn’t cinematic. It’s quiet, sneaky, showing up in places you never expected. Like at the family table, where suddenly you can’t laugh at the old sexist jokes anymore. You still sit there silent in the middle of everyone’s laughter and in that silence you feel yourself harden into a stranger. The people you love, the ones who care for you and would die for you, might be disappointed in you simply for being your own person. And that thought leaves you paralyzed. Your identity can’t remain what it was, but you’re terrified to change because you’ve already perfected your golden strategy: play smart, adjust well, bend a little (sarcasm very much intended). You’ve built yourself up into the bright one, the smart one, the obedient one. If you shift now, if you break out of that mold, you risk bringing more shame and disappointment than even the already-disgraced cousin ever could - who, as it turns out, has stood up for herself for the right reasons!
But here’s the paradox. When your bubble bursts, you don’t necessarily walk out of it loud and fearless. Sometimes you emerge shy, almost hesitant. That’s how it has been for me. I can’t claim the loud, fiery feminism of those who have been fighting for decades. I still stumble, still struggling to find the right words at the moment. But I am no longer blind. And once you’ve seen, you can’t unsee.
This change arrives unannounced, rearranging the furniture of your mind. And when the shift happens, you realize how late it could have come. How easily the bubble might have stayed intact until your 40s, your 50s, delivering a midlife crisis you never saw coming. That’s the terrifying part—if the change never arrives, if no mirror is held up, if no word cuts you the wrong way, you could spend a lifetime floating in that fragile shell, mistaking it for reality.
And here’s another truth I’ve had to hold: not everyone can afford for their bubble to burst. Not every woman has the luxury of unlearning at the same time, in the same way. To stand up, to say no, to reject the permissions—these are privileges in themselves. Sometimes, giving someone that existential crisis, showing them the very existence of the bubble, can be cruel if they don’t yet have the safety net to step out of it.
That’s why I’ve learned to hold my anger with care. To rant in spaces that feel safe. To share these reflections not as commandments but as offerings. Burrow, for me, became that space. A little corner where I could write, unravel, and create conversations with women who are navigating their own bubbles, at their own pace. A place where feminism doesn’t have to be loud to be real, where even shy feminists can breathe. I dream of Burrow as a community—a reading corner, a storytelling circle, a place where women share the small rebellions, their stories and everyday truths that often go unnoticed. Somewhere you don’t have to perform strength but can sit with your vulnerabilities, your contradictions, your unpolished self, and still be heard.
Burrow is slowly unfolding. It is a place where clothing and conversations weave together, reminding us that identity isn’t just built once, that feminism doesn’t always arrive with slogans or marches. Sometimes it starts quietly—through the books you pick, the clothes you choose, the words you finally dare to say out loud.
Because the truth is, once your bubble bursts, you never float the same way again. You start seeing the invisible air around you. You start questioning the hands that once held you up. And even if you’re shy, even if you’re still figuring it out, you know deep down—you can’t go back in and you shouldn’t have to.
Simaran Malik
Founder
Burrow
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❤️❤️