My friend is a woman of immense strength. Not long ago, she lost her husband, and she is now navigating a world that feels both foreign and financially precarious. But the struggle isn't what you might expect. She is not being supported by her family or in-laws, yet she refuses to ask for a dime. Her family is financially stable—her brother is a professor, his wife a high-ranking officer, and their parents have a handsome pension—but they seem to take her situation for granted.
The problem, I've realized, is that people like her are not wired to show their fear. She doesn't want to admit her vulnerability or ask for a few thousand as "pocket money," even when she could really use it. She feels it's better to manage with her late husband's savings, which I suspect are not very large. I've never asked about her finances, respecting that this is a deeply personal boundary.
What I witness instead is a silent bargain. She has taken on the full-time care of her own child, her brother, and his child, all without any house help. Why does she do this, when her family could easily afford it? Because she doesn't speak up. She has accepted this as the price for a safe roof over her head for herself and her daughter. This is the ultimate expression of her self-respect and stoicism—she would rather endure the pain and exhaustion than compromise her dignity by asking for help.
This, I've come to believe, is the unspoken definition of being "good": you accept the pain, you carry the burdens, and you keep the family's secrets. The moment you break the silence, the moment you advocate for yourself, you are labeled as "bad." Your goodness is measured by how much pain you can silently endure.
But then I think of the girls from our school and college days. The ones who had multiple boyfriends, who accepted expensive gifts, and who always had a backup plan. They were not "good" in the traditional sense. They were assertive, strategic, and unapologetically pursued their desires. Some married their lovers; others, after keeping their options open, chose a partner with more money. One of them even became a model in her 40s. They all seemed to get what they wanted.
This contrast haunts me. Why did one woman's silent sacrifice lead to more pain, while the other's assertive choices led to everything she desired? Was the sacrifice of one simply a different way of getting to the same goal?
I'm left with a question that my heart and mind are still fighting over: Which is the right path? The one of being "good" at the expense of your peace, or the one of achieving your desires at the expense of traditional values? My own heart still clings to the idea of enduring relationships over money, but the world I see tells a different story.
Have you ever faced a similar dilemma? I would love to hear your thoughts.
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