They said you couldn't, " so I did it".

They Said I Couldn't, So I Did"

I was born in a village where dreams are stitched into the hem of a girl's dupatta—only to be hidden, never worn out loud.

My name is Radha. I was the third daughter in a family that prayed for a son. From the moment I could walk, I was told my place—inside the kitchen, behind the curtain, beneath the expectations of others.

They said I couldn't go to school after 8th grade.
They said girls don’t need education—just good cooking skills and a better smile.
They said, “What will you do by studying? You’ll get married anyway.”

But I had this strange hunger in me—not for food, but for more.

I remember once asking my uncle, who had just returned from the city, “What does a college look like?”He laughed. Everyone laughed. My mother told me to not speak such nonsense in front of elders. That night, I cried under my blanket, hugging the only book I owned — a tattered English grammar guide someone had thrown away.

They said I couldn't speak English.
So, I started watching old English movies without understanding a word, rewinding scenes, writing down sentences I didn’t even know how to pronounce.

Every time I made a mistake, someone would smirk and say, “This is not your world.”
But I whispered back to myself, “One day, it will be.”

At 16, I begged my father to let me appear for the 10th board exams. He said no.
So I stitched blouses in the afternoon and secretly saved every rupee.
I lied once—told my parents I was going to help a neighbor. Instead, I walked five kilometers barefoot to reach the exam center. I passed.

They said I couldn't dream of a career.
So I dreamed even harder.

I started giving tuition to village kids. Five rupees per student. Ten students. Fifty rupees a day. I bought books, a second-hand phone, and internet data.
Late at night, while the village slept and the lantern flickered, I watched YouTube videos about scholarships, interviews, and confidence-building. I practiced speaking in front of a broken mirror with missing corners.

Then came the biggest test.

I applied for a scholarship to study journalism in a city college.

The day the acceptance letter came, I touched the paper a hundred times, afraid it might disappear like a dream.

But acceptance didn’t come from home. My father said, “If you step out of this house, don’t come back.”

So I didn’t.

With a small bag and a head full of fear, I boarded a bus to a future I couldn’t fully see.

The city was cruel at first. I was mocked for my accent, my clothes, my silence. I often ate only once a day to save money. But I never missed a class. And I never missed writing—because it was my oxygen.

Today, I’m 23.

I’m not just a journalist.
I’m the voice for every girl they said “couldn’t.”
I’ve interviewed ministers, covered protests, written stories that brought change.

Last year, my village invited me as the Chief Guest at a school event.
The same school where I wasn’t allowed to speak.

I stood on stage, looked into the eyes of every little girl there, and said:

"They said I couldn’t. So I did. And you can too."

Because sometimes, the fire they try to extinguish is the one that lights the world.

If I did it then why wouldn't you people. To gain something you have to lose something, this is what I have learnt from my life, so move ahead. I too left my house, family and everything, all I had was some savings and hope, I did not know what was going to happen to me, but I did not get scared and after a few salons I got the fruits of my hard work