The experience of brown girls in Western countries can be summed up in one word: ignorance. The ignorance of a society that disregards the daily struggles of a girl whose skin tone challenges the so-called Western Promise. For far too long, society has been blind to the feelings of these girls, leaving them understandably angry. However, this fleeting anger—directed not just at society but even at themselves—is often dismissed or deemed invalid because racism against brown people has become so normalized in a society that prides itself on diversity. But enough is enough. A brown girl living in a Western country is just as much a girl as the fair-skinned, blonde, blue-eyed girl next door. So why are we made to feel so small in comparison?

As the world progresses and movements like BLM push for acceptance and inclusion, there’s one conversation that unsettles me in a different way: the idea of complete diversity and creating a space for everyone. To be honest, it feels absurd—idealistic at best, unrealistic at worst. I’ve spent life as a brown girl in a Western country, and not once have I truly felt like I belonged. Now, I’m expected to believe that, after all these years, society has suddenly made space for me? The truth is, it never did. And at some point, I stopped expecting it to. Somewhere along the way, I internalized the idea that I wasn’t meant to fit in—that my skin, my culture, my existence were always going to be slightly out of place. I told myself it was normal, that this was just how things were. But it’s a hard truth to swallow when all you ever wanted was to feel like you belonged, to blend in among the other kids in your class, yet that sense of belonging never came. Instead, all I ever heard—through words, actions, and the quiet exclusions—was that I wasn’t good enough. And over time, I believed it.

And when you spend years being told—directly or indirectly—that you don’t belong, you start searching for any role that grants you even the slightest sense of acceptance. Even if that role isn’t one you chose for yourself.

So let me tell you who I was growing up. I wasn’t the “pretty girl” or the “athletic girl.” I wasn’t the girl all the boys wanted, nor was I the well-known “popular girl.” I was never any of those things, nor was I ever given the chance to be. Instead, I was labeled the “smart Indian girl,” a role that everyone accepted without hesitation. And to be clear, intelligence isn’t the issue—the issue is that it felt like the only thing I was allowed to be. Why? Because I fit neatly into the stereotype assigned to South Asians, especially Indians, in Western societies. No one had trouble accepting that label for me, and so I felt compelled to embrace it. If I didn’t fit that mold, what else would they see in me? If I wasn’t the “smart Indian girl,” then what was I? It felt like I had to make up for everything through my grades.

But I was never just the “smart Indian girl”—even though that was all anyone saw. I was more than my test scores, more than my ability to solve math problems on demand. I had a personality, feelings, and interests. Yet, none of that seemed to matter unless someone needed answers for the homework. So, I became an overachiever. I pushed myself to impress and please others, overcompensating for the fact that I was different—my skin color was different. My identity felt reduced to my grades, overshadowing the person I truly was.

The pressure to fit into these narrow standards didn’t stop at academics—it extended to how I was seen, or rather, how I wasn’t. If I wasn’t going to be the “pretty girl,” then I had to be the smart one, as if those were my only options. And when it came to beauty, the message was just as clear: I didn’t fit.

Western beauty standards have never made room for girls like us. Fair skin, light eyes, delicate features—everything we were taught to admire, everything we were told was beautiful, was the exact opposite of what we saw in the mirror. In a world obsessed with Eurocentric beauty, brown girls are often invisible. And for the few who are “seen,” the compliments always come with an asterisk: “You’re pretty… for an Indian girl.”

That was the follow-up to “What’s your ethnicity?”—a question that always felt less like curiosity and more like a calculation. As if my worth depended on where I was from, as if being pretty and being Indian were contradictions. They probably thought they were being nice, but all I heard was: You’re not supposed to be beautiful. You’re the exception, not the rule. It was never just a compliment—it was a reminder that, to them, my beauty was surprising, almost unnatural.

For the longest time, I let those words get to me. I hesitated before telling people I was Indian, bracing myself for the assumptions, the looks, the unspoken judgment. I knew that if I wanted to be seen as pretty, I’d have to work ten times harder—because I wasn’t just trying to look good, I was trying to prove that girls like me could be beautiful at all.

It’s experiences like these—compliments wrapped in insults, casual reminders of my “difference”—that made me look in the mirror and question whether I was ever enough. Growing up mostly around white girls with pin-straight blonde or brunette hair, naturally thin bodies, fast metabolisms, and smooth, hairless skin, I’ll admit: I looked very different. Honestly, I was the opposite of them. A vivid memory from primary school is when the girls in my class would stand in a circle, stick their hands out, and compare skin tones. They’d all be similar shades, but then they’d call me over to join, stick my hand in, and laugh, saying, “You’re the darkest!” I never understood what was funny about that. It felt like they were putting me in my place, reminding me that I was different. But I didn’t want to be different—I wanted to be like them, to look like them. But that was impossible. I couldn’t look like them, and it left me wondering where that put me. I felt ugly. I felt different. I felt like something was wrong with me. No matter how much I straightened my thick, puffy, wavy hair, it would never be as sleek as theirs. I wore the same clothes as them from the same stores, but I always felt those clothes never looked the same on me. And even though as much as I wanted to be like them it didn’t change the fact that I couldn’t change my skin color or my features. And it was these unchangeable things that seemed to matter the most. It was as if I was always being told, both directly and indirectly, that no matter what I did, I would never be good enough because I didn’t fit into their idea of beauty. I would never be them, and for a long time, that left me feeling like I didn’t belong anywhere.

You can’t even turn on the TV as an escape from reality because it’s all the same. Brown girls are always the weird, dorky, unattractive side characters—the ones without friends, the ones who exist only to prop up the stunning blonde or brunette white girl stuck in a love triangle, making us think, I wish I had that problem.

But no. Our reality isn’t romanticized—it’s reinforced. The media doesn’t just reflect our experiences; it cements them. It clings to stereotypes, warping them into digestible entertainment that convinces audiences, Yeah, this is what brown girls are like. And when you grow up consuming these portrayals, you start to believe it too.

One moment that really stuck with me was when Never Have I Ever actress Maitreyi Ramakrishnan, who plays Devi Vishwakumar, said in an interview.

"How many times was it the white girl? How many times was it the white girl that they chose? How many times did I want to be the white girl that they chose? Because then I realized—I was never going to be the white girl, because I’m a brown girl. And they’re never going to pick the brown girl. The brown girl is going to be the quirky best friend, not the one they choose."

That statement hit hard because it exposes the unspoken truth: brown girls are conditioned to expect less. We don’t see ourselves as the main character—not in the media, not in life. We learn to accept the sidelines because that’s all we’ve ever been given. And that’s where internalized inadequacy takes root—when you’ve spent so long being told you’re never the one they’ll choose, you start to believe it yourself.

But this can’t keep happening. In 20 years, I don’t want my children growing up in a world where they have to question their worth before they even step into a room. I don’t want them hesitating to take up space, doubting whether they belong in certain places, or assuming rejection before they even try. No one should have to wonder if their skin tone makes them less deserving of love, respect, or opportunity. I want them to exist freely—not as an exception, not as a stereotype, but as people whose presence is never up for debate.

Growing up as a brown girl in a Western society means learning, early on, that the world wasn’t built with you in mind. It’s not just about the lack of representation—it’s about the messages buried within the portrayals that do exist. The sidekick, never the lead. The immigrant, never just a regular kid. The one who is “pretty for a brown girl,” as if beauty isn’t ours to claim. These constant reinforcements shape how we see ourselves, planting the idea that we are secondary. That’s the quietest and most dangerous kind of discrimination—the kind that convinces you to shrink yourself before anyone else even has to.

And yet, the story doesn’t end there. While it may be easy to succumb to the narrative written for us, there is also power in reclaiming it—power in recognizing that we are more than the labels, the stereotypes, and the expectations placed upon us. I’ve spent much of my life feeling as if I had to work harder, prove myself more, and overcompensate just to be seen as valuable. But I am starting to understand: our value is not contingent on fitting into a mold created by others. I am not the “smart Indian girl”—I am simply me. And as I continue to unlearn the ways in which I’ve internalized inadequacy, I find strength in embracing my identity in its entirety, imperfections and all.

But this isn’t just about me—it’s about every brown girl who has ever felt like she had to shrink herself to fit in. I don’t want us to keep making ourselves smaller, more palatable, just to be accepted. I don’t want us to keep proving our worth to people who never questioned their own. We’ve spent too long trying to be what the world expects instead of just being who we are. I don’t have all the answers, but I know this: I refuse to let the next generation go through the same thing. It shouldn’t be radical to just exist without explanation, without justification. We deserve that much. And whether the world is ready for it or not, we’re taking up space.