Cultural Stereotypes I’ve Had to Unlearn

What I have Unlearned as a Pakistani Woman from Old Lahore

I grew up in the old, busy lanes of central Lahore. Those wide and narrow streets where everyone knows your name, where gossip travels faster than electricity, and where being a girl comes with a list of rules that no one writes down, but everyone expects you to follow.

I come from a lower-middle-class family, and while I was born and raised in Lahore, my parents are originally from South Punjab. Their roots are deep there, and so, in many ways, those cultural threads ran through my upbringing too.

Learning Stereotypes Without Even Knowing

As a child, I didn’t realize I was learning to judge people. It was subtle. I’d hear jokes about people from villages, about the way they spoke, dressed, or behaved. I’d hear “paindu” thrown around like an insult. I didn’t question it. In fact, sometimes, I laughed along just to fit in.

It wasn’t just others; sometimes I felt embarrassed about my own background. I’d hesitate before telling people that my parents were from South Punjab. I’d feel this need to prove I was “modern” enough, “smart” enough, “Lahori” enough.

Being a Girl Meant Always Being Watched

From a young age, I was told things like: “Sit properly.” “Speak softly.” “Girls don’t laugh loudly.”

It was like living in a glass box where everything you did was noticed. The more I tried to express myself, the more I was reminded to shrink. So, I focused on what I could control: my studies.

I did my graduation and masters in science, and like many students with big dreams and middle-class parents, I set my sights on competitive exams. I tried hard, really hard, but I didn’t make it. And honestly? That broke me a little. I felt like I had disappointed everyone, including myself.

Choosing Writing When I Couldn’t Find My Place Elsewhere

Failing those exams felt like failing my future. But life had something else planned. Writing found me. It began with a few freelance gigs and gradually evolved into my career. I ended up working at software houses, places I never imagined myself in.

That’s where I saw the other Lahore. The one with wide roads, expensive cafes, fluent English, and people who came from middle or upper-class families. I started going to areas like Johar Town, Cantt, Davis Road, DHA, and Gulberg for work. And suddenly, I didn’t feel like I belonged again.

Imposter Syndrome Was Real

In those sleek offices, I’d sit in meetings and feel like I was pretending. I’d double-check my grammar. I’d worry my accent made me sound unprofessional. I’d hide my complex, thinking it wasn’t good enough.

Even when people praised my work, some still looked surprised that I write good content in every niche in English. Others would talk down to me without even realizing it.

There were times I felt invisible, and times I felt like a fraud. I had the degree but not the polish. I had the words but not the accent. And yet, I kept showing up every day, trying to prove that I belonged.

What Changed Me

Meeting people from different backgrounds changed a lot for me. I met girls from villages who were confident and smart. I met people from elite families who were kind and respectful. It made me question everything I thought I knew about class, culture, and education.

Reading helped too. Blogs, essays, even Instagram posts by women like me—young, brown, desi women trying to unlearn what the world told them to be ashamed of. I realized I had been carrying shame that wasn’t even mine. I wasn’t less because I didn’t speak English at home. I wasn’t less because I wore simple clothes. And I definitely wasn’t less because I failed an exam.

Unlearning Isn’t Easy, But It’s Worth It

Even now, I sometimes catch myself judging others or myself. But I pause. I ask myself: Where is this thought coming from? Is it fair? Is it kind?

Unlearning takes time. But it’s the first step toward being free from shame, from guilt, from fear. It means giving yourself permission to be fully you.

I started speaking up more. I stopped shrinking myself. I began to value my background instead of hiding it. And slowly, the weight of expectations began to lift.

If You Feel Like You Don’t Belong—You’re Not Alone

To any girl who feels like she’s too “paindu,” too quiet, too average, you belong. Your roots are not a weakness. They’re your story. And that story deserves to be told proudly.

You don’t need to speak flawless English to have a voice. You don’t need to wear branded clothes to be seen. You don’t need a perfect background to build a bright future.

I’m Still Becoming

Today, I’m still figuring things out. But I no longer hide where I come from. I don’t let my background stop me from dreaming big.

I may not have passed those competitive exams, but I’ve passed a harder test, learning to believe in myself. And that, for me, is enough.

Because I’m not just a girl from old Lahore. I’m not just the daughter of parents from South Punjab. I’m a writer. A thinker. A woman with a voice. And finally, that voice is mine.

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