Sucker Punch

1. Conflict as a Language of Love and Intimacy

I love fighting. I like conflict. It feels natural.

Family's loud dynamic. The author grew up in an Indian-Canadian household where yelling and arguments were the primary mode of communication, making silence feel more menacing. This constant, often brutal, exchange of words ensured messages were clear, fostering a unique sense of intimacy and connection within her family. She found comfort in this dynamic, viewing it as a sign of love and engagement, unlike the "well-behaved" pretense of her white neighbors.

Seeking conflict in relationships. This upbringing instilled in her an appetite for conflict, which she carried into adulthood and her romantic relationships. She found herself drawn to situations and people that guaranteed a fight, believing that arguing was a way to feel safe, heard, and connected. This preference for confrontation extended to her professional life, where she embraced a career that often involved online arguments, and even into casual social interactions.

Misinterpreting intimacy. Her husband, however, did not share this view, often shrinking in the face of her aggressive energy. This stark contrast highlighted her ingrained belief that fighting was a necessary component of love and a framework for a better marriage. She struggled to understand relationships without this central conflict, often turning her loved ones into adversaries when external "prey" was absent, revealing a primitive drive for engagement through battle.

2. The Peril and Performance of a Public Life

I allowed myself to be my work when I should have protected myself better.

Life as public content. As a writer, the author's personal life, including her marriage and eventual divorce, became public fodder, creating an inescapable performance. She intentionally built her career and social life online, inviting an audience into her most intimate experiences, which later made her divorce a public spectacle. This constant visibility meant her vulnerabilities were exposed, and her narrative was subject to external interpretation and judgment.

The burden of online scrutiny. The internet, a space she cultivated for self-expression, became a record of her failures and a source of anxiety. Strangers felt entitled to details about her divorce, offering unsolicited advice or criticism, and even using her personal struggles against her. This public scrutiny made the emotional processing of her divorce even more challenging, as she felt a constant pressure to craft a palatable narrative for her audience.

Regret and self-preservation. The author eventually regretted the extent to which she had intertwined her identity with her public work, realizing the immense personal cost. She found herself deleting years of Instagram posts, attempting to erase the public record of a life that had turned sour, in a desperate act of self-preservation. This act highlighted the tension between her desire for attention and her need for privacy and control over her own story.

3. Confronting Suppressed Trauma and Rewriting Personal History

I always knew what Jeff had done to me, but still I split him into two people: one, the man who raped me at a party when I was barely an adult, and two, the weakling who needed me to help him reform.

The "Good Egg" deception. The author initially wrote about her sexual assault in a way that obfuscated the truth, creating a "palatable" narrative that protected her perpetrator, Jeff, and minimized her own trauma. This self-deception stemmed from a desire to regain control over a story she felt everyone already knew, but without admitting the full, humiliating details of what had happened. She struggled to call it "rape" for over a decade.

Memory's painful resurgence. During the pandemic, with ample time for introspection, her suppressed memories of the assault began to resurface with lethal clarity. This led her to reconnect with Jeff, not for reconciliation, but for an opportunity to be angry and to finally fight back. However, her inability to directly confront him about the assault led her to displace this anger onto her husband, creating further strain in her marriage.

The truth after death. Jeff's unexpected death, years later, brought a complex mix of relief and guilt. It freed her from the fear of his retaliation and the need to protect him, but also removed the possibility of ever receiving the apology she craved. His death forced her to confront the full, unvarnished truth of her experience, realizing that her narrative had been a lie, and that her restraint had been in service of a man who didn't deserve it.

4. Marriage as a Battleground and the Unraveling of Expectations

I always get what I want. I’m starting to think that might be the problem.

A hard-won "victory." The author's marriage to an older white man was a significant rebellion against her parents' disapproval, a "victory" she fought hard for. She believed she had finally won an argument with her family, securing a love that was hers alone. This initial triumph, however, masked deeper issues and an underlying belief that she had to fight for everything she wanted, including love.

The illusion of companionship. Despite the initial joy, the marriage quickly became a source of profound unhappiness, marked by constant arguments and a growing sense of isolation. The author realized that her husband, while initially a partner in conflict against her family, became an adversary once that external fight was over. Their differing communication styles and his infidelity further eroded the foundation, leaving her feeling profoundly alone even when together.

Disillusionment and regret. The author's initial belief that marriage would bring stability and happiness crumbled under the weight of her husband's affair and their escalating conflicts. She questioned the value of her "victory," realizing that the prize wasn't worth the self-evisceration. The marriage, once a symbol of her autonomy, became a trap, forcing her to confront the painful truth that she had mistaken conflict for intimacy and control.

5. The Enduring Scars of Body Image and Disordered Eating

I’m mad at myself for being mad at myself, mostly because it’s such a jejune affliction to have.

Early body consciousness. From a young age, the author developed a profound self-consciousness about her body, feeling "too hairy, too brown, and too big." This was exacerbated by comments from peers and her mother's own struggles with dieting. She vividly recalls a childhood comment about stomach rolls, which cemented a lifelong anxiety about her size and shape, leading to disordered eating habits like daily purging in high school.

The pandemic's cruel mirror. During the COVID-19 lockdown, her eating disorder resurfaced with renewed intensity. Despite the global crisis, she remained fixated on calorie counting and shrinking her body, hoping to emerge "better" and "more beautiful." This period highlighted the pervasive and mundane nature of body-panic among women, a "jejune affliction" that felt both humiliating and inescapable, even in the face of existential threats.

A mother's unexpected permission. After her divorce, and during her mother's illness, the author experienced a profound shift. Her mother, who had previously embodied restrictive dieting, began to urge her to "eat whatever you can. Eat anything you want. As long as you eat." This unexpected permission, born from a place of maternal concern, allowed the author to begin a slow, difficult process of relearning to eat without self-flagellation, marking a crucial step towards healing her relationship with her body.

6. Finding Autonomy Amidst Familial and Societal Pressures

I’m alone again, but I try to remember that I’ve always been alone.

The illusion of protection. The author's marriage, initially a defiant act of independence, paradoxically led to a new form of dependence. She allowed her husband to become her "babysitter," handling finances and household responsibilities, while she "pantomimed adulthood." This dynamic, coupled with her family's expectation that marriage would "take care of" her, meant she never fully developed her own sense of self-sufficiency within the relationship.

Post-divorce reckoning. The divorce forced her into a profound state of loneliness and self-reliance, prompting her to build a life "fit for loneliness." This period, though painful, became an opportunity to reclaim her autonomy. She learned to navigate daily life independently, from setting up her own apartment to managing her finances, realizing that she had always been alone, even within her marriage.

Rejection of external validation. The author's journey involved shedding the need for external validation, whether from her family's approval of her marriage or from men who sought to "save" her. She began to question societal expectations for women, particularly around remarriage and the idea that a husband equates to purpose. This newfound self-trust, though a "risk," allowed her to listen to her own body and desires, building a home for herself, by herself.

7. The Unseen Influence of Mother-Daughter Bonds

Our mothers are the soil of our trauma, and they grow us tall and formidable and a little broken at our cores.

Inherited anxieties. The author's relationship with her mother is a central "soil of trauma," shaping her views on body image, marriage, and emotional expression. Her mother's own struggles with dieting and her traditional expectations for her daughter's life deeply influenced the author's choices and insecurities. The mother's desire for her daughter to marry, for instance, was a powerful, unspoken pressure.

A complex, evolving dynamic. Despite the inherited anxieties, the mother-daughter bond is also a source of profound connection and eventual healing. The author's mother, initially a source of pressure, transforms into a figure of unconditional support during the divorce and her own illness. Her mother's simple directive to "eat" during the author's post-divorce struggles, and her later acceptance of the divorce, marked a significant shift in their relationship.

Mutual care and understanding. As her mother ages and faces health challenges, the author finds herself in a new role, caring for her parents. This experience deepens her understanding of her mother's strength and vulnerabilities, and the unspoken love that underpins their often-argumentative family dynamic. The mother's final, quiet wish for her daughter's happiness, regardless of marital status, becomes a guiding light for the author's path to self-acceptance.

8. Reclaiming the Narrative: From Self-Deception to Radical Honesty

The story is the only thing I get to take with me, wherever I go.

The cost of a "good ending." The author consciously crafted a "love story" in her first book, presenting her marriage as a triumph against odds, even as it was unraveling. This public narrative, designed to satisfy audience expectations and her own desire for a "good ending," trapped her in a cycle of insincerity. She realized that lying to herself privately was one thing, but selling that lie to a public who believed it felt like a "scam."

The burden of secrets. Keeping secrets, particularly about her husband's affair and the true nature of her assault, became an unbearable burden. This internal struggle manifested in her writing, where she felt compelled to correct the record, even if it meant exposing painful truths. The process of divorce forced her to confront these hidden realities, realizing that her self-preservation lay in radical honesty, not in maintaining a false facade.

Owning her truth. The journey from self-deception to honesty was a painful but necessary act of reclaiming her own story. She understood that her narrative was hers alone, and that its truth was not dependent on external validation or the comfort of others. This realization, though leading to public scrutiny and personal discomfort, ultimately offered liberation, allowing her to shed the "lie of it" that was always in service of others.

9. Embracing Destructive Power: From Parvati to Kali

I’m more of a Kali than a Parvati these days.

Parvati's passive devotion. The author initially identifies with Parvati, the Hindu goddess known for selfless devotion and self-sacrifice, particularly for her husband. This archetype reflects her own early approach to relationships and family expectations, where she sought to prove her worth and devotion through enduring hardship, even when it meant torturing herself. Her wedding, a "performance of devotion," was an attempt to fulfill this role.

Durga's fierce protection. When passive devotion proves insufficient, Parvati transforms into Durga, a more ferocious deity who fights to protect. This shift mirrors the author's growing realization that she needed to fight for herself, not just for others. However, even Durga's strength was not enough against certain evils, symbolizing the limits of conventional resistance and the need for a deeper, more destructive power.

Kali's liberating destruction. The ultimate transformation into Kali, the dark goddess of destruction and liberation, represents the author's embrace of her own wrath and power. Kali destroys evil, sets the universe ablaze to start anew, and offers "moksha" (eternal release). This archetype signifies the author's decision to dismantle what no longer served her—her marriage, her self-deception, her people-pleasing—even if it meant being seen as destructive. She chose to walk through the fire, not around it, to achieve her own liberation and happiness, finally becoming the "Dark Mother" of her own destiny.

Last updated: September 9, 2025