Breaking the Chains

When I first entered college, I was full of dreams. I had always wanted to be an architect, and I thought this would be the place where my passion would take flight. But what I didn’t expect was how quickly I’d come face-to-face with gender inequality in a field that I loved so much.

From the very start, I noticed it—the subtle but constant undercurrent that told me, again and again, that being a woman in a male-dominated field was going to be harder than I had imagined. In class discussions, I often found that my ideas were ignored or overshadowed by the male students who seemed to always have something to say. When I tried to speak up, the professors sometimes looked past me, directing questions to the guys.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that it wasn’t just my imagination. This was happening everywhere—in group projects, during critiques, even in casual conversations. I’d come up with ideas only to see them brushed aside, and then one of the guys would repeat them as if they were his own. In those moments, I felt small, invisible.

But I wasn’t the type to back down. I believed in my potential, even if no one else seemed to see it. So, I decided to keep pushing. I worked harder on my projects, stayed up late to make sure my designs were perfect, and tried to make my voice heard, even when it felt like it was drowned out by the noise around me. But the more I tried, the more I realized how deeply ingrained this inequality was.

It was one particular incident that pushed me to my breaking point. During a presentation for a major project, I suggested a design improvement that I thought was crucial. But instead of listening to me, my male teammate, Raj, simply repeated what I said as if it were his own. The professor, who had praised him for the idea, didn’t even acknowledge that it had come from me in the first place. I was furious, but more than that, I felt defeated. I realized then that just working hard wasn’t going to be enough. I had to do something more.

That’s when I reached out to Nisha, a close friend who had been facing similar challenges. Together, we began researching gender inequality in education, especially in fields like ours. We found that we weren’t alone. Women in architecture, engineering, and other male-dominated fields had been struggling with the same issues for years, yet many were too afraid to speak out. We knew we had to change that.

We decided to organize a seminar on gender equality in architecture, hoping to shed light on the issue and spark a conversation. I was nervous—this was a big risk, and I wasn’t sure how people would react. But I knew it was the right thing to do. We invited professors, students, and professionals to join us in discussing the challenges women faced in our field and what needed to change.

When the day finally came, I stood in front of that room full of people, my heart pounding. But as I began to speak about my experiences—about the times my ideas were stolen, the times I was ignored, the times I was made to feel less than—I felt something shift inside me. My voice, though shaky at first, grew stronger with every word. I wasn’t just speaking for myself anymore; I was speaking for every woman who had ever been dismissed, overlooked, or silenced.

The seminar sparked an incredible conversation. Many of the male students who had been blind to the inequality we faced began to listen, and some even apologized for their past behavior. Professors acknowledged their biases and committed to fostering a more inclusive environment. That day, I realized that I wasn’t alone in this fight. There were others who were willing to stand with me.

But I didn’t stop there. Over the next few months, I continued to push for change. I took on leadership roles in class projects, making sure that my voice was heard and my ideas were respected. I also started a support group for the women in our department, giving us a safe space to talk about our struggles and support one another. Slowly but surely, things began to change.

By the time I reached my final year, I was chosen to lead a major class project—the first time a woman had been given that responsibility in our department. It felt like a victory, not just for me, but for every woman who had ever been told she wasn’t good enough.

Graduation day came, and as I stood on that stage, receiving my degree, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. I had fought hard for my place in this field, and I had won. I had broken through the barriers that had been built around me, and in doing so, I had paved the way for the women who would follow.

But even then, I knew this was just the beginning. The world was changing, and I was ready to be part of that change. The chains of inequality that had held so many of us back had been broken, and the future was ours to shape.

And as I walked off the stage, I promised myself that I would never stop fighting—for myself, for others, and for the future where gender would no longer define anyone’s worth.