Women’s history month: Shifting the conversation with Reena Jayaprakash

I was born and raised in a small village town in Kerala, India, where my childhood was painted with the soothing sounds of flowing rivers, chirping birds and rustling trees—memories that still live within me. Life in its simplest form was beautiful. My childhood was a tapestry woven with my grandmother’s warmth, her fingers combing through my hair as she told stories of resilience and destiny. I believed then that life would always be as steady as her voice and as comforting as her touch.  

My father was a businessman, a man with ambition as vast as the backwaters that surrounded our home. He dreamed of giving us more than what the village could offer, a life beyond the small markets and narrow streets, beyond the modest house that held our laughter. For a time, those dreams seemed within reach. But then, everything changed. 

My father’s business collapsed. The details of why and how were lost in hurried conversations between adults, in the tension that settled over our home like an unshakable fog. But what I do remember is the way my father changed. A man once filled with ambition and purpose now seemed weighed down by an invisible burden. He withdrew, lost in a silence heavier than words. Days passed, then months and still, he did not rebuild. He did not search for work right away. Whether it was exhaustion, defeat or something deeper, I do not know. What I do know is my mother did not wait; she picked up the wreckage and carried us forward, refusing to let despair dictate our fate. 

One morning, my mother took my hand and led me to a school for the first time, her grip firm, her voice determined saying, “This is what we can do. This is what we have.” There was no room for protesting, though my heart burned with shame. I felt the weight of the whispers from neighbors, the judgment in the eyes of relatives who pitied us for my father’s failed business. I wanted to disappear, so I did. I shrank into the background, into silence, into the shadows of my own doubt. My mother never disappeared. Resilience isn’t about avoiding hardship; it’s about standing tall in the face of it, refusing to let circumstances define you. She became my greatest role model, showing me that resilience is not something you wear but something you become, and that dignity is not granted by the world but carved from survival. 

During the hardship, I first learned silence, then rage, and within that rage, I found the will to rise, work and study. I built my future on late nights and early mornings, on exhaustion and quiet determination, on every wound endured and every sacrifice made, stitching it together with relentless hope and the certainty that my mother’s struggles would not be in vain. 

Not all daughters are wrapped in silk and safe hands; some are forged in the fire of their mother’s battles, shaped by sacrifice, strengthened by necessity and transformed into warriors long before they even understand the meaning of war. Society tells girls they need a father to be their shield, but not all daughters are daddy’s princesses, some grow up carrying the weight of their family’s survival, standing on the battlefield of life as their mother’s warriors, refusing to bow, refusing to break, refusing to be anything less than unshakable. 

The journey was anything but easy, but every challenge shaped me into the woman I am today, someone who has built a life of strength and purpose, standing beside a man who does not shrink in the presence of a strong woman but walks with me, steady and sure, as I raise three sons who will grow up knowing that the world does not belong only to men who raise their voices, but also to women who refuse to lower theirs.  

My mother has since passed away and though she’s gone, she remains with me still. In the strength of my spine, in the fire of my voice, in the quiet rebellion of my existence, my mother is a reminder that success is never handed to you but claimed through perseverance, fought for with resilience, and ultimately, forged from the very struggles that once threatened to break you. 

To the women still fighting, do not stop. To every girl who has been told she is too small, too weak and too much: stand up, take up space and carve your place in a world that is waiting to hear your voice. 

Sabre is shifting the conversation with stories from passionate and bold inclusion group members. At the heart of our inclusion & engagement efforts, our eight inclusion groups, and counting, aim to amplify the voices of our team members and create a sense of belonging for all. Together, we celebrate diversity, applaud individuality and embrace unique perspectives to empower our global team members to bring their true selves to work every day. Learn more about our inclusion & engagement mission.