The Woman Who Stopped Performing - By Kamakshi Sivagurunathan

Written By: Kamakshi Sivagurunathan

Category: Memoir

Competition: Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Kamakshi Sivagurunathan offers a profoundly introspective narrative in her memoir, "The Woman Who Stopped Performing." Featured in the Creative Writing category of the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar, this piece delves into the nuanced journey of self-discovery and empowerment. Kamakshi's work resonates with themes of identity, societal expectation, and the courage to listen to one's own voice amidst the din of external demands.

About the Work

"The Woman Who Stopped Performing" is a reflective narrative that captures the essence of reclaiming one's identity. Kamakshi Sivagurunathan uses vivid imagery and poignant observations to explore the quiet battles of a life spent conforming to expectations. Her storytelling evokes a sense of awakening, moving from invisibility to self-awareness, and ultimately, self-acceptance. The memoir is a testament to the enduring strength of the human spirit when it chooses authenticity over performance.

The woman who stopped performing

Original Submission by Kamakshi Sivagurunathan

The Woman Who Stopped Performing

Category: Creative Non-Fiction / Memoir By Kamakshi Sivagurunathan

I did everything right. I was the good daughter, the responsible one, the person everyone could count on. If something needed to be done, I did it before anyone asked. If someone needed help, I was already there before they even called. From the outside, my life looked stable, even admirable. But inside, something was always missing. Not something big. Not something dramatic. Just… me.

I did not become invisible in one day. It happened slowly, over forty-three years. I learned to adjust, to match, to fit perfectly into the shades of others. I became who they needed me to be. I believed that was love. I believed that was worth it. I believed if I performed well in every role, I would finally feel seen, heard, and valued.

But the truth was simple: the more I performed, the less I existed.

It showed up in small ways. Sitting in a room full of people, yet saying nothing. Waiting for others to decide, and quietly agreeing. Replaying conversations in my head, wondering if I said something wrong. A two-minute talk would stay with me for two hours. Even when I earned my own money, I would hide a simple saree inside the cupboard for two days, waiting for the “right moment” to say I bought it ,as if I needed permission to exist in my own life.

For years, I thought this was normal. This is how women live. This is what being “good” means.

In 2005, I lost my father. I did not stop. I became stronger and more responsible. I carried what needed to be carried. From 2006 through my engagement and years of marriage, I continued performing roles, each one with duties, expectations, and silent rules. I fulfilled them all. But I never asked… Where am I in all this?

On October 3rd, 2025, my husband passed away suddenly in his sleep.

And for the first time in my life… there was nothing to perform. No expectations. No script. No role. Just silence.

And in that silence, something unfamiliar happened. I heard a voice. My voice.

It was not strong. It was not clear. It was new. Because for forty-three years, I had never listened to it. My life had always been guided by what was expected, what was acceptable, and what would keep everything in place. For the first time, I did not know where I belonged. And for the first time… I did not want to belong.

I just wanted to live.

There was a time I used to watch certain women: bold, expressive, visible. Women who spoke freely, who stood on stages, and who lived in their own voice. I thought they were different. I thought they were born that way. Somewhere inside, that life felt like a distant dream. Not meant for someone like me.

But something shifted. For the first time, I did not ask. I chose.

I chose to show up. I chose to write. I chose to express. I became an author. I wrote Healing Through Grief on the 15th day after his death as part of the Likega India mission. There were voices inside and outside. Will people judge? Is it too soon? What will they think? But this time, I did not obey them.

I had a dream to create something that would be seen, something that would exist beyond roles for the man who trusted me . On December 17th, that dream became real. On January 17th, it entered the India Book of Records and the Asia Book of Records. And in Mumbai, I stood on a stage not as someone performing a role, but as a woman standing in her own voice.

And in that moment, I understood something quietly powerful. The woman I once watched… the one I thought was bold, different, visible… I had become her.

Not by proving. Not by performing. But by no longer hiding.

Even now, there is a quiet question that visits me sometimes: Am I still performing… or am I finally being?

Because this is the truth many women live with. We are visible everywhere, in responsibilities, in expectations, and in roles, but invisible within ourselves. We are seen for what we do, not for who we are. And the deepest fear is not failure. It is this silent question: If I stop performing… will I still be loved?

I do not have all the answers. But I know this.

I am no longer willing to disappear to belong. I am no longer willing to perform to feel worthy. I am learning to sit with myself. To hear myself. To live without comparison.

And maybe… that is where being truly seen begins.

2nd entry

A Permission Slip for My Sister

My Dear Sister,

I am writing this to you because I know how tired your soul is.

I know the weight of the "Golden Cage" you live in. You think it is made of love and duty, but I know it is also made of silence. I know the "metallic skip" your heart makes when the phone rings. I know the way you stand in the kitchen, eating the cold leftovers, telling yourself that as long as everyone else is happy, you are "fine."

For forty-three years, I was you.

I was the "High-Performing Ghost." I adjusted my colors to match everyone else’s shades. I thought that if I performed every role perfectly, the good daughter, the responsible wife, and the tireless worker, I would finally earn the right to exist. I thought if I was "usable," I would be "valuable."

But I learned a hard truth that I want to share with you: The more you perform, the less you exist.

When the silence finally came into my life on October 3rd, 2025, I realized that I didn't know the woman in the mirror. I knew the "roles," but I didn't know the "soul."

I want to tell you what no one told me for four decades: You do not need permission to be seen.

● You don’t need permission to wear the bright yellow saree today. ● You don't need anyone's permission to say "No" to a family member who takes up your time.

● You don’t need permission to rest when your body feels like it’s carrying an 87kg shield.

● You don’t need permission to have a dream that has nothing to do with your kitchen or your office.

I used to watch bold women from a distance and think, "They are different. They were born with a voice. But standing on that stage in Mumbai, holding my records, I realized they weren't different. They just stopped hiding.

Sister, the "internal uncle" in your head. The one who tells you that choosing yourself is "selfish" is just an old program. It is a structural error in our upbringing. It is not the truth.

The truth is that you are already seen. You are already heard. You are already valued. Not for what you do, but for who you are.

You don't have to wait for a tragedy to hear your own voice. You can listen to it today. It is small, and it is new, but it is yours.

Stop performing. Start being.

I am waiting for you on the other side of the cage. The door is already open. You just have to walk through.

With credibility and love,

Kamakshi

3rd entry

The Audit of a Ghost: Reading Between the Lines

When I look at my old journals now, I don't see a diary. I see a mirror of who I was forced to be. I see the invisible rules I was following without even knowing it. Here is the truth I found when I finally looked past the handwriting.

I thought I was writing a daily Log, but what I was really doing was writing a Performance Review.

I thought I was only writing down what happened during the day. "Met the neighbor," "Went to the temple," "Finished the cooking." But now I see that I was writing for an audience. I was writing for the internal uncle who lives in my head. I was trying to prove that I was a "good girl," a "responsible daughter," and an "ideal wife." I wasn't writing for my soul; I was writing to show that I hadn't made any blunders.

"If someone reads this after I’m gone, they should see that I never complained. They should see I was always pleasant. Let me

not write about the headache or the anger. Let me just write that the day was 'fine'."

The way I would press the pen extra hard on the paper, as if the force of the ink could make the "fine" day true.

I thought I was making lists of things to do, but I was really learning how to program services.

My diaries are full of little boxes with ticks in them. I thought I was just being efficient. But now I know that those ticks were my "Permission Slips" to live. I believed that if I finished the laundry, paid the electricity bill, and organized the kitchen, I had earned my right to sleep. My worth was tied to how much I could do for others.

"Okay, seven things are done. Only three more. If I finish them, then Ma will be happy. Then I can sit down for five minutes. My value is in my usefulness."

The sharp, quick sound of the pen making a 'tick' is the only moment of satisfaction in a sixteen-hour day.

I thought the blank spaces were days with nothing to do, but they were really feelings that had been pushed down.

There are weeks in my journals where nothing is written. I used to think, "Oh, I must have been too busy." But the human decoder inside me knows better now. Those were the days I felt the most "heavy." Those were the days I cried in the bathroom while the shower was running so no one would hear. I didn't write on those days because my truth was too big for the paper. I was afraid that if I wrote "I am lonely," the words would catch fire.

There are no words for this heaviness. If I start writing, I might never stop crying. It is better to leave the page white and pretend I am empty.

The dry, dusty feeling of a page that hasn't been touched in a month.

I thought my handwriting was neat, but I was really wearing a mask that made me look perfect.

My writing was always in a straight line. Every letter was the same size. I used to be proud of how "neat" it was. But now I see it was a sign of fear. I didn't allow my handwriting to be messy because "messy" meant I was losing control. I was afraid that a slanted line or a shaky letter would show the world that I was falling apart.

"Keep it straight. Keep it tidy. Don't let the ink smudge. A good woman is always in control. Even her handwriting must be 'decent' and 'modest'."

The cramp in my fingers from holding the pen too tightly, trying to keep the ink from leaking onto the paper.

I thought I was writing grocery lists but was actually performing identity deletion.

Pages and pages of coriander, mustard, milk, and dal. I knew the exact price of every vegetable in the market. I knew exactly when the gas cylinder would run out. I knew the system perfectly. But while I was recording the price of the salt, I didn't know the price my soul was paying for my silence. I had become the administrator of the house, but I had ceased to be the woman living in it.

"Milk is 24 rupees today. I must remember that. I need to plan for the next need for my husband. I should write that down. What do I need? Nothing. I have everything. I’m fine."

The smell of the kitchen onions and spices clinging to the diary as I wrote the list at the dining table.

We think this is "normal." We think this is just what Indian women do. But it isn't. Just because it is common doesn't mean it is healthy. It is a structural error in our upbringing. We are taught to be the "narrators" of everyone else's lives, but we are never taught to be the heroines of our own.

Kamakshi, you have already walked out of this cage. Your new journals don't have grocery lists; they have world records.

About the Competition

The Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar invites participants to explore the depths of their literary creativity. This prestigious platform celebrates diverse voices and genres, encouraging writers to express their unique perspectives. The competition is a beacon for emerging talent, providing a space to share work with a global audience and fostering a supportive community for literary artists.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Kamakshi Sivagurunathan for sharing "The Woman Who Stopped Performing" with us. Her brave exploration of identity and self-discovery enriches the Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, offering readers a deeply personal and transformative experience. We look forward to witnessing more of Kamakshi's journey and hearing her powerful voice in future works.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.