GenZ has gone too far

(warning- it's a piece of mind piece. If it offends, well...)

There’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from doing too much — it comes from pretending.

Pretending to like things you don’t.

Pretending to want things you never asked for.

Pretending to be someone who fits better on a feed than in real life.

And honestly? I’m over it.

I’m over the aesthetic-for-others energy. I’m over the “live like you’re being watched” mindset. I’m over trying to frame my life like it’s a trailer, hoping someone — a person, a college, the universe — will finally call it impressive.

Because here’s the truth: I get told, “That’s why you don’t have a man,” when I crack one too many bad jokes, or take up too much space, or dare to not dim my personality to look desirable. And for a while, I let that statement linger. I let it land.

But not anymore.

You think that’s an insult?

“You don’t have a man”?

That’s your best shot?

If the price of a"relationship" is my silence, my softness, my self — keep it.

You think that’s an insult? “You don’t have a man”? That’s your best shot?

Let me make this crystal clear: if the price of having a man is shrinking myself to fit some fragile ego — keep him. I’m not interested. I’m not a tryout. I’m not a pitch. And I’m definitely not walking in flats instead of heels so some insecure guy can feel tall. If that’s your definition of “having a man,” I’m good being the villain in your little fairy tale. 

I’m not here auditioning to be girlfriend material. I’m not waking up in the morning hoping I’ll finally be palatable enough for someone with the emotional range of a teaspoon to find me cute. I’m not dressing up to be chosen. I’m not softening my tone to be tolerable. I'm not living a life that looks good in someone else's fantasy.

I’m not interested in being your safe choice. I am my own home. My own storm. My own peace.

I am the man and the woman in my life.

And no, I don’t “lack” a man.

I am the standard. I am the bar. I am the reason mediocre boys will have to try harder.

I already have the love I need. From men like my dad and my grandfather — who never confused fear with respect. Who never needed me to shrink in order to shine. Who never made me question if I was too much. They made space for me. They taught me I never had to ask permission to be whole.

So, no — I don’t lack a man.

What I lack is patience for boy who don’t measure up.

And to the people who think being single is some kind of failure — please evolve. This isn’t a 19th-century romance novel.

I’m not a plot device waiting to be rescued. I am the main character, the antagonist, the narrator, and the goddamn author.

Sure, I have crushes. I want to wear lip gloss, take cute pictures and feel beautiful. But I do that for the girl in the mirror — not for your double taps, not for validation, and definitely not to attract a man or more like a BOY who wouldn’t know what to do with me, how to treat me even if I came with a manual.

Also, can we collectively agree to stop pretending certain things are deep just because they’re trending?

No, I don’t enjoy green juice. No, I don’t like group projects. No, I don’t vibe with toxic hustle culture dressed up in Pinterest quotes.

I’ve tried smiling through it, tried loving it, tried "just going with it." But the truth is — I don’t want to.

I don’t want to wake up every morning chasing a new version of “girlboss” or “main character” or whatever the algorithm’s calling confidence this week. I don’t want to force a romantic subplot into a life that’s already rich with plot.

I don’t want to be told to shrink, smile, and say thank you for being included in spaces I created for myself.

I want to live a school life that makes me happy.

Not one that makes me popular.

Not one that makes me memorable in other people’s high school montages.

I want to laugh too loud in the corridors, forget the lyrics mid-performance, cry over silly crushes, eat canteen samosas without worrying how I look.

I want to post a blurry selfie because I like my smile in it.

I want to say “I’m not okay” without turning it into a quirky one-liner.

I want to dream out loud, but not for applause.

I want to do me. 

And I think as a generation, too exposed, we forget that. We try to be 21-year-olds not by thought or maturity but by looking, dressing and behaving like we've reached mid-life crisis and that we're corporate girlies with constant meetings and no time for normalcy.

Life’s too short to pretend.

And I’m too much of everything to fake being less (that was a confusing statement to phrase) 

So if this piece is different from what I usually write, it’s because today wasn’t about jokes.

Today was about sleeping in my old t-shirt and my old shorts with my hair in a bun, sitting in the most comfortable way and taking a break from Instagram because I couldn't scroll through another story and reel of someone living to be liked.

I had to remember — this isn't who I want to become.

This one’s a reminder to myself.

To be loud. To be honest. To be full.

To stop pretending.

And maybe — if you’ve been pretending too and are tired — it’s a reminder for you.

As Ever,

Ambika