Boundaries in marriage are difficult in any culture.
But in a patriarchal system—especially in many Indian households—they almost feel impossible.

You’re told marriage is sacred.
You’re told it’s between two families.
You’re told that once married, you can be unhappy, but never divorced.

And even when you’re financially independent, you still put up with it.
Not just for yourself, but for the image, the fear of society, the shame it might bring to your parents.
Divorces in India are rare, messy, and full of family drama.
So, you stay.

I stayed.

I stayed when he demanded I stay on the phone all day.
When I was bombarded with his problems at work, so toxicity followed me everywhere.
When he’d show up outside my office, just to remind me I was his.
Control wrapped as care.

I stayed when he told me I’d be hit if I didn’t agree.
When I couldn’t go to sleep early because he wanted me to stay up with him,
and he’d turn the volume of the TV higher and higher until I woke up.

I stayed when I couldn’t eat the food I wanted.
He only wanted pizza and burgers.
There was never an option for something healthier.
So I compromised—again and again.

I stayed when I wanted to meet my brother, who was visiting town, and it became a fight.
He never let me be alone with my parents.
He checked my phone logs, tracked my tone, and questioned everything.

A few hours to myself was treated like betrayal.
It was never about love.
It was about possession.
And I kept letting go of pieces of myself just to avoid another explosion.

I became a master at compartmentalizing.
Smiling at work.
Socializing at events.
Living with anxiety, depression, and physical symptoms behind closed doors.

But something shifted.

Right after the separation, I got my first opportunity to be a people manager.
A team of 22.
And leadership came naturally.
Because now, no one was pressing me down, controlling my time, or punishing me for being who I was.

With him, it would have never been possible.
He trained me to live in shame.
To give up on the name of peace.

I had to unlearn that.

In Indian culture, assertiveness in women is often labeled as dominance.
And dominant women don’t deserve happiness, they say.
So we play this game—yo-yoing between shame and rebellion, trying to find a place to stand.

Until we wake up.
Until we stop playing.
Until we speak our truth with calmness and certainty.

For me, that wake-up moment was terrifying.

The night he choked me, drunk and angry, something inside me cracked.
I tried to talk.
Tried to ask for a change.
He didn’t apologize—he asked me to accept his “limitations.”

That was the end.
It had to be.

I was always the higher earner.
Always independent.
But he still tried to control my money and used it to fuel his lifestyle.

I finally spoke to my parents.
And they supported me immediately.

But the whispers came quickly—
Relatives pitying me.
Strangers are trying to match me with “another broken-hearted divorced man.”
Because in their minds, I must be married.

But here’s the truth: I was never broken.

I’m successful professionally.
I’m financially secure.
I’m open to love, not out of desperation, but from wholeness.

I’m living in self-love.
I’m surrounded by family who truly see me.
And the joy I find in my nephew and niece is something I cherish deeply.

I’ve learned that only children deserve the kind of giving that expects nothing in return.
With adults, I get to receive, too.
And I get to say: I matter.

The Gita speaks about duty and personal truth.
It reminds us that sacred bonds should not come at the cost of our souls.
Sometimes, the path of duty means walking away.
Even when it’s hard.
Even when it’s misunderstood.

And in walking away, I didn’t just save my life.
I reclaimed it.

If you’re a professional woman navigating a toxic relationship while trying to lead in your career, I see you.
Your leadership does not have to wait for someone else’s permission.

Let’s talk. Let’s rise. Together.