If there was one word people used to describe me as a child, it was stubborn. I had opinions, and I made sure everyone knew them. If I wanted something and someone told me no, I didn’t just accept it—I fought for it. Loudly. Dramatically. Sometimes with tears, sometimes with arguments that made absolutely no sense but were delivered with so much conviction that they felt undeniable.
Of course, this led to me being labeled a brat. It wasn’t an entirely unfair label. I threw tantrums when I didn’t get my way, staged small-scale protests when things felt unjust (even if the injustice was just my bedtime), and generally made sure my presence was known. But what people didn’t always see was that beneath all of that—beneath the stubbornness, the attitude, and the fire—there was also a lot of heart.
I wasn’t difficult for the sake of being difficult. I cared deeply about things, about people, about fairness. And when I felt something was wrong, I couldn’t just let it go. Sure, maybe fighting with my cousins over the last slice of cake wasn’t exactly a moral cause, but in my young mind, it was about principle.
My father was the one person who understood me better than anyone. He saw past the outbursts, past the defiance, and recognized that my stubbornness wasn’t just about wanting control—it was about passion. He never tried to silence me, but he did try to guide me. He taught me that strength isn’t about how loud you argue but about knowing when to listen. That winning an argument isn’t as important as understanding the other side. That just because I can fight doesn’t always mean I should.
He never forced me to change who I was, but he helped me channel my energy into something more meaningful. Instead of arguing for the sake of being right, I started to ask myself why I was fighting in the first place. Was it worth it? Was I making a point, or was I just making noise?
If my father was my quiet guide, my family was my trial-and-error space. They were the ones who endured my childhood protests, who debated with me (sometimes willingly, sometimes out of sheer exhaustion), and who loved me even when I was insufferable. They taught me patience—mostly by testing mine. They taught me compromise—mostly by refusing to give in. And they taught me kindness, even when I didn’t always make it easy for them.
As I grew older, I started to see things differently. The world didn’t revolve around what I wanted. People didn’t exist just to agree with me. And sometimes, “no” wasn’t an attack—it was a boundary, a lesson, or just a reality of life.
But what never changed was the heart of who I was. I still cared deeply. I still fought for what I believed in. I still had strong opinions and wasn’t afraid to voice them. The difference was that now, I had learned to listen, to understand, and to pick my battles.
Looking back, I realize that I never truly lost that stubbornness—I just learned how to use it differently. Instead of fighting against everything, I fight for things that matter. Instead of being reactive, I try to be thoughtful. Instead of pushing people away when I don’t agree with them, I try to meet them where they are.
The same intensity that once led me to dramatic outbursts now fuels my passion for justice, for helping others, for making a difference in the world. I still have the fire in me, but now I know how to let it light the way instead of letting it burn bridges.
And through it all, my father and my family have been my anchors. They’ve been patient when I needed it, firm when I resisted it, and loving even when I didn’t deserve it. They helped shape me into someone who is both strong-willed and soft-hearted, someone who can stand her ground but also knows when to step back.
I know I still have a lot to learn. There are still moments when my first instinct is to argue, to push, to resist. But now, I take a step back. I think about what my father would say, what my family has taught me, what I’ve come to understand about the world. And then I choose—not just to fight, but to fight well.
Because at the end of the day, I’m not just a former brat. I’m someone who cares, who loves fiercely, who stands up for what’s right. And that stubborn little kid? She’s still here—just a little wiser, a little softer, and a whole lot stronger.
-Atiriya Singh