What Malala Yousafzai’s Story Tells Us About Good Girl Conditioning in the South Asian Diaspora: A South Asian Therapist’s Thoughts

Nov 14

Malala Yousafzai recently announced her newest memoir, Finding My Way, a story about her journey towards discovering her own agency. While I’m not a Pakistani or a Muslim woman, I am a South Asian American woman, and I have been witness to both valid and terrible things said about her as a woman of Pakistani background. You can’t read any post or news article about Malala without negative comments about her. Among the very valid criticism that Malala has been used for Western and Islamophobic propaganda are also threats of sexual violence from Pakistani men in her community and Islamophobic Indian men. Some of these people deny that her traumatic events were even real. Sadly, some of these comments are supported by some South Asian women who don’t find them problematic, who are unwilling to take a hard look at their internalized misogyny. A South Asian woman’s agency will always be political. Malala may never read these comments, but South Asian women all over the world will.

When we think of Malala Yousafzai, we often think of resilience, of speaking truth to power, of a global symbol for girls’ education. We also think of the ways she has disappointed others in her advocacy, particularly around Palestine, despite the many times she has spoken up for the people of Gaza. An excellent Substack by Sahar Habib Ghazi breaks this down beautifully with nuance and detail.

But as a therapist working with South Asian women who struggle with putting themselves first, I invite you to look deeper at her story from the lens of good girl conditioning, cultural expectations, and agency. Her journey becomes a mirror for many of us in the South Asian diaspora who are navigating identity, guilt, cultural loyalty, and self-worth.

As a South Asian therapist who works with women navigating the invisible weight of Good Girl Conditioning, I often think about Malala’s story not just as a political one, but as a deeply human one. Her life mirrors the struggle so many South Asian women face: the pressure to please, to perform, to represent their community “well,” even at the expense of their own truth. The most Western and Imperialistic thing you can do is expect a Brown woman to be the perfect voice of her people at all times.

Malala’s journey

Malala was born in Mingora, Pakistan, in 1997 and by her early teens had already become a voice for girls’ education in the Swat Valley under the shadow of the Tehrik‑e Taliban Pakistan. When she was only 15, she survived an assassination attempt, shot by the Taliban because she had dared to go to school. The world’s gaze turned to her: the “girl who stood up”, the youngest Nobel Peace Prize laureate.

Yet, underneath that iconic narrative lies something more complex. As a young person, Malala’s agency was always constrained. She came from a family deeply committed to education, but the overarching political, societal, and media systems helped shape her story. Decisions were often made for her: what she represented, how her voice was broadcast, how she was framed globally and locally. In this sense, Malala’s path reflects how young women, even those cast as “heroes”, can be caught between their own emerging self and the expectations of others.

Within South Asian communities and beyond, Malala was expected to be the “good Muslim girl,” and the “good Pakistani girl.” She was meant to be brimming with courage, but also modest; outspoken, yet palatable to Eastern cultural norms. In the eyes of the West, she was expected to be committed to her roots, but overall digestible to global audiences, to be their idea of what a “good Brown woman” or a “good victim” should be. Ultimately, Malala represents the battle between the West’s desire to use women as a pawn for their gain, and the East’s battle for global respect and humanity. Her humanity is lost in the process. No one is actually listening to her story without trying to make it about them and their narrative for her. As she has grown into adulthood, we are now seeing her more publicly acknowledge imperfections. Her recent memoir Finding My Way highlights the “messy side” of her life, the friendships, the mental-health struggles, the attempts to find her own path.

Her story is a rich case study for good girl conditioning: the internalized belief that our worth as women, especially as women from tight-knit cultural communities, lies in being compliant, modest, quiet, self-sacrificing, and unimpeachably “good” in the eyes of others. For South Asian women in the diaspora, good girl conditioning often shows up as, “I must please my family”; “I must honor my culture”; “I must not disappoint”; “I must represent my community well”. Malala’s story helps us see how that programming may play out, not just in us, but in global cultural icons too.

Western and Eastern expectations

What does Malala teach us about the dual pressure many South Asian women face—from the West and from our own cultural/Eastern communities? Let’s unpack this.

South Asian women are often expected to be accomplished in their careers but traditional in their homes. That’s because we associate career and work with the West (the “Occident”) and traditional gender norms with the East (“the Orient”). From a Western vantage point, Malala was handed a narrative: the brave girl from Pakistan who is grateful, non-threatening, compliant with a “success story” script. The West often expects South Asian women to be good victims: grateful, quiet, palatable, safe. When they deviate from that script, becoming assertive, honest, real, they get criticised. South Asian women are perceived as victims who need saving, but when they speak up about their experiences, they’re seen as aggressive. Malala faced such critiques.

From an Eastern or South Asian cultural lens, women are often expected to be obedient, modest, family-oriented, culturally loyal, silent about discomfort, always putting others first. They are to sacrifice their own voice for family and community harmony. Malala’s journey challenges that: she became more visible than most South Asian women ever do, and yet she still faced questions about whether she was staying “true” to her community roots, or being too Western, too outspoken, too individualistic.

Both sides cast South Asian women into the role of perfection: you must succeed, you must fulfill duties, and yet you must keep others happy before you think of yourself. And you must do so elegantly and quietly. For many South Asian women in the diaspora, this equates to chronic people-pleasing, hidden perfectionism anxiety, fear of disappointing others, and fear of taking up space, even when it costs us our own lives.

South Asian women’s journey towards agency

Let’s bring this back to you: the journey toward autonomy, authenticity, and agency as South Asian women is rarely linear. It’s messy. It involves missteps, recalibrations, relational ruptures, feel-good breakthroughs, and self-compassion. How you view and critique Malala might actually be a reflection of how you see yourself in relationship to family, community, culture, and society.

We are taught to believe that if we do things right—meet expectations of parents, culture, religion, community—then we’ll be safe, loved, and our lives will be valuable. And when we inevitably falter, we shame ourselves or wait for shame to find us. And when we see Malala do things we don’t agree with, it’s very easy to project these same beliefs onto her. You are allowed to disagree with Malala’s choices, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make an attempt to understand her. Understanding is not the same thing as agreement. You can understand the Malala’s motivations without agreeing to her choices. Wouldn’t you want your family–who can be highly critical–to make an attempt to understand you, even if they don’t agree with what you’re doing? Malala isn’t asking for you to agree with her, but she is asking for some empathy, which shouldn’t be a big ask. Just like how Malala is finding her way, so are you. Do you have people in your life who give you grace, or do you find that you’re surrounded by people who are quick to assume the worst of you the way we are quick to assume the worst of Malala?

You may have been surrounded by family and community members who were quick to assume the worst of you. You may have learned to associate shaming tactics in families as valid criticism. Not all criticism is valid, and criticism is not the same as shaming. Think about the kind of criticism you have against Malala. How much of your criticism of her choices is valid critique, and how much of it is rooted in racist, sexist, and Islamophobic expectations? Where did you learn that this is valid criticism? Who taught you these narratives?

Many South Asian women were taught that the importance of humility, or not being “too big for your britches”. But we also came from highly critical households that didn’t teach us how to be confident. So we associate humility with not taking up space, making ourselves smaller in the service of everybody else. You were taught this is humility when it’s actually you dwelling in fear and shame. Shame is not the same thing as humility. Humility is grounded in authenticity: “I made a choice, I did my best, I have limitations, I’m learning.” Shame says: “I am undeserving of love, respect, or understanding for making a choice.” When South Asian women hide behind shame instead of practicing cultural humility, we shrink ourselves. We hide our needs, we stop asking for help, we stop therapy, we stop exploring.

In your journey of stepping away from being the “good girl” who pleases everyone, you don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to always get it right. You also don’t have to follow through on everyone else’s opinions of what they think you should do. Learning to say “no,” learning to ask for what you need, learning to disappoint some people but honour yourself is not curated; it’s messy and it’s real. Integrity isn’t about perfection; it’s about being honest about your limitations, and learning that maybe those limitations don’t need to change.

How South Asian women hide in shame

Within our cultural tapestry, shame can become a silent limiter. Many of us suppress our desires because we fear letting people down, disappointing our families, committing spiritual or cultural betrayal, or being seen as selfish. We wait till we’re “fixed” to speak. We hide mistakes. We believe our missteps invalidate our worth.

But here’s something I want you to sink into: Cultural humility is not the same thing as cultural shame. Cultural humility is holding respect for your cultural roots while acknowledging you are more than any one role or story that culture projects onto you. Cultural shame is believing your roots and the role you play in them define your worth, instead of you defining your worth for yourself.

You might be working in a job your parents didn’t anticipate, dating someone differently than they hoped, pursuing therapy, or wanting space for your own identity. These are not signs of cultural betrayal; they are signs of humanity. Try to bring your story into the open, even if imperfect. When you see yourself as whole and worthy, you give permission to other women in your cultural community to do the same.

There’s no such thing as 100 % values-alignment

One of the most freeing insights I share with my clients is this: living with integrity does not require perfectionism. Many South Asian women believe that if they truly align with their family’s values, their cultural or religious values, or even their own values, they can never disappoint and that they’ll always choose correctly. But that’s not human or realistic.

Your values matter. But in stressful, complex situations, such as career decisions, immigration pressures, inter-cultural relationships, and mental-health needs, you will negotiate, you will compromise, you will choose yourself sometimes. And that does not mean you lost integrity. It means you are realistic. You are human.

Integrity is about being honest about your limitations, your boundaries, your needs—and still choosing to act in alignment as best you can. It’s about owning when you’ve messed up, forgiving yourself, and recommitting. That’s what Malala’s story models: she is not flawless. She has made choices that some critique. She is now part of the messy human experience. That’s brave. That’s real. That’s your journey too, and you don’t have to wait until you feel perfect to start it.

How Therapy Can Help

If you’re reading this and thinking: “Yes, this is me! I feel like I’m living for everyone else but myself. I fear letting people down. I feel stuck between pleasing my family and my community and pursuing the life I want”, you’re not alone. This is a canon event. Many South Asian American women carry this invisible burden of good girl conditioning.

Here’s how therapy can help: A culturally responsive therapist who is attuned to South AsianAmerican mental health, cultural expectations, intergenerational trauma, and identity negotiation can help you map your internal world where your values, your hopes, your pains, your codes of approval and disapproval live. We can explore:

Who you’ve been conditioned to serve or represent.
Where your voice was silenced or diverted.
What you really want, underneath the layers of “I should,” “I need to,” “I must.”
How to rehearse boundaries to yourself and others, kindly but firmly (and being “rude” when you need to be).
How to repair from shame, from perfectionism anxiety, from people-pleasing exhaustion.
How to build a life that honours both your cultural roots and your emergent identity.

You do not need to perform perfectly. You just need to begin. Even one free consultation can shift your trajectory. If you’re ready to step outside of those boxes of the “good daughter,” the “model community woman” the one who never disappoints, and step into a life that feels aligned with you, I invite you to book your free intro call with me today. Together we can explore how therapy (with a cultural lens for South Asian women) can support you in forging your own path with integrity, with authenticity, and with compassion.

Thank you for being courageous enough to read this. Thank you for daring to question what “good” really means. Thank you for being more than the roles you’ve been assigned and more than the expectations placed upon you. Your life, your voice, your identity matter. Let’s begin together.

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