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There is a cow drawn on my whiteboard.
It is not a good drawing. It’s lopsided and over- scribbled, a cartoon that looks like it escaped from Looney Tunes. Around it, I have drawn arrows. On one side: “USA.” On the other: “India.” At the bottom, a stick figure labeled “me.”
I thought I was trying to figure out what to write about. I did not realize I was sketching a map of myself.
Over winter break in Chicago, I stood in line at Chipotle with my Dada. It was the middle of the day, wedged between a few hours at work and our bi-weekly Costco run. I glanced up at the menu and, on autopilot, started planning my usual double-chicken bowl. Protein means progress. Progress means discipline. Discipline means success.
Then I looked at my Dada. He has been vegetarian his entire life. Without really thinking, I changed my order to a quesadilla.
It was a tiny decision. No one commented. But it stayed with me. At that moment, food stopped being just food. It became a choice between progress and respect–between who I am trying to become and where I come from.
In Hindu culture, cows are sacred. They are protected not because they are efficient or profitable, but because they are meaningful. As a kid, I never questioned this. It sat in the background of my life, like a belief you inherit before you can spell it.
In America, very little stays in the background. Everything demands a justification, a metric, an outcome. Food is fuel. Time is money. Success is numbers. I learned that vocabulary early.
Eventually, I turned it on myself. I started tracking everything: grades, sets in the gym, hours studied, applications submitted. I quit video games. I built color-coded routines. I optimized my days. When I am not productive, I feel restless. When I slow down, I feel guilty. Rest does not feel like recovery; it feels like losing ground.
My parents believe stress is necessary. They had to fight for everything they have. My grandparents arrived in this country with almost nothing. Their struggle built the floor I stand on. I carry that history with me, but it does not always feel like motivation. It often feels like a bill I am trying to pay off.
When I visit India, the debt feels even more complicated. My language is clumsy. My habits are strange. I eat meat. I walk too fast. I am Indian, but not entirely. American, but not completely. I live in the space between those arrows on my whiteboard.
Like the cow.
In one world, it is holy. In another, it is a commodity. I realized I had started treating myself the same way. In the American part of me, I am something to be maximized–hours, outputs, results. In the Indian part of me, I am supposed to carry tradition, gratitude, respect. I rarely let myself exist without proving I deserve to.
I want to be useful. I want to produce. I want to show that my family’s sacrifices were not wasted. Every achievement feels less like a celebration and more like another payment toward balance I can not quite see.
Sometimes, my systems fall quiet. I stare into space and think about how vast everything is, how small I am, how much I will never control. My carefully counted numbers feel fragile in that darkness. My routines feel paper-thin.
That is when I notice the cow on my board.
It reminds me that some things matter even when they are not efficient. That value does not always come from output. That respect is not something you only earn by moving faster.
I am still ambitious. I still set hard goals. I still believe in discipline. But I am learning that success does not have to erase where I come from. It can include it.
My grandparents taught me how to endure.
The cow is teaching me how to pause.
I am learning how to do both.