I don’t hear the term log kya kahenge as much anymore, but I still feel it.
It appears quietly, just before I speak. When I hesitate to discuss my degree. When I withhold my aspirations so that they don’t appear overly ambitious. When I select what aspects of my life are appropriate to reveal and which should be kept private. Even now, as an adult who can make her own decisions, that concern persists in the back of my mind: what will others say?
Growing in a Pakistani household, log kya kahenge wasn’t just a phrase. It was a warning, a reminder, and a regulation all in one. It was effective without having to be shouted. Sometimes it was expressed quietly, almost casually, but the point was clear: your options do not exist in isolation. They’re observed, measured, and recalled. Reputation mattered. Perception mattered. Community mattered.
That external audience eventually became internal.
Even when no one was looking, I learned to observe myself. To anticipate judgment before it arrives. To make decisions based not only on my desires, but also on how those decisions would appear from the outside. Does this make sense to others? Would it prompt questions? Will it reflect negatively on my family? Slowly, the term log (“others”) became a nickname for an inner voice that questioned any divergence from the planned course.
University was supposed to mark the beginning of independence; and in many respects, it was. But log kya kahenge did not vanish when I left the house: it followed me. It influenced how I discussed my major, explained my pace, and presented doubt as intentional rather than honest. There was constant pressure to appear “on track,” even when I didn’t feel that way. Falling behind academically seemed more than just frustrating: it felt embarrassing.
The stakes are particularly high for Pakistani girls. You grow up knowing that you represent more than just yourself. Your decisions are interpreted as character qualities. Your mistakes become lessons. You learn early how to be cautious: how to avoid drawing attention, how to retain respectability, and how to keep things quiet. Independence exists, but only within specific limitations. You are free to grow, as long as it does not damage the image that people are comfortable with.
The end outcome is a certain type of self-policing. You begin screening your desires before they become words. You wonder if something is worth the possible commentary. You compare your happiness against hypothetical talks taking place somewhere else. Over time, it becomes impossible to know if your decisions are right for you or safe from examination.
What makes log kya kahenge so strong is that it does not require enforcement. Nobody must stop you. You stop yourself. You learn how to modify, compromise, and settle. And because this behaviour is frequently portrayed as maturity or responsibility, it can be difficult to see the consequences. Anxiety becomes usual. People pleasing seems like survival. You mistake being careful for being fulfilled.
This is where I started thinking about Al-Ghazali, a Muslim philosopher who wrote a lot on intention (niyyah) and the dangers of living for external acceptance. Al-Ghazali warned that when activities are motivated largely by how they are seen rather than why they are performed, the self becomes fractured. Pulled away from authenticity and toward performance.
That thought concerned me because it felt disturbingly familiar.
Many of my decisions were influenced less by intention and more by appearances. I didn’t ask, “Is this right for me?” I was wondering whether this looked appropriate. I’d learned to favour being understood over being honest, even if it meant burying certain aspects of myself. Al-Ghazali’s emphasis on personal accountability reminded me how exhausting it is to live for an audience that never fully goes away.
For a long time, I assumed this meant I lacked bravery. That if I were stronger or more confident, I wouldn’t care what others thought. But the reality is more convoluted. This attitude is inherited rather than the result of individual weakness. It stems from growing up in societies where safety, belonging, and honour are profoundly ingrained and deviation can have serious consequences.
However, there comes a time when existing just for “log” becomes suffocating.
I began to realize how much work it takes to maintain that imaginary audience. How exhausted I felt from constantly explaining myself, justifying my pace, and downplaying my doubt. I recognized that many of my decisions were based on what would attract least amount of attention. And this understanding prompted a challenging question: Who am I becoming if avoidance is my driving foundation?
Unlearning log kya kahenge does not occur all at once. It’s not dramatic. It is slow and inconsistent. It looks like catching oneself before limiting a perspective. It looks like letting a decision remain without overly explaining it. It looks like living with the discomfort of being misunderstood and deciding not to clarify the story every time.
I’ve learned that choosing yourself does not imply rejecting your culture or dismissing your heritage. It entails understanding that your worth is not dependent on constant praise. It entails accepting that imperfection, uncertainty, and incompleteness are all necessary for growth. Al-Ghazali argued that sincerity begins when acts are free of the need for praise, which I’m learning is both difficult and vital.
I still hear log kya kahenge occasionally. It has not disappeared. But it no longer has final say. I’m learning the difference between caution, which protects me, and fear, which confines me. I’m realizing that a fulfilling existence is founded on intention and self-trust, rather than silence and tolerance.
Adulthood, I’ve learned, isn’t about avoiding judgment totally. When making a decision, it is important to consider whose voice matters the most.
And for the first time, I’m striving to make that voice my own.