Smile.
That’s what I was taught. When you’re uncomfortable, smile. When you don’t know what’s happening, smile. When you start to overthink, smile. When you want to seem more at ease, smile.
Make friends. Smile.
Be likable. Smile.
Keep the peace. Smile.
It’s a never-ending cycle of being kind.
For a while, I thought smiling, being observant and staying agreeable was just who I was.
Kind. Approachable. Quiet. Easy to be around.
But over time, I started to wonder — what part of that was actually me, and what part was who I was taught to be?
I’ve always thought of myself as kind and approachable, not in a forced way, but the kind that comes from genuine curiosity. The kind where I want to get to know people, even the small details. That’s how I connect — by observing. It’s a lot easier to gauge the topic of conversation and learn about the moment when you take yourself out of it. I notice the details in a person’s face before they display their emotions or how they feel — details that are never said out loud.
But somewhere in the repetition, in the constant smiling and people-pleasing, I started to realize that kindness wasn’t just something I offered, it was something expected of me.
Especially as a woman.
We’re taught to cook. To clean. To serve. To care for others without breaking a sweat. To lose ourselves quietly.
To make others feel comfortable, even when we aren’t. With my grandma, cooking was a way for her to connect with me. As a 7-year-old with no one to play with and not much to do, our connection was limited to two things: cooking, or quietly watching TV. And because everyone believed TV ruined the minds of young children, cooking it was. I wasn’t tall enough to use the stove or cut onions, so my job was to watch, to learn how it was made and maybe one day, do it myself.
My grandma never followed a recipe. She eyeballed everything. When I asked, “How much salt should I add?” she always said, “Just a pinch,” or “Pour until I tell you to stop.” It never stopped amazing me how she just knew what to do. I wanted to make what she made, create meals that could feed all my cousins, neighbors and family members.
But when I looked around the kitchen, it was always just me and my grandmother. She had taught her children to cook, but now only the women were expected to stay in the kitchen. The men knew the basics — how not to burn rice 101 — while the women learned how to prepare elaborate feasts meant to feed countries, but somehow only one man.
There were no men in the kitchen. No male cousins. No uncles. No one.
I never disliked cooking. I just resented what it meant. In my culture, cooking felt like an obligation — but only for women. I saw it every time we had visitors: the women sweating in the hot kitchen over pots of steaming food while the men sat, feet up, waiting to be served. I wasn’t just watching. I was learning what was expected of me. Not just as a skill — but as a lifestyle. A woman who knew how to cook was most valuable to her husband and her family. You were there to serve guests when they came to your house. Serve the men who visited and never lifted a hand to help, while the women stayed back, slaving away in the kitchen.
When family members came over, I had to bring them food. At first, I was okay with that: they were guests, and that’s what you do. But then the service kept going. I had to bring water for them to wash their hands. Water for them to drink. Put their shoes away. Stand awkwardly in a corner while they told me I was going to grow into a fine young lady. Then, after they finished eating, I had to clear their dirty dishes — bowls filled with bones and half-eaten food — and bring new water for them to wash their hands again.
And I hated that.
As I got older, every time I was told to “come help in the kitchen,” it felt less like a lesson or a bonding moment and more like an obligation. It became a kind of rehearsal for being the “perfect wife.” I started to resent the sound of the stove turning on, the cutting board hitting the counter, the smell of things frying. The weight of that unwanted responsibility hung over me, and I couldn’t escape it. It didn’t matter if I was tired or didn’t feel like it, it was expected of me. If I questioned it or stayed out of the kitchen too long, I was seen as disrespectful — lazy.
Eventually, I started to avoid the kitchen like the plague, because I knew that when I stepped inside, I wouldn’t be going in for myself.
It wasn’t just the kitchen. I started to notice it everywhere, in the way I dressed, the way I walked, even in the things I enjoyed. Everything about me started to feel performative, like I didn’t have a mind of my own. I couldn’t just be me. I felt like I had no real identity.
And I hated it.
If the kitchen made me feel trapped and taught me how to serve, the church made me feel small, like I was meant to disappear, only to appear when called on — fade into the background. I wasn’t just expected to dress a certain way. I was supposed to sound right, look and be just right.
At my church, the old aunties always had something to say about the younger girls, no matter how we dressed or styled our hair. I never wanted them to talk about me, so I started dressing like them. I wore long skirts, high-neck blouses, even flat shoes. I dressed so much like them that my church friends started calling me “Auntie.”
I did this to avoid judgements from the aunties, but despite my efforts I didn’t realize just how high the standards were, especially with my own friends.
I remember one day I wore an anklet to church. My mom likes making beaded jewelry for my sister and me, so I wanted to wear it with my long, flowy dress and sandals. I was sitting in the pews when one of the other girls noticed my anklet. She didn’t say anything at first, but later she pulled me aside and said, “You know prostitutes wear those, right?” Then she walked away.
I stood there, shocked. I was dressed like an Auntie. She was wearing jeans and a crewneck. And somehow, I was the one getting judged. I couldn’t wear jeans because they were too suggestive. I couldn’t wear long sleeves if they were too form-fitting. Yet there I was, in an almost floor-length dress with an anklet, being called out. As if that tiny piece of jewelry somehow defined my character.
This was the turning point in my clothing choices. I like to tell myself that I started wearing hoodies because I liked them, but really, it was because if no one could see my body, no one could comment on it. I stopped wearing the things I liked and started saying I wore that because it made me “comfortable.” I do like comfortable clothes, but that’s not how it started. It started with hiding. I second-guessed every outfit, every laugh that felt too loud, every sentence that felt like it might come off the wrong way. I became careful. Cautious. Observant.
As an adult, it’s wild to think that one expectation — one single phrase — kept me away from the kitchen. Because of the experiences I had as a child, I no longer wanted to learn how to make the cultural dishes I grew up watching. And now, at twenty, I can’t cook most of them. I’m stuck with the knowledge that I didn’t just refuse to cook for others, I also stopped cooking for myself. For my siblings. For anyone left in my care.
I’m still trying to get that passion back — the passion to step into the kitchen and cook a dish that brings joy to my day, like my grandmother. To one day have my siblings watch me cook the same way I used to watch her. Now I want to cook, not because someone is waiting at the other end expecting me to, but because I myself enjoy it.
My feelings haven’t just changed about cooking — my attitude on everything has shifted. Eventually, I realized that it wasn’t the fact that I had to cook for the men in my life or the unreachable standards of modesty in church that I hated, but rather my inability to say that I disagreed with those standards. I’ve started stepping out of my comfort zone. Unlearning the urge to shrink in the way I speak, the way I dress, the way I smile. Realizing I don’t need to limit my expression just because of a norm that tells me to be agreeable, quiet or small. I can be loud. I can wear anklets. I still wear the one my mom made for me. She even started making me new ones so I wouldn’t have to repeat the same one over and over. Somewhere along the way I realized I don’t have to hide who I am just because someone once made me feel like I should.
I still wear hoodies. I still hesitate before I speak. I still overthink my smile.
But I’m not hiding anymore. Not completely.
And I don’t hate myself for that.
MiC Columnist Hilary Adjei can be reached at hadjei@umich.edu.
