In my formative years, I lived with my dad. He didn’t know what to do with me. I was a hard-headed, opinionated kid who grew into what they call “a handful.” I had a lot to say, and pretty much no one wanted to hear it. This should come as no surprise.
In utter desperation, Dad resorted to browsing the self help aisles of Walden Books at the mall and even introduced therapy in an age when no one was talking about mental health, especially in the Indian community. He knew my voice, energy, and emotions needed channeling. When I was about 12-years old, my dad tossed a book called How To Be an Assertive Woman onto my bed, saying, “Ilina, you’re going to grow up being different your whole life as a small Indian woman in the South. People will try to take advantage of you. Don’t let them.”
Oh Dad, you have no idea. Yet, you did.
Confession: I never read the book. But that small gesture spoke volumes, and I took my dad’s intent to heart. My father gave me license to take up space. He fostered my natural knack to speak up, and despite my short stature, he encouraged me to stand up. And while this license didn’t make things easy for my family, I am grateful that I never felt stifled or silenced.
Decades later when I was in my fifties, thanks to a divine twist of fate that afforded me the opportunity to meet Dolly Parton, she shared a remarkably similar piece of wisdom. Dolly took one look at me, eye to eye, with her outstretched arms atop my shoulders and beamed. She said, “People underestimate us because we’re small, but we are fierce. Show them.”
I hold these words especially close as I reflect on my own choices in my career, my advocacy, and my choices. Both my dad and Dolly, two people I admire deeply, taught me that standing out or being underestimated isn’t a weakness; it is a reminder to take up space, find joy in your authenticity, harness your strength, and never let anyone push you aside. And they taught me that size doesn’t matter.
Yet, with the passing of Dolly, we do feel an enormous void.
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