Are You Ready to Lose in the System That Made You Win?

I attended an event hosted by Romana yesterday. I wasn’t expecting to walk away with a philosophical knot in my chest—but that’s exactly what happened.

Romana opened the space by introducing herself simply but powerfully: “I am an Indian Muslim woman, and I’m part of the second generation in my family to receive an English education.” She went on to speak about how privilege protects us, how the personal is political, and how even the most well-intentioned actions often reflect the systems we’re born into.

She wasn’t saying anything new in the academic sense. But something about her presence, her honesty, and her framing pulled me into a spiral of reflection.

Because I, too, am here in London, studying at one of the most prestigious institutions in the world. I run a social enterprise. I speak on panels. I write emails in impeccable English. But I can’t read or write my own mother tongue—Tamil.

Let me sit with that again: I cannot read or write Tamil proficiently.

My parents were educated, yes. But English was not their medium. My brother and I are probably the first in our family to be fully shaped by an English education. And in the eyes of the world, it has worked. We’ve “made it.”

But at what cost?

Romana’s words kept ringing in my head—especially this idea that “the personal is political.” It made me realize something I’ve never fully acknowledged: My success is not just personal. It is structural.

I succeeded in a system because I conformed to it. I learned its language, played by its rules, adopted its dress code, its aspirations, its markers of intelligence. I became fluent in English not just linguistically—but ideologically.

And yet, here I am, representing a land, a lineage, a culture—through a borrowed tongue. It's not just about the language.

This isn’t about guilt. It’s about awareness.

It’s about questioning the dominant narratives that shape what we define as education, success, or impact.Why do we assume that English fluency is the ultimate measure of intelligence or opportunity, especially in the Global South? Why must education always be tethered to a colonial language, rather than rooted in the richness of local contexts?

We never asked for this system. But many of us, myself included, have benefited from it.

And that brings me to the question I can’t un-hear:

Are you ready to lose in the system that made you win?

Because if we’re serious about reimagining education, justice, or equity—not just for ourselves, but for the most vulnerable—then maybe the future we envision won’t reward us in the same ways.

Maybe it will de-center people like us.

Maybe it will lift up voices that we’ve never heard before.

Maybe it will demand that we unlearn everything we once wore as badges of merit.

Would we still build that world, knowing it might not serve our personal gain?

Would we still dismantle a ladder we climbed, if it meant building a bridge for others?

I don’t have neat answers.

But I know that the hardest work ahead is not just out there in policy or programming—it’s in here, in confronting the inner contradictions of our identities.

I know that many of my peers—brilliant, well-meaning leaders from across the Global South—are also navigating this. We wear our community’s aspirations on our sleeves, yet often operate within elite spaces far removed from the realities we care about. We speak for the marginalized, but are rarely marginalized ourselves anymore.

So again I ask, more to myself than anyone else:

If the system you dream of makes you invisible—will you still choose to build it? If justice requires your silence, will you stop speaking? If equality means losing your seat, will you give it up?

Because the systems that allow us to win are not always designed for everyone to thrive. And maybe the real test of leadership is not in how far we rise—but how willing we are to fall for something larger than ourselves.