As I mention in my memoir “The Woman in Deed: Road to IPO, Bridge Tables, and Beyond”—yes, mine is a Silicon Valley success story. But Silicon Valley success stories are never solo performances.
They need to be told more often and more honestly, not as hero narratives but with their entire cast. The valley has its own ethos: people who helped simply because helping felt right, who decades later say with internal pride, “I knew her when she was starting out.” Early employees who left because they felt I didn’t treat them fairly—while I felt they outgrew their roles—yet some remained quiet admirers from a distance. Board members, executives, and key employees who opened a door and walked away before I could thank them. Without any one of them, I would have no story to tell.
But today I want to talk about something more uncomfortable. My own journey as a woman.
Not to inspire you. Honestly, I’m not sure I can. But perhaps to provoke you, which might be more useful.
Here are the facts, plainly:
I was a woman in engineering in India when almost no women did it—yes.
I came to the US as a single woman in the mid 70s and built a career from scratch—yes.
I had a traditional Indian husband and argued constantly about housework—yes. (We resolved it by hiring home staff. Problem solved, move on.)
We took two companies public, his and hers, under the same roof—yes.
I never thought “I can’t do this because I’m a woman”—not once.
But here is the truth beneath those facts:
I didn’t overcome barriers. I didn’t see them.
I didn’t lean in. I stood upright.
I have no motivational formula to offer you, because I never needed one. And I’ve spent a long time puzzling over why that is. Why does my experience feel so different from what I observe in women around me, even accomplished ones, even ones my age who have every resource and freedom I have?
Here is what I’ve concluded after five decades of watching:
It’s not about ability. It’s not about opportunity. It’s not even about confidence.
It’s the fear of being vulnerable.
Think about this: Men propose marriage. Women wait to be asked. Men apply for jobs they’re underqualified for. Men ask for promotions they may not yet deserve. Men get turned down—constantly, repeatedly, sometimes humiliatingly—and they ask again.
Not because they are braver than you. Not because rejection hurts them less.
But because from the time they were boys, nobody taught them that rejection means stop. Every cultural signal they received said rejection means try again, try differently, try harder.
You received a different signal. Rejection, or even the possibility of it, meant don’t risk it. Stay safe. Wait to be chosen.
That is the only difference between us. Not intelligence. Not capability. Not opportunity.
Just that one learned reflex.
And here is the thing about learned reflexes: you can unlearn them. Not easily. Not without discomfort. But the discomfort of vulnerability is temporary. The discomfort of a life unlived is permanent.
I am not going to tell you that you can do anything. You already know that.
I am going to ask you something harder:
What would you do tomorrow if you knew rejection wasn’t the end of the story?