YOU SQUEEZE ME, I SQUEEZE YOU - THATS RELATIONSHIP
- Madhukar Dama
- May 18
- 13 min read
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INTRODUCTION: YOU CALL IT LOVE, BUT IT FEELS LIKE CHOKING
You say you love them.
You say they love you.
But you often can’t breathe.
You try to please, to belong, to keep peace —
But something inside you tightens every day.
You keep going because they’re your family. Your partner. Your children.
But what you don’t admit is this:
You are being squeezed.
And worse — you are squeezing them too.
This is the form of love you inherited.
This is the form of love you perform.
This is the form of love that slowly kills you.
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1. YOU START GETTING SQUEEZED IN YOUR CRIB
You are born innocent — wild, noisy, free.
But they hush you. Control you. Reward you only when you’re quiet and cute.
You learn to obey, not to be.
You stop expressing. You start adjusting.
You understand: “When I behave, I am loved. When I’m raw, I’m punished.”
You carry this rule into every relationship in life.
You don’t even realize that your first wound was called upbringing.
Example 1: You are scolded for playing in the mud, even though your body was joyful and curious.
Example 2: You are praised only when relatives compliment your looks or grades, never for being kind, funny, or honest.
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2. YOU CALL IT PARENTING — BUT YOU’RE ACTING OUT YOUR TRAUMA
You force your children to be neat, nice, quiet, obedient —
Not because it’s good for them,
But because it makes you feel in control.
You punish them when they reject the dreams you had for yourself.
You want their success — not for their joy — but to heal your humiliation.
You call it sacrifice.
But you’re just squeezing them into the shape you never became.
And when they resist, you say they’ve changed.
No.
They’re finally trying to breathe.
Example 1: You enroll your daughter in coaching classes she hates, just because you never became a doctor.
Example 2: You yell at your son for not praying daily, even though you yourself don’t feel spiritual — only afraid of being judged.
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3. YOU THINK ROMANCE WILL SET YOU FREE — BUT YOU ONLY SWAP CAGES
You fall in love.
You start off soft, generous, open.
But soon, you want them to change — just a little.
You expect attention on demand.
You expect apologies before understanding.
You expect to be forgiven, but not to forgive.
You measure love in responses, not in resonance.
You build conditions and call them boundaries.
You control through care.
And when you get hurt, you squeeze tighter.
Your partner stops being your mirror —
They become your hostage.
Example 1: You get upset when your partner doesn't text you back within 15 minutes, assuming they don’t care.
Example 2: You tell your spouse they’ve become “boring” because they no longer want to follow your plans every weekend.
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4. YOU STAY IN FAMILIES THAT DRAIN YOU — BECAUSE YOU’RE SCARED TO LIVE FREE
You live in the same house as your parents or in-laws — even when it destroys your peace.
You call it duty.
But it’s fear of guilt, fear of judgment, fear of not being the “good one.”
You drown in responsibilities.
You suffocate in rituals.
You kill your inner self one compromise at a time.
You expect your siblings to show up.
You expect your children to repay you.
You expect gratitude, sacrifice, respect — without earning any of it freshly.
You turn love into ledger.
You call emotional blackmail "family bonding."
You say it’s tradition.
But really, you’re scared to be alone.
Example 1: You live in the joint family despite repeated disrespect and intrusion, because leaving feels like betrayal.
Example 2: You keep sending money to your younger brother, who never learns to stand up, because you feel responsible for his failure.
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5. YOU EXPECT OTHERS TO BREATHE FOR YOU — AND THEN BLAME THEM WHEN YOU CHOKE
You wait for your partner to fix your loneliness.
You expect your children to make you proud.
You hope your friends will always understand, even when you don’t say anything.
But you don’t say what you want.
You don’t feel what you need.
You don’t live your truth.
And when others fail you — you call them selfish.
You don’t realize it’s you who made them responsible for your well-being.
You’ve outsourced your life to those around you —
And now they’re suffocating too.
Example 1: You expect your friend to always initiate conversations, but get angry when they don’t — without ever asking why.
Example 2: You blame your partner for your career sacrifices, though you never spoke your real desires aloud.
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6. YOU CHOKE OTHERS OUT OF LOVE — BECAUSE YOU DON’T KNOW ANOTHER WAY
You check your partner’s phone.
You manipulate your child with tears.
You withhold affection to punish.
You think you're being protective.
But you’re just scared of losing control.
You don’t want love.
You want compliance.
You want them to behave the way you feel loved.
That’s not love.
That’s fear.
And that’s why it hurts.
Example 1: You keep reminding your teenage daughter how much you sacrificed for her when she refuses to share every detail of her life.
Example 2: You shame your husband for spending time alone, interpreting it as rejection instead of healthy space.
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7. YOU DIE WITHOUT EVER BREATHING YOUR OWN AIR
You live 60, 70, 80 years performing a role:
The good child. The loyal spouse. The sacrificing parent. The perfect citizen.
You forget what your laughter sounds like.
You forget what your body feels like.
You forget what silence tastes like when it’s not filled with duty.
And when you die, they say:
> "He was a good man."
"She always thought of others first."
"They did so much for everyone."
But they never say:
> "They lived fully. They knew joy. They were free."
You die having choked — politely, quietly — your entire life.
Example 1: You work at a job you hate for 30 years, just so your children could have choices — but you never took even one for yourself.
Example 2: You never travelled, explored, or created because the family always came first — and they never even noticed what you gave up.
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8. YOU CAN BREAK THE SQUEEZE — BUT ONLY IF YOU STOP CALLING IT LOVE
You must stop confusing:
Sacrifice with care
Possession with affection
Fear with loyalty
Guilt with responsibility
You must learn to:
Let others choose without your permission
Let your child cry without fixing it
Let your partner grow without approval
Let yourself feel without shame
You must give space.
You must stop managing others' lives.
You must stop asking others to manage yours.
You must say:
> “I choose to love without squeezing. I choose to live without choking. I choose to breathe.”
Even if others don’t like it.
Even if they call you selfish.
Even if it means losing them.
Because if you don’t —
You will never know who you are without the grip.
Example 1: You stop calling your adult child every day to ask if they’ve eaten — and instead, send a quiet message of love with no pressure.
Example 2: You take a quiet solo trip without explaining or justifying it to anyone, for the first time in your life.
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CONCLUSION: YOU ARE NOT A CAGE. AND YOU DESERVE TO BE FREE.
You have spent a lifetime inside a box that others decorated and called love.
You squeezed yourself to fit.
You squeezed others to stay.
But love is not a box.
It’s not a demand.
It’s not a squeeze.
Love is space.
Love is silence.
Love is saying:
“I will not choke you, and I will not let you choke me.”
That is the only love worth keeping.
Everything else is just a slow, polite death.
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HEALING DIALOGUE
Title: “EVERYONE IS SUFFOCATING, BUT WE STILL DO THE POOJA”
Setting: A dim but neat living room in a middle-class Indian home in Mysuru. Incense is burning. A silver plate with kumkum and haldi sits on the table. The family looks well-dressed but emotionally drained. They’ve gathered after an argument over a missed festival ritual. A guest has arrived. His name is Madhukar. A lean, barefoot man in plain cotton clothes, with eyes that seem to see through people. They’ve called him to “fix their family.”
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CHARACTERS
Ananth (62) – Retired LIC officer, obsessive about rituals and discipline
Savitri (58) – His wife, diabetic, burdened, always pleasing everyone
Sujata (38) – Their daughter, recently divorced, staying with parents again
Rohan (35) – Their son, working in Bengaluru, barely speaks at home
Shreya (32) – Rohan’s wife, silent, anxious, follows everything but unseen
Madhukar (43) – The hermit guest, invited to guide but doesn’t “give advice”
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SCENE 1: THE TENSION
Ananth:
She didn’t light the lamp at 6 sharp!
The entire morning got ruined.
I told you all — we can’t delay Lakshmi pooja like this.
And what was that noise in the kitchen?
Savitri:
I was just telling Sujata to boil the milk without overflow.
She doesn’t listen.
Even yesterday she kept the broom near the stove — inauspicious!
Sujata:
Amma, I just wanted some tea. I’m not a child.
Why are we doing all this if nobody feels peaceful?
Rohan (mutters):
It’s always like this. Pooja day = panic day.
Shreya (softly):
Should I bring coffee for Madhukar ji?
Madhukar:
No, thank you.
But if you wish, bring some silence for everyone.
(A pause. Everyone looks uncomfortable.)
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SCENE 2: MADHUKAR OPENS THE WOUND
Madhukar:
Do you know how a snake kills?
It doesn’t bite first.
It squeezes.
Do you know how you love each other?
You squeeze.
Each of you is holding someone’s neck
— tightly, silently, every day —
And calling it care, tradition, obedience.
Ananth (defensive):
We only follow what our ancestors gave us.
Without discipline, what is family?
Madhukar:
Discipline is good.
But control is fear wearing your grandfather’s dhoti.
Savitri, are you peaceful when you perform rituals?
Savitri (teary):
I... I don’t know anymore.
I feel tired. But if I stop, something bad might happen.
Madhukar:
And what will happen if you collapse from this tiredness?
Savitri:
They’ll blame me for missing the amavasya rice donation.
(Silence.)
Madhukar (turns to Sujata):
And you? You returned to this home for safety.
Did you find it?
Sujata:
No. Just rules, blame, and shame.
If I don’t tie my hair before entering the kitchen, Amma says I’ll bring “bad energy.”
Madhukar:
And what is bad energy, really?
Rohan (finally speaks):
It’s when everyone’s pretending.
We say “peace,” but we’re full of fear and judgments.
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SCENE 3: RECOGNIZING THE SQUEEZE
Madhukar:
Savitri, what do you fear most?
Savitri:
That if I don’t do the rituals, my family will suffer.
Madhukar:
And what are they already doing?
Savitri (softly):
Suffering.
Madhukar:
Then the rituals have become a choke chain.
You’re holding it. And you’re being dragged by it too.
Ananth:
So what do you want us to do? Stop praying?
Madhukar:
No. Start breathing.
Rituals without breath are just theatre.
You can keep them — but stop making them weapons.
Stop measuring each other’s worth through them.
A lamp can bring light —
Or it can blind you, if you’re forced to stare into it.
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SCENE 4: ONE BY ONE, THEY LET GO
Sujata:
Appa, can I do Lakshmi pooja my way tomorrow?
Maybe sit on the floor, talk to her softly — not mechanically?
Ananth (quietly):
I don’t know...
But maybe I’ll sit beside you. Just sit.
Shreya (gently):
Can we stop counting how many ladles of ghee we use?
I’m scared to make prasadam because I fear doing it “wrong.”
Savitri:
Yes. We can.
Let’s just make one dish with joy. Together.
Rohan:
And can I not be forced to chant?
I want to play the flute during pooja. That’s how I feel connected.
Madhukar:
There it is.
That’s what family sounds like.
Not matching. But breathing in harmony.
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SCENE 5: THREE MONTHS LATER (A Follow-Up Scene)
The house is quieter.
Not because people are afraid — but because no one is shouting.
Savitri now lights the lamp in silence, then goes to sit under the neem tree.
Sujata runs a small online art page where she paints goddesses laughing.
Ananth reads aloud verses from the Bhagavad Gita — but no longer insists others listen.
Rohan plays flute during family prayer.
Shreya has planted tulsi, marigold, and lemongrass — her new sacred space.
No one squeezes anymore.
And still, everyone is together.
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12-MONTH TRANSFORMATION: FROM SUFFOCATION TO SACREDNESS
A realistic, emotional timeline for an Indian middle-class family healing through slow, conscious change
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MONTH 1: SHOCK AND SILENCE
Madhukar leaves. The house feels exposed.
Ananth feels hurt — no one listens to him like before.
Savitri sleeps longer, guilt builds.
Sujata cries often, then paints at night.
Rohan avoids mealtimes. Shreya watches everything quietly.
Shift: First signs of truth — pain without drama.
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MONTH 2: NEW RHYTHMS BEGIN
Lamp is lit at 6:30 now — without panic.
No one chants together, but no one objects either.
Sujata draws one goddess each week — but with open hair, laughter.
Shreya makes tea and places it near the tulsi plant instead of doing formal arti.
Shift: Rituals lose their grip — but peace seeps in slowly.
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MONTH 3: THE FIRST FREE FESTIVAL
Ganesha Chaturthi. No big gathering. No guest list.
Rohan brings home an earthen idol from a local artisan.
They all make sweets together, laugh when it burns.
No yelling. No scolding. No timetable.
They immerse the idol in a potted plant.
Shift: A ritual becomes real — joyful, personal, alive.
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MONTH 4: ROOMS BECOME SPACES OF BREATHING
Sujata turns a corner of the verandah into her art spot.
Rohan plays flute every Sunday at sunset.
Shreya starts a kitchen herb garden — calls it her prayer.
Ananth begins to walk in the park — meets a quiet old friend.
Shift: Physical spaces begin reflecting emotional freedom.
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MONTH 5: FOOD WITHOUT FEAR
Meals are no longer prepared out of “duty.”
Shreya experiments — less sugar, more herbs.
Savitri eats without guilt.
Prasadam becomes fruit salad once. Everyone eats without murmuring.
Shift: Nourishment replaces ritualistic cooking.
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MONTH 6: ROLES START MELTING
No one says “You are the daughter-in-law,” or “You are the eldest.”
Ananth does the dishes one night. No announcement. Just action.
Sujata helps Rohan with his work proposal.
Savitri refuses to attend a cousin’s wedding — first time ever.
Shift: Identity moves from labels to connection.
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MONTH 7: SACREDNESS RETURNS NATURALLY
One evening, they all sit around the lamp and say nothing.
No mantras. Just breath.
Shreya lights incense. Sujata plays soft tanpura sounds.
Rohan speaks of kindness, not karma.
Ananth says — “Let’s do this every week.”
Shift: Spirituality returns, stripped of performance.
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MONTH 8: HEALING SPILLS OUTSIDE
Neighbours ask why their house “feels peaceful.”
Shreya shares extra tulsi plants with nearby homes.
Sujata gifts hand-painted bookmarks to children in the colony.
Ananth refuses to mock a friend’s son who’s jobless. “He’s finding himself,” he says.
Shift: Inner healing begins shaping their community presence.
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MONTH 9: MEMORY WITHOUT GUILT
They speak of their dead relatives — without fear or forced rituals.
Savitri lights a diya, smiles, and says: “Amma would’ve laughed at us today.”
Ananth burns old letters — releases old guilt.
Shift: Rituals no longer hold grief hostage.
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MONTH 10: NEW FESTIVALS
They invent “Open House Day” — where no chores are allowed.
They make rangoli with random colors.
Rohan writes a poem.
Sujata dances alone on the terrace.
Savitri watches and weeps — not in sorrow, but release.
Shift: Celebration becomes internal.
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MONTH 11: THE FAMILY AS FRIENDS
No one hides anymore.
Sujata talks about her past marriage openly.
Rohan shares his panic attacks.
Ananth admits he never liked corporate rituals either.
Savitri confesses she always wanted to be a schoolteacher.
Shift: Honesty without shame. Family without force.
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MONTH 12: THE UNSQUEEZED FAMILY
There is a small altar. A lamp. But no pressure.
They eat when they’re hungry, pray when they feel it.
They laugh without worrying about loudness.
They cry without hiding.
They still love each other — but without control, fear, or guilt.
Final Shift:
Rituals now arise from the heart — not habit.
Love flows — not squeezes.
The home becomes what it was meant to be:
A place to breathe.
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“THE LAMP IS LIT BUT NOBODY’S BREATHING”
For all the Indian homes where pooja is more important than peace, and rituals mean more than the people crushed beneath them.
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the father is polishing the silver plate
with shaking hands and a mouth full of anger.
he doesn’t know why
he’s yelling
about turmeric stains
but he does it anyway
because that’s what his father did
and his grandfather before that.
they call it tradition.
I call it
the longest-running hostage crisis in history.
the mother is limping to the stove
her knees screaming louder than the pressure cooker.
she's diabetic, tired, dying slow,
but she still boils the milk
before the god wakes up.
because missing the morning ritual
might bring doom —
not that the family hasn’t been in doom
for 28 years already.
they don't know peace.
but they know when to light a lamp.
they don't know love.
but they know the exact gram of camphor for Tuesday.
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the daughter lights incense
and dreams of burning the whole house.
she once told her mother she wanted to paint goddesses
dancing, laughing,
with open hair.
her mother slapped her.
“Goddesses don’t behave like that,” she said.
“Daughters don’t behave like that,” she meant.
now the daughter paints
at night
with the lights off
and prays that her brush
doesn’t become a noose.
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the son is an app developer in Bangalore
who chants the Gayatri mantra
into his headphones
to shut out the sound of his marriage.
his wife hasn’t smiled in seven months.
he hasn’t asked why.
she hasn’t said.
but they still hold hands
during Navaratri,
because that’s what married people do.
they hold hands and die quietly
while aunties compliment their matching outfits.
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the lamp flickers.
the house is full of God
but empty of grace.
they say this is culture.
I say it’s a war zone in a silk saree.
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and then
one day
a stranger visits.
he doesn’t touch their feet.
he doesn’t close his eyes before the idol.
he doesn’t fold his hands in reverence.
he just sits
and breathes.
that was his prayer.
they hated him for it.
then they envied him.
then they began to remember
what breath feels like.
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three months later,
the lamp is still there.
but nobody forces anyone to look.
the daughter paints goddesses with beer bottles and bellies.
the son plays flute instead of pretending.
the wife talks to the tulsi instead of the mirror.
the husband walks barefoot and doesn't preach.
the mother sleeps in the afternoon and doesn’t apologize.
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they still fight.
they still get it wrong.
they still forget and slip back into old roles.
but now —
they remember faster.
they forgive sooner.
they touch without choking.
they love without squeezing.
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the lamp is lit.
but nobody is suffocating anymore.
and for the first time in 40 years,
the house feels
like home.
not a temple.
not a prison.
just a place
where god
and people
can breathe together.
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