I Didn't Fail the System

The System Failed Me

As a university graduate with a degree, I thought by now I’d have lots of material possessions, or at least a profession with an impressive title and reputation. Unfortunately, the system is a bit broken when it comes to setting us up for “success.”

Post-secondary education was really difficult for me. I struggled to keep up, and I was in no way equipped to handle my mental health challenges on top of my academic ones. I was a complete mess. After 4 years, I was all set to graduate but one class set me back and brought down my average. I was devastated. Instead of agreeing to come back and take the class again, I decided to leave.

One of my best friends who graduated a semester earlier, got a full-time salary paying job with benefits at TD Insurance and she put forward my name as a referral. I had to pay back $20K of student loans, and even though I wanted to become a journalist, I accepted the insurance job because I had no other options and my parents were thrilled that I had a professional career.

This was back in 2009. As a 22 year old university dropout with no degree to show for 4 years of suffering, making $38,500 salary as an insurance agent in a call centre was like hitting the jackpot.

My dreams of becoming a writer/author/journalist began to get blurrier as time went on. I told myself it was no longer realistic. What made more sense was to keep showing up at the call centre so I could pay my bills. Even though I hated it.

I stayed in the insurance industry for 13 years. A year after starting, I met the man I’d marry at work. In 2021, he passed away. A year later, I was let go. I wasn’t performing to their expectations.

As if my world hadn’t already come crashing down when Andrew died, this was another level of trauma I had difficulty processing. But I also felt lighter. I heard a tiny voice inside of me telling me this was a sign from the universe.

Fortunately this wasn’t the first time I’d heard that voice. A few years before losing my job in insurance, I made the decision to go back to university and finally get my degree. I took the courses required, excelled in all of them, and this time I graduated at age 32 with my daughters cheering me on.

Back to 2022. Now unemployed and widowed, with two kids to care for. With the advice and encouragement of a dear friend, I registered for a 4-month personal development program. The growth, healing and education I received was exponential. One of the best investments I’ve ever made in my life.

I went on to take more university courses in copywriting, marketing, editing and social media which led to freelancing jobs. I was finally doing what I love, but the financial aspect was still lacking. As I took on short term freelance contracts, I was also applying for “real” jobs on Indeed and LinkedIn.

In 2023, I was hired by a digital marketing agency as their Content Manager. They offered me a salary higher than I had negotiated, extended healthcare benefits, a huge box of expensive swag, and a beautiful office with a view of my favourite place: the library and uptown Waterloo. We were taken out for lunch to a different restaurant every week and I got to work with amazing co-op students who became great friends. It was a dream job. I was making more money WRITING than I ever had in my 13 years in insurance.

But it was too good to be true. It didn’t last. 6 months into my dream job, I was told the agency was floundering and that although they loved me, I was being laid off. It felt like the universe was playing a cruel joke on me.

A year later, now in March of 2025, I’m working two part time freelance jobs and still not making enough financially. I know in my heart that the right opportunity is coming, one that I am completely aligned with, that offers financial freedom and doesn’t compromise my integrity.

Since 2018, I’ve had the honour of meeting and/or working with several critically acclaimed/award-winning and best-selling authors. I’ve edited manuscripts, I’ve coached writers, I’ve worked on a podcast with literary agents, I’ve written articles for Brown Girl Magazine. I’m doing everything I can to keep myself going, to keep my art going, to keep my dream alive.

I’m teaching my daughters to thrive, not just survive, and that our education and career system is highly flawed. I wasn’t born into generational wealth and my immigrant parents had to work their asses off to give my siblings and me a good life. But I don’t want my daughters to have to “work hard” for 50 years and then retire with nothing to show for it. They deserve more than that scarcity mindset. And the change starts with me.

As a bright, educated, empowering woman, I know I deserve to have a career I love, even though I didn’t take the traditional path to medical school or teacher’s college, or marry a lawyer or engineer. I deserve to make a six-figure salary (and more). I deserve to have a flexible schedule so I can continue to be a present mother. I deserve it all and I’m declaring it and claiming it.

There’s no balance between wanting and trying to make your parents happy and your kids happy, it’s a juggling act. But no one really talks about how hard it is to make yourself happy, to live up to your own expectations, to consistently tell yourself you are worth it, you deserve to live life on your own terms.

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BONUS! 👀

If you aren’t subscribed to Our Mehfil’s Newsletter, you missed the story I wrote for them earlier this month! Don’t worry though, I’m sharing it with my subscribers too. But please be sure to support my friends at Our Mehfil! ❤️

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🧡 Neither Here Nor There 🧡

Mehfil exists due to our very personal experience of feeling too South Asian for some people and spaces and not South Asian enough for others. This is felt by all of us in the diaspora. This section of our newsletter will focus on our experiences around this notion. We hope within these stories, you will find a safe space.

My Mother’s Love Is in Her Roti

A Personal Story Written by: Taneet Grewal (Writer, Mother, Super-Loved Community Member based in the GTA)

The sound of my mother’s voice calling us upstairs for dinner, the aroma that filled the air; onions, ginger, garlic, cumin seeds, garam masala; the way the perfectly round fresh roti’s glistened with melted butter, the matching steel plates clinking against the table that we all sat around, together. Oh, how my soul aches with longing at the thought of these cherished memories.

At the time, as a child, I would often become bored and tire of the Punjabi dishes my mother cooked for us each and every day. Regular roti and daal just weren’t as exciting as a rare plate of spaghetti Bolognese. My parents very rarely ordered food or took us out to restaurants or fast-food joints. For very special occasions we celebrated with Chinese food or authentic Italian pizza. On holidays, my mom would be in the kitchen for hours roasting chicken with a mushroom cream sauce or carefully layering a lasagna with ricotta cheese.

Every ingredient her fingers touched was transformed into delicious perfection.

I left my parent’s home when I was 18 years old to pursue post-secondary education in Toronto, which was four hours away. Being away from them was liberating yet terrifying. After a year of living with my massi (maternal aunt) I moved to a life on university campus where my matriarchal Punjabi cuisine felt as far away as India itself.

The foods I ate as a student was whatever I could afford at the Student Centre, otherwise it was chicken nuggets or spoonsful of Nutella. To say I missed my mother’s cooking is an understatement. One night, my housemates and I were dying for real food. I offered my hand at making daal. Everyone squealed with delight that I knew how to cook but I assured them I was no chef. I tried to remember all the steps I had written down in my notebook when I was just a child, watching my mother cook and instruct me on everything required to create a creamy and tasty daal. Although my housemates complimented my efforts and filled their bowls, to me the daal was far too watery and bland. It was missing my mother’s touch.

Fortunately, her touch was only hours away. When she visited me, she brought with her an entire cooler filled with homemade dishes. My friends swarmed the cooler like bees at a picnic.

Twenty years later, I have a newfound appreciation for my mother and her cooking. As a single mom now with two daughters I’ve struggled to find the time to transform my kitchen into the masala magic I experienced in my own childhood. How my mother managed to cook fresh roti for us every single evening after a long day of work is beyond my comprehension. My daughters and I get pizza every Friday night, which is fun, and we have taco nights and pasta nights – but what makes our meals special is when the three of us get our hands sticky with flour and water, kneading the dough for roti.

On Sundays, if I have the energy, I get up early, boil potatoes on the stove, knead atta in a big bowl over the kitchen sink just like my mother taught me, and set it aside until we are ready to eat brunch. Growing up, whether in my parent’s home or in another relative’s home, Sundays (if we weren’t at the Sikh temple) were for eating an abundance of aloo de parathe, drinking cups of steaming chai, and watching an old Hindi film. I’m proud to say I’ve kept this tradition alive with my daughters.

After peeling the skin from the boiled potatoes, I mash them and add all the spices, onions, cilantro, and kasoori methi with the same memorized precision as my mother. My daughters love my Indian cooking and tell me, “It’s almost as good as Nani’s!”

Whenever we plan a visit to my mother, she will ask me days in advance what she should cook for us, and I always tell her, “All I need is your roti, Mom.” When we get the pleasure of having my mother come to us for a visit, she asks me if there’s anything I’d like her to cook while she’s here. I tell her, “Mom, let me serve you.”