Jayapal, who launched the Resistance Lab to train thousands of grassroots organizers, says “we have to get strike ready” to protect democracy and push for transformative change.

This piece is part of an ongoing series, “Redefining Power: How Indian American Women Are Rewriting the Rules of Leadership, Identity and Care.” The series explores what it means to modernize without losing our roots—through candid conversations with Indian American women reshaping culture, power and possibility.

When Rep. Pramila Jayapal (D-Wash.) walked out of the State of the Union this year, it wasn’t a bid for headlines. “It was lie after lie after lie,” she told me. “I was trying to be respectful to the person who occupies the Oval Office. But when you don’t give respect, you don’t get respect.”

For Jayapal, resistance has never been about optics. It’s about principled truth-telling, even when it’s uncomfortable. In a political arena obsessed with polish and posture, she offers something far more radical: raw empathy. “People say I need a thick skin to be in politics,” she said. “But I don’t want a thick skin. I want to feel people’s pain. That’s how I connect with them.”

Jayapal has spent her life attuned to her intuition, acting on urgency, and interrogating the systems that reward silence as a mode of assimilation. Over the course of our conversation, she spoke with unflinching candor about what it means to lead not from ego or entitlement, but from a place of conviction and vulnerability. Her story isn’t merely one of political firsts—she is the first and only Indian American woman in the U.S. House of Representatives—but the possibilities that open up when a woman trusts herself, even when it defies cultural or institutional norms.

Jayapal was born in Chennai and raised across India, Indonesia and Singapore before immigrating alone to the United States at the age of 16. A childhood shaped by constant movement and cultural immersion endowed her with the kind of global consciousness many spend a lifetime trying to cultivate.

“Everything, even if separated by oceans, always felt close to me,” she explained. “I’ve always seen the world as deeply interconnected. And I think that global perspective—the reverence I have for culture, language, religion—it’s rooted in both where I came from and how I was raised.”

We have all these Indian Americans in this country. And still—just one Indian American woman in the House.

Rep. Pramila Jayapal (D-Wash.)

Jayapal credits her immigrant identity as the foundation of both her politics and her worldview. “Just the fact that I’m an immigrant obviously informs so much of what I do,” she said.

But it wasn’t just geography that shaped her; it was the grassroots movements she encountered along the way. “The activist movements I was exposed to in India and around the world really influenced how I think about my theory of change,” she said. “I’m deeply rooted in an activist theory of change.” 

When I asked where that political impulse originated from, considering how many South Asian families emphasize privacy and deference over public dissent, Jayapal didn’t hesitate. “The earliest memories I have weren’t necessarily called advocacy, but our family cared a lot about people who had less,” she said. “We were always taught to help others.”

She recalled her teenage years in Indonesia when her parents would encourage her to volunteer in “kampungs,” impoverished neighborhoods on the outskirts of the city. “We would go there and help however we could. At the time, it just felt like lending a hand, not activism. But looking back, I see that it seeded something in me; this belief that everyone deserves to thrive.” 

Despite the service-modeling of her parents, Jayapal, like many daughters, initially tried to follow the script handed to her. “I was trying to do what my dad wanted—be a doctor or a lawyer or an engineer,” she said. “It took me a while to realize that just wasn’t for me. I needed to find the courage to defy expectations. I knew wealth alone wasn’t going to be enough for me. But I wasn’t yet sure what was.”

It wasn’t until she began working in international health that her values and vocation aligned. “I realized I loved that work, making communities healthier, safer, more just. It made me feel like, okay, this is something I can do and be proud of.”

I was trying to do what my dad wanted—be a doctor or a lawyer or an engineer. … I needed to find the courage to defy expectations. … Our parents love us. Their aspirations for us stem from deep care—but also from fear.

Rep. Jayapal

In those early years, her work was driven by a service-oriented mindset. “We were expanding access to reproductive healthcare globally, supporting the launch of health clinics. I ran a loan fund that helped under-resourced projects secure the capital they needed,” she said. “It was a hybrid of business and service, and it felt purposeful.”

Then 9/11 happened.

Almost overnight, she found herself on the front lines: fielding death threats and hate mail simply for defending Muslim, Sikh and Arab Americans. “People were getting detained and deported. There were early versions of the Muslim ban, special registration, all of it. And I realized that because I had the protection of citizenship, I had a moral obligation to speak out. I had to.”

That period catalyzed a deeper political awakening, translating years of lived experience into a crystallized theory of change. “Organizing in communities that were fearful—was profoundly formative,” she said. “It was the moment all the disparate pieces of my life snapped into place. That’s when I truly became an organizer.”

When I asked her how she learned to lead movements, especially without formal training, she smiled. “It’s a strange thing. I didn’t know anything about starting a nonprofit. I didn’t even think I was starting a nonprofit when I launched what was then called Hate Free Zone,” she said, referring to what would later become OneAmerica. “But I had learned to trust my gut. That’s probably the single most important skill I’ve developed.”

Her ability to trust her instincts was honed across many unexpected life chapters. “I’ve never been someone who always knows the way, but I’ve learned how to look at the environment around me and figure out what needs to be done,” she said. “That’s something I actually learned in business school. And from being a writer. Even a medical equipment sales representative in rural Indiana.” 

Driving a Ford Aerostar van through the Midwest may not seem like training for public office; but to Jayapal, every job, every moment, was a building block. “Each experience gave me a skill—relationship-building, analysis, strategic thinking—that I was then able to apply in ways I never could’ve predicted. Together, they shaped not just my career, but my calling.” Through a myriad of experiences, Jayapal strengthened her skills and ultimately, her ability to trust herself and act on that faith.

That nonlinear journey is precisely what she now urges the next generation to embrace. “I get so many young people who say, ‘I want to run for Congress. What advice do you have for me?’ And one of the first things I tell them is: Don’t focus on the title. Focus on the impact. Think less about what you want to be—and more about what you want to do.”

However, titles, she says, mean nothing without action. “You can have a title and never do anything with it. We have a lot of people with big titles. Maybe even making big money. But for me, it’s always been: What am I trying to do?” That question has guided her every step of the way. 

In order to get to the root of one’s purpose, her advice is simple, yet revelatory: Track your energy. “Every day, just take a mental note. What’s giving you energy? What’s depleting it?” she said. “You won’t always get to do only the things that vitalize you—but over time, you’ll start to see where your true fuel lies. And that’s invaluable information.”

That idea resonates deeply for Indian American women who carry the emotional gravity of intergenerational sacrifice. During our conversation, I told Jayapal about the book I’m working on that explores how women like us struggle to trust themselves on a nonlinear path. For many, freedom can feel like betrayal.

Jayapal didn’t flinch. “You know that totally resonates,” she said. “For years—years—my dad called what I did ‘volunteer work.’ He was proud of me, he believed I could do anything, but he just didn’t get it. I remember when I introduced him to the governor at one of our events, and my dad greeted the governor with, ‘Thank you, I know she loves this volunteer work.’ The Governor replied, ‘Volunteer work? She’s a leader in our community!’”

She laughed but then softened. “Our parents love us. Their aspirations for us stem from deep care—but also from fear”—a very profound fear of letting go of the person you love in order for them to begin their own journey. “My parents sent me to the U.S. with their last $5,000, knowing I might never live near them again. That’s a real sacrifice.”

Yet, the path she took was never going to mirror theirs. Therefore, she urges young women to meet their parents in love—but also in clarity. “Yes, acknowledge their vision. But remind them: You raised me to think differently. And now, I’m doing exactly that.” And for those wrestling with whether to choose passion over prestige, she offers a pragmatic reminder: “If you can, assure them you’ll be financially independent. That mattered in my family.”

Still, she knows how hard it is to break tradition when you’ve never seen it done.

I certainly resonate with this message, explaining my own experience to her of how, “in many of our communities, obedience has been conflated with respect. And we haven’t had many models of what it looks like to honor our parents while still following our own path,” I said. Jayapal nodded. 

“We really haven’t,” she replied. “I was the first—and I’m still the only—Indian American woman in the House. Kamala Harris and I were elected at the same time, and for a while, we were it. I’ve tried to help other women run, but it’s hard, especially in our own community. We still get disregarded.”

The more stories we share, the more lenses we offer. When we occupy these spaces, we broaden the aperture of what’s imaginable.

Rep. Jayapal

She pointed to the concentration of money and power with men in Indian families as a roadblock for female candidates gaining early support. But luckily the tide is shifting, because of the impact of visibility. “We get so many brilliant Indian American women who intern or do fellowships with us,” she said. “And they tell me, ‘When my parents saw you doing this, it made it okay for me to even think about it.’”

Representation matters, not just to break barriers, but to reshape the imagination. “You’re changing things at Ms., I’m changing things here in Congress. And because of that, young women can see you and say, ‘I can be a journalist.’ They can see me and say, ‘Maybe I could be a congresswoman.’”

“And that’s what my parents saw, too—eventually,” she continued. “Not every choice made sense to them at first. But they saw where it led. And they are incredibly proud. The more stories we share, the more lenses we offer. When we occupy these spaces, we broaden the aperture of what’s imaginable.”

Even with the growing wave of South Asian visibility, she knows there’s hard work ahead. “We have all these Indian Americans in this country,” she said. “And still—just one Indian American woman in the House.”

That reality is what makes identity navigation so layered for women of color in politics, which led me to raise the idea of code-switching, which is so often used to strategize one’s environment to gain support. However, there’s often a resulting fear of neglecting one’s identity in order to assimilate. 

I detailed to her how I try to mentor Indian American women to stop thinking in binaries: You’re not a sellout if you make a bold progressive choice, and you’re not betraying your culture if you adapt to your environment. “It’s about discernment,” I said. “Who’s in the room? What’s your intention? That’s strategy, not disloyalty.”

Jayapal nodded.

“Exactly. I have a lot of different pieces to me. I’ve worked on Wall Street. I went to business school. I can be the businessperson. And yes, I definitely code-switch. But I like to think about it not as switching, but as choosing which parts of me to bring forward, and which to leave a little further behind.” 

I really admired her initial reframing, however, she still paused to clarify her intention. “But even with that flexibility, authenticity is non-negotiable. I’m not here to tell people what they want to hear. I’m not performing. What you see is who I am.”

To continue her career of honest activism and expand it to others, Jayapal has recently launched a series of Resistance Lab trainings, a grassroots curriculum designed to equip everyday Americans for what she sees as a pivotal inflection point in American democracy.

“We have 2,800 people signed up for the next one,” she told me, almost in disbelief. “It’s wild.”

Despite being a seasoned organizer, Jayapal admitted that this format—education-based, house-party-driven, community-first—felt like a next-level adaptation.

“Like a lot of things in my life, I didn’t know exactly what it was going to become,” she said. “But I was feeling this overwhelming sense that we were being bombarded. [Trump] is destroying institutions. He’s bullying people. He’s attacking media, slashing protections, ignoring courts. Everything was happening so fast—and Americans weren’t ready. We’ve never really had to be ready.”

What she feared most wasn’t chaos; it was complacency. That people would fall victim to the illusion that democracy, once achieved, becomes self-sustaining. “It doesn’t,” she said. “Democracies collapse quickly. And I kept thinking—we need to shift from reactive to proactive.”

Drawing from the teachings of Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., and her own civil rights mentors like James Lawson and John Lewis, Jayapal built a training model that blends historical consciousness with tactical empowerment. “In the labor movement, we called it getting people ‘strike ready.’”

They started with in-person sessions. “We just used our email list and 800 people signed up,” she said. “We had to cap it at 500.” The sessions were so successful and emotionally resonant that they quickly pivoted to virtual, encouraging attendees to host house parties so they could experience the program in community. The second session brought in over 1,600 people. The third has nearly 3,000 signed up. Altogether, over 20,000 people have expressed interest.

“It’s not a political event,” she emphasized. “There are no speeches, no bios. We’re not promoting candidates. We’re training people.” And in doing so, she’s building collective civic muscle.

I found her program incredibly empowering, especially during a time when so many of us are caught in a state of uncertainty. There’s a pervasive question I hear again and again: What now? If we’re not writing checks or marching in the streets, what meaningful action remains? What inhabits the space between donation and demonstration?

“There is an in-between,” she posited. “And it starts with education. People want to learn. They want to feel useful. And most of all, they want to feel connected.”

So what’s resonating most? “One thing is how we analyze authoritarian leaders—not the individuals themselves, but the pillars that uphold their power,” she explained. “There’s the economic pillar—corporate backers, supply chains. There’s the cultural pillar, the media pillar. Instead of targeting the leader, we teach people how to strategically weaken those structures. That’s where meaningful disruption happens.”

Participants also study Dr. King’s six principles of non-violence, alongside strategies for increasing impact while avoiding backlash. “There’s extensive research showing that non-violent resistance is far more effective than violent protest,” she said. “But most people have never been trained in how to do it.”

Additionally, the training is aimed to be widespread and accessible. “We show people how there’s a role for everyone. If you’re a business leader, a neighbor, a caregiver—there’s something you can do.” Thus, by building a diverse community of trained individuals, the program not only becomes strategic, but thoroughly sustainable.

That’s what the Resistance Lab is trying to change.

“Speeches are a great starting point,” she said. “But the overwhelming majority are craving a sustainable path forward—something deeper, something they can build on.”

And with every session, Jayapal is helping light that path—by handing people the tools to walk it for themselves.

To sign up for the next Resistance Lab or host one in your community, sign up here. Because the future won’t build itself—and silence was never our mother tongue.