“I’m sorry,” the nurse told my parents. “She did not make it.” The doctor did not want to give up on me so he tried many ways to bring me back, and at last when he was about to give up, one of the nurses suggested turning me upside down and hitting my legs. That finally worked.
The moment I decided to change wasn’t a single, dramatic event—it was a slow realization that built up over time. But if I had to pinpoint one defining moment, it was a late summer evening in my bedroom, staring at my ceiling, feeling stuck in a cycle of self-doubt and frustration.
Let’s play a game: I give you a scene, and you imagine it. So get this. You’re a teenager, Muslim, and a girl, and you live a fairly decent life. Got it? There’s more. You get good grades, you have a couple of friends, and you stay out of trouble. That’s basically my life.
Soon enough, I see him. My friend, Ian (I might even call him my favourite friend), came down the stairs. All annoyance and exhaustion from the school day melted away. I felt my face relax into a softer expression. He’s here. I can finally unwind.
The room buzzed with the sound of pencils scratching paper, chairs scraping against the floor, and whispers of conversations I couldn't understand. I sat stiffly at my desk, my hands fisted so tightly my knuckles turned white.
