You’re writing your autobiography. What’s your opening sentence?
Extracted from my piece “ACCESS DENIED”
“I was born into chaos disguised as family, and I spent half my life learning which pieces of me were truly mine.”
Some children are taught to dream. I was taught to survive and it is taken years to understand that survival is a form of education in itself. They measured me by what I did not have. I measure myself by what I survived. I grew up in a house where entitlement was louder than love, where sacrifices were expected but never appreciated, and where responsibilities landed on the shoulders of one woman who should have been protected instead of drained. I watched my mother care for children she never bore, pay bills that were not hers, and stretch herself thin so others could live comfortably in their entitlement, whilst my future was treated like it could wait. It was optional. It was negotiable. It was invisible.
That kind of childhood teaches you silence, and not the kind that is peaceful. It teaches you to shrink, to dim your voice, and to believe your dreams are secondary, your worth conditional. For years, I internalised it all, apologizing for wanting more, minimizing my hurt, convincing myself that loyalty meant silence. But survival is not learned in stillness alone. It is learned in the nights you stay awake, staring at ceilings and wondering if you will ever be enough, in the mornings you stand tall despite the weight of exhaustion, frustration, and expectation.
Now, looking back, I cannot even begin to imagine what my mother carried. The weight. The pressure. How burdened she must have been, silently holding it all together while slowly breaking underneath it. She was a pressure cooker, stuffed and overfilled, and when she finally, quietly exploded, I was robbed of time, guidance, and a shield I never fully realised I had relied upon. And yet, in that absence, I learned something essential, that much of what we were told, much of what we were made to believe, was fabricated. Narratives were constructed to protect entitlement. Stories were twisted to preserve comfort. Blame was redirected to maintain control.
So let me make this crystal clear. I do not owe my family a thing. There are debts owed. There are truths that will no longer be buried under “keep the peace.” I am not sitting with a bank balance bursting at the seams. I am repaying debts to Allah. I am surviving what was left behind. I am rebuilding what was compromised. From here on out, I will speak my truth, controlled, measured, unfiltered. And yes, it will sting. Because truth is bitter to those who thrived on the lie. What you do unto others eventually rests at your own feet. That is not revenge. That is divine balance.
The oppressed little girl I once was still exists, but she stands behind unbreakable glass, watching, observing, seeing how Allah turns tables without her lifting a finger. I cannot take credit for what He has decreed. There were chapters I did not understand as I lived them, filled with confusion, exhaustion, misplaced loyalty, and silent suffering. But stepping back, the pattern becomes clear, the book may close, but a new one opens every time you make a wise decision after brutal lessons. And I have made mine.
This is my journey. A path I must walk alone for now. Not bitter. Not angry. Just aware. Until Allah writes the next chapter, Access Denied is not hostility, it is protection. It is me finally choosing forward, step by step, without dragging history behind me. To my family, I wholeheartedly thank you, not because the pain brought happiness, but because it gave me courage. Courage to leap. Courage to leave comfort. Courage to stop living small. And today, I have never been happier. The oppressed little girl grew up. She does not ask for permission anymore. Because Allah already signed off on her permission slip, and for as long as He is pleased with me, nothing formed against me and nothing meant to break me will succeed, except by His will.
