Sometimes, it’s not your competition that wants to see you fail, it’s the ones closest to you, the ones you tried to pull up with you. Betrayal doesn’t always scream; sometimes, it whispers behind polite smiles and backhanded praise. I gave someone power they never earned, and they used it to try to break me. But I’ve learned to sharpen my senses, to spot the silent saboteurs. And most importantly, I’ve learned that their hate was never really about me, it was a reflection of everything they feared in themselves.

Finals week—the worst and best moments in teaching always happen then. When students pass by my office to check their final grades, I’m exposed to people’s best, worst, and most honest selves.

There’s one student I’ve taught many times throughout her university journey. She was one of the most dedicated people I’ve ever met—perfect attendance, literally never missed a lecture, and always gave everything she had. During her last course with me—right before graduation—we sat together to review her grades, and for the first time, she had done well on her exams. She ended up earning an A. In the middle of reviewing her grade, she started crying. I asked her if they were tears of joy, and she nodded.

Her friend, who was with her, laughed and told me she always cries and that they always joke about it.

But in that moment, seeing the contrast between someone crying tears of joy and someone standing tall, guarded, I realized: I’d rather be sensitive.

Regardless of the price.
I’d rather be recklessly kind.
I’d rather be expressive with my love, fear, sadness.
I’d rather not sacrifice all emotions just to avoid one.
I’ve been hurt, and I’ve survived it.

I want to live life free-falling into my feelings, indulging in them all.
I don’t want to hold back or dip my toe; I want to dive heart first.

Kind. Patient. Quiet. Calm.

Those were the words he used to describe leadership.

It’s so elating to know that amidst a sea of destruction, I had planted a flower, and it had grown bright and glistening. That someone could see me not as I am but as the person I aspire to be. It makes me think of the kind of world I hope we build together:

A world where being patient is praised, and being kind is powerful.

God loves me.

I can’t sleep. I toss and turn in my bed replaying certain scenes I’ve lived through—so mundane, so ordinary. If you could overhear, you’d be bored by the nothingness of it all, but surprised at how much space they took in my head.

My heart would not stop racing—it felt like an endless stream of horses thundering, and my chest was the arena. Every one of their loaded feet slammed against my ribs, the weight crushing into me.

That’s what my anxiety looked like.

Anxiety takes different forms for everyone. That was mine. Such an unruly beast. The more you attempted to slaughter it, the stronger it got. I was fright in human form. Fidgety. Irritable. A radio of worst-case scenarios you couldn’t turn off.

Until…
I found God.

My shelter became the feeling when my head touched the ground in prayer. My unloading dock—my anxiety unpacking itself. I felt so much lighter when I lifted my head. Like I had left the weight of the world on the mat.

It wasn’t the formal prayers. It was talking to God the way I talk to myself—unfiltered and unmasked.

And the reminder that saved me?
God loves me.

We’ve raised kids who wait for the night, to hide from society’s watchful eyes, but forget that God never sleeps.
We’ve raised kids that think that as long as no one knows, it does not matter what you do.
How can عيب be more powerful than حرام?
How can society’s perception be more powerful to us than God’s?
Can we start now at least?

As a teacher, there were so many days my entire world was shattering, yet I stood there enthusiastically explaining something so relatively insignificant like the product life cycle. Visibly, I would be smiling, making jokes, being hyper-aware of the surroundings, and calling out the names of students who weren’t paying attention. Internally, when I stopped talking, I could hear my insides screaming unmercifully. The gut-wrenching agony scraping its hands, desperately trying to crawl out of my throat—if I let it out, there’s no going back. I can’t now. I have to finish the lecture. We’re already behind and exams are approaching. I swallow hard, shoving it deep, feeling the fallback in my bones, and continue explaining why the maturity phase of a product’s life cycle is critical.

Once the class is over and everyone leaves, I sit there with my shoulders stooping involuntarily. I try to sit straight again, but the grief is too heavy.  

how do we control the damage?

Whether it’s the promotion you really wanted, a loved one, a relationship you thought would work out, a rejection, a heartbreak—how do you not let that one loss seep into everything else? How do you protect yourself from losing everything?

It feels like I’m reaching out into my chest and extracting my heart, turning it around in my hand, examining it from all angles. Washing every stain, dipping it in cold water, sterilizing it—and some stains are harder to wash out than others. Some remain longer than others.  Some require more attempts than others. Most of the time it hurts. Scrubbing until it’s fully clean and putting it back into my chest until the next opportunity to cleanse it again. If I wait too long, the stains add up and it becomes more difficult and painful. 

Am I a good person?

I had to pay a heavy price for my kindness. So many times I have chosen to be kind and in return: the kindness that I had to physically scoop out of my soul and hand it over on the palm of my hands was taken from me, thrown on the ground, and stepped over while I stood there with a hand on my heart assessing the gaping hole where my kindness resided.

Why was it valued at so little, when it took so much from me?

Was it me who valued it at so little sharing it so recklessly with everyone?

Everyone has potential.

I started teaching during the wild, post-pandemic times—mask-wearing, social distancing, and the “please mute yourself” era of online classes. My first students? The ones who had no other choice, but diploma. The ones the system left behind, with every stereotype stacked against them.

But instead of low expectations, I went full Harvard-mode: strict discipline, punctuality, and zero tolerance for slacking. Why? Because I knew they weren’t dumb. The system was.

And guess what? When you mix high expectations with a sprinkle of “I believe in you,” magic happens. They delivered, and I’m still clapping for them.

Sometimes, all anyone needs is someone who sees their potential and refuses to roll their eyes at it.