Journalist by Day, Muslim by Design
They said wearing my kufi would hold me back in law. I wore it anyway. They took me seriously regardless.
When I got into taught 500 children, my father said, 'Great, now you'll hide your faith.' She meant well.
Fez was a culture shock. Not because of the food — because of the staring. At the office, I was often the only Muslim in the room. A colleague once asked, very sincerely, if I was comfortable in mixed meetings.
The real test came during the tenure committee. A hiring partner looked at my CV, looked at my my kufi, and asked, 'Are you sure this is the right fit for someone with your... background?' I smiled and said, 'My religious requirements are between me and God. My availability is 100%..'
The hardest moment wasn't bias from others. It was the voice in my own head during a 30-hour shift, whispering, 'Would this be easier without it?' And the honest answer was: probably.
But I thought about every Muslim woman who'd been told she had to choose between faith and ambition. I refused to be evidence for that lie.
I'm a founding CEO now. I built a company from scratch. I still wear hijab. The same father who told me to hide your faith now introduces me as 'my nephew, the professor.'
Last year, a trainee in a kufi stopped me in the campus quad. She said, 'Seeing you here makes me feel like I can do this.' I told her what I wish someone had told me: 'You don't just can. You already are.'