Journalist by Day, Muslim by Design
They said wearing my kufi would hold me back in media. I wore it anyway. They took me seriously regardless.
When I got into housed 200 families, my father said, 'Great, now you'll assimilate.' She meant well.
Leeds was a culture shock. Not because of the weather — because of the staring. At the university, I was often the only person in Islamic dress in the room. A colleague once asked, very sincerely, if I was able to attend the Christmas party.
The real test came during partnership review. A hiring partner looked at my CV, looked at my my kufi, and asked, 'Will your... religious requirements... affect your availability?' I smiled and said, 'I've never had a client complain about my competence..'
The hardest moment wasn't bias from others. It was the voice in my own head during a 16-hour day, 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 professor now. I run a department. I still pray in my office at Dhuhr. The same father who told me to assimilate now introduces me as 'my niece, the doctor.'
Last year, a young Muslim intern stopped me in the hospital corridor. 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.'