In April 2025, I received an admission to Drake University in Des Moines, Iowa. I stared at the screen in disbelief before joy took over. After years of chasing the dream of studying abroad, a dream I had carried since 2023, it finally felt real. I called my parents immediately, and their excitement echoed mine. Not only had I been admitted, but I had also been awarded a Presidential Scholarship. It felt like proof that the hustle had finally paid off.
By May, I was completing my admission requirements and preparing for the next steps. I needed to secure my I-20 form, and that was when reality began to settle in. Even with the scholarship, we were left with a remaining tuition deficit of $33,000 to cover on the bank statement. The process required a financial balance we did not yet have. We reached out within our community, hoping for support, but the responses were polite and firm no’s.
June passed, then July. I attended virtual orientation sessions, holding on to hope that somehow a miracle would happen. I convinced myself everything would work out at the last minute. But by the end of summer, I had to make the hard decision to defer my admission.
By August, I was supposed to be packing for college, stepping into a new country and the life I had worked so hard to build. Instead, I was still home, and nothing made sense anymore. I quietly went offline, tired of motivational quotes and watching people my age move forward while I felt stuck. I stopped finding my own life interesting.
Mornings became the hardest. I would wake up and cry, wondering how I was still here after everything I had done. I cried on my way to my mother’s shop and sometimes on my way home. I lost the energy to take care of myself, repeating clothes, leaving my hair undone, withdrawing into a version of myself I barely recognised.
In September, I found refuge in journaling. Each day, I poured my thoughts onto paper because it felt safer than speaking them aloud. But in October, the heaviness lingered even more. On October 6, when I turned 21, I was too emotionally drained to celebrate. Birthdays in my home are usually joyful, but that day passed quietly. Aside from my mother, almost no one reached out.
I didn’t dress up; I didn’t go out; I simply sat with the weight of everything I was trying to understand.
But my parents remained my anchors. My mother, whose resilience has shaped who I am becoming, supported me emotionally and constantly reminded me that mediocrity was never my portion. My father, a soldier who continues to support my dreams despite his own demands, never stopped believing in the future I was building.
Their support made me understand what life was teaching me. I learned that the outcomes of our plans are never fully in our hands. I learned that every life unfolds at its own pace, and comparison only steals our peace. Most of all, I was reminded that Allah is the only constant in a world that can shift without warning. I am still learning to know Him more deeply, but I am no longer as lost as I once felt.
In November, I returned online, beginning with small replies to messages I had ignored. By December, I gathered the courage to start posting on Instagram, sharing reflections about life and growth. When I started, my page had 55 followers. Today, it has grown to 95. The numbers may seem small, but to me, they represent that I am showing up again.
In January 2026, I enrolled in culinary school, which has become my safe space, a place to focus, make mistakes, and rebuild my confidence one class at a time. Around the same period, I began applying to schools again and recently received admission to Elizabethtown College in Pennsylvania with a merit scholarship. While uncertainties still exist and I continue to pray for clarity, I know one thing for certain: I am no longer standing still.
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