The air feels soft, the sky covered with gray clouds, it looks like it will rain anytime soon. But—why am I running so fast? And what is chasing me from almost all directions? shadowy shapeless beings, too many, closing in. Oh no! I need to find a shelter or some kind of hiding place. No wall, no roof, no tree in sight…..Papa? When and how did he appear, I don't know., I have no time to think. I have to quickly touch him. I put my hands in his pants pocket…where did they go? They just vanished. I couldn't understand it then, but now I know why. I had exams scheduled for the following week. Feeling anxious and stressed, I had a small argument with my younger brother over a pencil case. I was 13. It escalated to a point that my brother started crying. I saw him going to my father, getting hugged and consoled. A part of me quietly broke. Deep in my heart maybe I was also craving for that affection. My father called my name lovingly, “Fatima beta, come here”. I went to his room. Witnessing my brother still in his embrace, fired up my anger and I shouted, “ You only love him, You don't love me”. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I went straight back to my room, curled up like a baby with my face pressed into a pillow and cried. “Maybe he will console me too.” Thinking about this I went to sleep. The next day was a bit unusual. A heavy air surrounded yesterday's lively house. My father had his Sunday breakfast, read the newspaper, and watched political shows. Everything seemed normal except for the fact that he didn't smile once….he went SILENT. A few days later, as he came back from the office, I went to the front door to greet him. With a smile, I stretched my hand out to take his briefcase from his grip but he pulled away. The words he said next wrenched my heart,” learn some manners first, then talk to me.” He walked through the front towards the living room, leaving me standing there in shock at what I had heard. I spent the remaining day, choking back tears, questioning myself, “Have I hurt my father? Have I been so disrespectful?”. I pondered all night hoping to uncover the reason for his reaction to my outburst and how I can smooth things over. This is when I realized—I had to be careful with him. By the end of that week, I mustered up the courage and apologized. He accepted but a gap still remained, waiting to be bridged. I knew he loved me and so did I, without a doubt. So I started learning a new language, a language of his silence. A sweet from lunch money, a question about his day, a flower from a random bush—simple gestures that are hard to refuse, too notable to be ignored. Daily conversations with him made my day complete. “I went out with girls today, we had chocolate ice cream but I think strawberry one tastes better”, I murmured. “Hmm…right”. He brought strawberry ice cream the next day. I was happy not because of the ice cream, but the fact that he remembered “strawberry”. I felt satiated after seeing a subtle but gratified smile playing on his face. He did not reply mostly but I was starting to grasp HIS language. Like this, a year went by. Then, one evening, I heard something I was not expecting to hear this early. “I had a bad day today.” Tears swelled up in my eyes before I could gather my words. He opened his heart to me, not because I'd asked but because, for once, he wanted to. “Don't worry, everything's gonna be okay. You have me”. I opened my bag, took something out, reached my hand to him and slowly unclenched my fist, letting the toffee drop in my father's hand. He didn't say anything, just took it, as if it was a ritual for him. Now, I'm 26, coming back home from a tiring day at the office. The crowded bus is acting as a trigger for my burnout. My phone screen lights up with a text message on top, “Location Plz. Pulao for dinner.” The edges of my tiredness softened, no longer heavy, a feeling of languor washes over me, as if my body exhaled all the burden. I used to call him but now he calls me first, asks for my location whenever I go out on work trips. We converse for hours, sharing our recent purchase and how uncle Mubashir's cat broke his vintage vase. We laugh, share burdens and sometimes he covers me with a tapestry of his childhood days. After putting each fragment of his memory together, I unfold the story of his efforts, along with a fear of disappointing others. Till now I couldn't understand why the shapeless shadowy beings in my dream vanished. But now, I can vividly picture and sense my fathers warm pocket and why they couldn't harm me in his embrace. The language I learnt for his reticence, finally bore fruit. I'm glad, in the end, I was the one reaching out first.

Wake up, make the bed, cook breakfast, clean the house, cry, cook dinner, greet George with a bright smile, have dinner, go to bed. This is my life. These mundane tasks chip away at my hope for the future. This is it. I am going to die on these perfectly waxed floors. This is the “perfect nuclear family.” I am living the life every woman told me I wanted. So, why am I leaning on the sink counter contemplating my existence? When I got engaged, everyone congratulated me. Why? Why would they wish for this dehumanization? Hopelessness crushes my chest, attempting to squeeze out my remaining breaths. The first time I had this reaction, I thought I was dying. But I am growing accustomed to it. Today, a spot of grime sent me spiraling until I hit the floor of my bottomless well of a soul. All I can do is wait for the spiraling to slow. Just wait and this feeling will be pushed down. My back slides down against the wall, dragging my skirt with it until I hit the cold tile floor. GET UP ELIZABETH. Despite every muscle in my body telling me to lie down, I pull myself up to prepare dinner. Six o'clock. George should be arriving soon Bright smile “I'm home. . .” my husband's bored voice fills the room, “. . . have you made me my drink yet?” “Of course. How was work, darling?” “Oh, boring work stuff. I'm in no mood to talk.” He picks up his daily paper and sits down at the head of the table. The bright smile plastered onto my face falters. Why do I even try anymore? What happened to me? I was once idealistic. Ambitious. “Women only go to college to get their MRS degree,” my mother said. Oh, and a husband I found. George was practical, stable, average. Nothing little girls wish for. An accountant with a retirement plan. Just what every girl dreams of. I quit school after I got married. Sometimes I wonder about the girls who stayed. Who chose themselves. Who didn't buy into the nuclear family fever dream. I imagine them stepping out of elevators and rushing down the hallway to their desks. They are stressed but fulfilled. The most fulfillment I get is clean dishes. I glance over at my husband's paper, announcing “Supreme Court Strikes Down School Segregation.” My law professor told me I was the most promising student he'd ever had. I've been chasing that high ever since. I only had one year left on my law degree. I could go back! I look over at my husband. He sits across from me, yet I am alone at this perfectly set dinner table. His face is shrouded in the shadow of the newspaper, a wall between us physically and emotionally. “How is the food?” I ask, trying to nonchalantly propose my return to the university. “Fine.” Of course it is. “I was thinking, you are always at work and I get kind of lonely here,” I hesitantly state. “So, you want to have a hobby? That's fine with me.” “Not exactly. What if I return to school and finish my law degree?” His silence at the end of the table sends trickles up my spine. “I only have one year left.” His lack of a response flushes my face. He has not put down his paper. “I'm not sure that's a great idea,” he states matter-of-factly. “Why not?” An edge creeps into my voice. “You are just so busy here taking care of the house and cooking.” His completely flat tone raises my body temperature. “I could find …” “No, you couldn't,” he interrupts. “Well, I was just saying that…“ “It just isn't a great idea. Sorry.” Adrenaline pulses through my body. “I need someone to be here waiting for me.” Boom. There goes my temper. “JUST PUT DOWN THE DAMN PAPER!” That gets his attention. He lowers the newspaper and strides over to my side of the table. “That's no way to speak to your husband.” He raises his hand and strikes me on my cheek, leaving a stinging sensation. A tear trickles down my face. George returns to his seat and picks up his newspaper. “A wife needs to support her husband. And for that I need you to be here.” Tears silently roll down my face. No. I am not doing this. I rise and stare this man in the eyes. I briskly march to my purse. “Where are you going?” George shoots up, his chair crashes against my immaculate floor. His voice quivers with uncertainty. “Anywhere but here.” I grab my purse and make my way to the door. “Wait, you can't just leave!” I ignore his frightened calls. I open the door feeling the rush of the cool night air on my skin. “I AM YOUR HUSBAND!” I shut the doors behind me, turning George's shouts to muffled words. I step inside the car and turn the engine. The soft roaring sound fuels my passion. I drive away from my perfect white picket fence house. In spite of the darkness shrouding my view, I sense a new dawn of a life absent of the suffocating “nuclear family.” Finally feeling that warm rippling feeling of potential surging through my veins, I choose myself.

Every second, I miss my childhood. Those days were the purest and sweetest moments of my life. Especially, the moments spent with my father – they are the most precious treasures engraved in my memory. Every father loves his child, but my father gave me more love than I could ever ask for. Perhaps that is why I have never envied anyone else's parents. I was born in a small, remote place. My family was not wealthy, yet my parents never let me feel the burden of financial struggles. From kindergarten to university, they always invested in my education. They never had the chance to study at a university, but life itself had taught them many valuable lessons. Maybe that's why, despite all the hardships, they provided me with every opportunity to pursue my dreams. I still remember the "Best Girls" contest at my kindergarten. My mother took me to a beauty salon, dressed me in the most beautiful dress she could find, and made sure I had the best breakfast before sending me off. My father, as always, was my biggest supporter. That day, I did not win first place. But my father, not wanting to see me disappointed, asked the organizers to add an extra nomination so that I wouldn't feel left out. That's how I received the title of “The Most Graceful Girl”. At that time, it seemed like a small victory, but now I understand that the real treasure was not the award itself, but the love and support of my parents. My father didn't just give me love; he also taught me life lessons. There was a contest where I had to cook a dish. My father sat with me and patiently taught me how to make the perfect samsa (a traditional pastry). I thought he was preparing me for a competition, but in reality, he was preparing me for life. My mother, on the other hand, introduced me to the world of music. When she took me to my first piano class, she saw the excitement in my eyes. Years later, when my teacher selected me to represent our country in an international music competition, my mother's joy was boundless. As I boarded the plane to Baku for the contest, my parents proudly said, "Our daughter is flying on a plane for the first time! Our daughter is traveling to another country!". When I returned, they welcomed me at the airport with open arms, and at that moment, I realized: home is not a place, it's the warmth of the people who love you. Since childhood, I have been struggling with strabismus. In school, on the streets, even in extracurricular activities, my peers sometimes laughed at me. At first, I ignored it. But as time passed, it started to eat away at me. One day, I came home crying and asked my mother: "Why did you give birth to me?" I saw my mother's heart break in that instant. She had fought for me since the day I was born, staying up countless nights to take care of me, ensuring that I had a chance to live. We visited doctors, searched for treatments, but most of them simply said, "There is no cure." This struggle distanced me from myself. I isolated myself from society, avoided conversations, and started creating imaginary scenarios in my mind. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, trying to understand myself. I wrote letters that would never be sent, poems that would never be read. I was losing myself. One day, after a long night of tears, I poured my heart out to my father. He hugged me tightly and said: "Suffering is a fate written in your veins. No matter how painful it seems, find joy within it. Let your unhealed wounds bloom with flowers. And always remember, we love you in every way, in every condition. No matter what happens, we will always be by your side. Never think otherwise." Something changed within me after hearing those words. Maybe not in a single day, but over time, I started seeing life differently. Now, I understand – the unconditional love of my parents is the greatest wealth one can ever have. They never expected me to win; they loved me simply because I existed. No matter how old I become, they still see the little girl in me and kiss my forehead with the same tenderness. And now, I know: this is true happiness. This is a miracle given only to the lucky ones. Dear girls, dear people with disabilities, dear souls who criticize themselves too much, You are loved. You are precious. There are people in this world who love you simply for being you. The hardships in our lives are not meant to break us, but to reveal our true strength. Never think you do not belong. Because you are amazing, unique, valuable, and deeply loved. With all my love, Just Bonu.

While most students were traveling the world or enjoying their time off from school during summer vacation, I was at home. Sitting in my room with the curtains closed, frequently refreshing my phone in hopes of seeing my schedule for the upcoming school year. I sighed and picked up a glass of orange juice to try and settle my nerves, praying that I wouldn't have the misfortune of getting the toughest teacher in my school: Mr. Smith. Throughout the previous school year, my older sister would come home every day and attempt to frighten me with anecdotes about Mr. Smith's seemingly impossible history tests or endless amounts of homework. “So what?” I responded cockily, “I get far better grades than you, why should I worry?” She paused for a moment. “You might,” she said, leaning towards me menacingly, “But he requires every student to participate in class, or else he'll get super mad. And we all know how much you love using your voice.” I grimaced. She was right. I hated speaking up. From asking questions in class to even calling my grandma on the phone, I never had the courage to speak my mind because of the fear that I would say something wrong. And whenever I did try to raise my hand to answer a question, the butterflies in my stomach would take over, and the overwhelming feeling of nausea would force me to put my hand back down. And I despised myself because of it. The fact that I couldn't start conversations with people, or order food by myself, or tell people what I really thought about their new haircut. So when I refreshed my phone for the millionth time and saw that my period three history teacher was Mr. Smith, I dropped my glass of orange juice and screamed. What if he asks me a question? I thought while walking closer and closer to his classroom, Or makes everyone stand up and share something interesting about themselves? But before I could answer myself, I turned a corner and arrived at his classroom. I peered inside through the open doorway and saw twenty or so kids sitting straight up like statues, their visages completely void of any emotion except for fear. Their brightly colored outfits contradicted the concoction of angst and misery in their eyes, along with the dismal atmosphere of the room. Large, colorful flags drooped down the achromatic walls as if they were trying to cover up the bleakness of the room. I sneaked in, careful not to make any noise, and gently set my bag down next to a seat in the back of the class. Suddenly, the bell rang and Mr. Smith slowly prowled into class, his tall figure looming over all of us while he glared into each and every one of our faces, until he took a seat on a stool in the front of the class. He stayed quiet for a minute before talking about his class expectations. “This class will not be easy,” he said, still scrutinizing our frightened faces, “besides having difficult tests and homework assignments, I require every student to participate.” I sighed and waited for him to say more. “I understand that most of you are scared of speaking up, but I'd like of you to think of it this way. Your voice is the most powerful thing you will ever own, and if you don't use it, you're simply letting yourself down. Who cares if you're right or wrong? What matters is that you tried.” I froze. And in that moment I had an epiphany that changed my life for the better. He was right: what's wrong with being wrong? I was born with the most powerful weapon in the known universe and for the past fifteen years of my life I failed to take advantage of it. Whether it was expressing my political opinions or asking questions about biology or astronomy or literature, I never once used my voice without the fear of saying something wrong. I never once considered that my voice was a unique gift that should be heard. I never once stood up for the ideas that I believed in. I never once truly used my voice. “Hey, you in the back,” I heard Mr. Smith say, stirring me back to reality, “What rumors have you heard about me and my class?” I smiled and eagerly began sharing with the class the stories my sister told me about Mr. Smith's rigorous history class. During the course of that year, I debated whether his class was fitting for me. After all, staying up late studying history is not the most ideal way for me to spend my weekends. But after receiving one of the highest grades in his class from actively participating, I can say that his class was the most enlightening I'd ever participated in. He taught me that a person's voice is more powerful than any weapon or army on the planet, and to not use it is the greatest harm one can do to oneself. I was recently assigned a school project asking what -- in my opinion -- the worst disability is. Blindness? Paralysis? It took me a while, but speaking from experience, I can say with certainty that the worst disability would be to have a voice, but not the courage to use it.