The chair beneath me shook. Thousands of expectant eyes were fixed on me. I wanted to drop the microphone and run off the stage. My body trembled, my hands were sweaty, my cheeks flushed, and my breathing was difficult. I could hear nothing except the quiet murmur of my classmates, and I had no idea what they were saying.

Fear and anxiety consumed me. I worried someone would mock me, that I would forget the verses, or that my voice would shake and no one would listen. I felt like I was melting inside, but then a voice inside me said, Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim.

A heavy silence fell over the room and everyone listened. My voice was soft and shaky. Suddenly, a part of the surah slipped from my memory. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t recall it until I heard a classmate quietly reciting it under her breath. At that moment, my mind cleared, I continued, and finally finished the recitation.

When I stepped down from the chair, my legs felt weak. I felt like there was no strength left in my body. I went to my classmates, and they laughed, saying, When you were reciting, the chair was shaking with you; we thought you were going to fall!

I smiled shyly and lowered my head. I sat in class, hands on my face, feeling proud despite all my fear, because it was the first time I had spoken in front of a large group. I was a girl from a family and a society that did not allow girls to speak. No one taught us how to talk in public or how to have confidence. We were given little importance, especially girls like me, who were quiet and introverted.

From that day, I started slowly. Every day I tried to learn the lessons, present at the board, or read aloud. At first, it was difficult; my tongue would tie when reading, especially at hard or complex words. While presenting, I would forget points and not understand why.

Some days, seeing others walk to school with friends, talk in class, explain lessons to one another, and then go home together made me envious. I wished I had friends, but my lack of confidence held me back.

Eventually, I decided to make a few close friends and succeeded. I became friends with several girls in my class who were confident and capable. I realized sometimes you need friends who are a step ahead to help when needed. At home, I also tried to talk more with my siblings and parents, sharing my experiences at school. Slowly, they began to listen, which motivated me greatly.

I was in sixth grade, my last school year. When Afghanistan fell and the Taliban, or the Islamic Emirate, took over Kabul, they no longer allowed girls to study past sixth grade. This crushed me; I saw no future for myself. But I still believed God would open a path. There is always light behind every darkness.

In the middle of my final year, around summer, it was time for the school discipline duties. This was a great opportunity to build my confidence. One teacher selected me because I was taller than most classmates. I accepted. Every day, I arrived early, made more friends, and helped organize the girls. I led several more activities, and this time, unlike the first, I had no stress. It was a major accomplishment in that Afghan society.

By the end of the year, exams were over, and when I received my results, I could hardly believe it. I had ranked fourth and entered Group A. I had always been in Group B. I was thrilled. Yet I had to say goodbye to school. It was hard, but unavoidable.

I exchanged contacts with friends and said goodbye. At the main gate, looking back, I recalled the days of playing with friends, my first leadership role, childhood, laughter… tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t stop myself as I left the school.

I left behind my good days, joys, and laughter at school. Only my body left; my soul remained. When I showed my family my grades, they were proud, but unfortunately, there was no longer a school for me.

That winter was harsh. I had nothing to do and spent my days doing handicrafts, longing to study. I thought, Sakineh, is this the result of all your effort, sewing thousands of garments? This thought made my body tremble. I sometimes wished I could go back instead of moving forward.

I was so lost in my own world that I did not notice spring had arrived. One day, leaving the house, I saw boys in white shirts and black pants heading to school. I looked at them with envy. I went to the school I had been expelled from, a place that had always been alive in my memory. Young girls entered with smiles; I was the only one missing. I was so focused on the school that I felt the cracked walls and rusty gates were speaking to me. Among that crowd, I felt invisible.

Returning home, I learned my mother had enrolled me in a religious school. I did not like female teachers, but I had to go. Mornings were aimless, afternoons were spent returning home. Slowly, I became the unmotivated, introverted girl I once was.

One day, I saw a banner at school saying, A Muslim girl who commits any sin and wears a hijab will be forgiven. My resentment toward the teachers grew; their appearance was modest, but their minds were strict. They misrepresented religion. While everyone knows God is merciful, they said He was unjust.

Music was forbidden. Even listening for one minute was a grave sin. I wanted to become a famous rapper. That was my dream—to perform in front of thousands—but they said women should not sing.

Despite everything, I had faith in God and began all my work in His name. I knew being an artist was not a sin. For me, wearing a hijab was not important; inner character was. A singer may not look perfect, but her heart could be pure, kind, and devoted.

I always believed the rigid rules imposed on me were not true religion. God is far kinder than these harsh rules. The God who created the universe and is closer than a vein to humanity does not want us to live in fear and limitation.

Sometimes I was afraid to say I wanted to be a rapper. In a country where girls have no rights, this dream seemed impossible. Yet I tried and asked God to guide me.

Eventually, I realized that in this path, only you and God are there; no one else truly stands by you. I decided to leave school. I was tired of wearing black, of mandatory hijab, of both male and female teachers. They misrepresented religion, which pained me. My family disagreed, but I made my choice. Staying would have cost me my hope every day.

I started dismantling limiting beliefs planted since childhood. I stopped using discouraging words. I set goals for my life: to finish school, earn a US scholarship, study at New York University, strengthen my body, pursue arts and music, become a famous rapper, a skilled writer, and one day a leader helping reclaim girls’ rights.

I also joined a public speaking class to overcome my fears. The first day was like a new light. My teacher was energetic and inspiring, teaching us to keep growing. Speaking in front of a group was difficult; my heart raced, hands shook, mind filled with fear: what if I messed up, laughed at, or forgot my words? But every day with the teacher’s help, I progressed. We even practiced speaking at home with our families.

Low confidence affects speaking anywhere, at home or outside. The teacher asked us to speak in front of our families. For me, quiet, shy, and reserved, it was the hardest exercise. But I did it and found it easier than expected. I had no stress. My family, who had never encouraged me before, supported me with smiles. I realized they believed in me; I just needed effort to earn their trust.

Looking into my sister’s eyes, I smiled more. I created my first public speaking video. Later, before class, my friend and I interviewed locals and shop owners about products. It was my first time speaking to the opposite gender. Previously, my lack of confidence prevented me from expressing myself, but that day was different.

At first, I had to do it alone. Men often gave us cold, disdainful looks, believing it wrong for women to speak. They thought girls wearing makeup were bad, studying was sinful, and making eye contact with men was a crime.

One day, we went to a computer shop. The young owner initially seemed cold, but after explaining our project, he warmed up and said, Okay, sure. Others around stared at us, implying women had no right to do this. I felt a little nervous but not enough to stop. I took a deep breath, smiled, and started. I heard a voice inside saying you can do this, and I did.

Over time, I reached a point where I could speak confidently, smile, and present without fear. The shy girl had become a girl unafraid of speaking, making mistakes, and being heard.

During speeches, I sometimes looked into the eyes of others, especially boys. I was no longer afraid. Mistakes were met with laughter, and I continued smiling.

When graduation day came and my name was called, Sakineh Amini, I walked forward proudly to receive my certificate. It felt like the world was smiling at me. It was indescribable.

After public speaking, I joined photography and videography classes. I now believe photos can be my second language. Sometimes words cannot convey feelings, but a photo can. I decided to study editing and continue my lessons.

The shy, unconfident girl from three years ago is gone. Now, I am a girl with thousands of dreams, capable of presenting to thousands. I am a small writer with big ambitions who wants to become a leader one day.

I have worked hard to get here. Some may lose motivation in hard times, but I use every day to remember who I am and what I deserve.

I have hope that one day I will achieve all my dreams. God willing, I will become a famous rapper. Until then, I will never stop trying.

Friends, when someone can achieve great success, we can too. We are no less than them. We just need to face our fears, trust God, and overcome them. Fear always exists, but we choose whether it stays or we destroy it.