By Zainabkhatunjaffry,
When people talk about strength, they often imagine something loud — standing on a stage, leading a crowd, or raising one’s voice. But I’ve learned that true strength is often quiet. It lives in small sacrifices, in silent tears, and in choosing to keep going, even when no one is watching.
My story begins in a small village.
I was just four years old when my mother gave birth to my younger brother. The delivery left her seriously ill for a long time. I barely remember her during that period. Instead, what I remember most is my elder sister — a Class 10 student in a government school — stepping into the role of both sister and mother. She was still a child herself, yet she carried responsibilities far beyond her years. She took care of me, managed our home, and tried her best to focus on her studies in a struggling school system.
Those early years shaped me — not through textbooks or teachers, but through the silent strength of my sister.
I completed Class 8 in that village. Life was simple, but I felt strong. I was confident, energetic, always active — leading groups, speaking freely, playing openly with the neighborhood boys. English wasn’t my strength, but that never held me back. I was fearless. I was alive.
But everything changed when I moved to Kargil for Class 9.
The shift from village to town was like stepping into a different world — one I wasn’t prepared for. In the new school, I suddenly realized how little I knew. My English felt weak. My background felt too small. And almost overnight, I went from being a leader to someone who didn’t even want to raise her hand in class.
I became quiet. Shy. Unsure of myself. That bold, unshakable girl I once was — she felt lost.
And that change didn’t just last for days or months. It stayed with me for years.
Even today, after completing my Postgraduate degree, earning my B.Ed., and becoming a teacher at a private school — I still carry the echoes of that transition. I still struggle with confidence. I still compare myself. Sometimes, I still feel like that Class 9 girl who didn’t know where she belonged.
But over time, I’ve learned to see something else: resilience.
Despite the doubts, I never gave up. I didn’t let fear stop me from continuing my education. I didn’t let insecurity keep me from becoming a teacher — someone who now stands in front of a classroom and teaches with heart.
I may not have been the loudest, the smartest, or the most confident. But I kept going. And that, too, is strength.
That’s what I want to share through my story.
Not all journeys are perfect. Not all victories are loud. Sometimes, strength looks like simply showing up. Like choosing to grow, even when you’re scared. Like continuing, even when no one claps for you.
So to every girl who feels lost in a new place, or to anyone who thinks they’re not “enough” — please know this:
You are not behind. You are becoming.
