My Story

I, Parizad, was an ordinary woman — quiet, polite, and strong. But behind my calm eyes lived fifteen years of struggle, tears, and survival. My story was not written in gold or fame, but in silence and scars that no one could see.

I was only fifteen when my life began to fall apart. After my father’s death, my mother married another man, leaving me and my younger sister behind. Soon, I was sent to a girls’ hostel to continue my studies. But that hostel became less of a home and more of a lonely prison.

I missed my mother’s voice, my father’s protection, the laughter of my sister — everything felt lost. I cried silently at night, burying my face in the pillow so no one could hear. And every morning, I wore a brave smile, pretending to be fine.

But life wasn’t done testing me.

My younger sister began to change too — angry, jealous, and distant. Whenever she visited me, arguments broke out. She insulted me, humiliated me, and once even slapped me in front of my friends. That day, my heart broke completely. I didn’t cry for myself; I cried for the respect I lost and the love that had vanished from my family.

Still, I didn’t give up. I focused on my studies, worked harder than anyone else, and completed my education despite the loneliness that haunted me. After years of struggle, I achieved what many only dream of — I got a government job.

It was supposed to be a new beginning.

But the world had more storms waiting for me.

At my new office, I worked sincerely — always polite, always professional. But one man, an older colleague, began to harass me. It started with unwanted comments, then messages, and finally attempts to corner me when no one was around. I felt trapped and terrified.

One day, I gathered all my courage and told my family about it. I expected comfort and protection — but instead, I faced disbelief.

My mother said softly, “Maybe you misunderstood.”

My relatives whispered, “Girls these days make up stories for attention.”

Those words hurt more than the harassment itself. My truth was buried under society’s doubt. I was innocent, but no one cared.

Then one day, a man came to my family’s home. He said,

“She is innocent. I know her. I respect her. I love her and I want to marry her.”

For a moment, hope returned to my heart. Maybe life was giving me a chance to be loved again. But then the truth came out — the man was already married. Not once, not twice, but three times.

My world collapsed again. He left, and with him went my trust.

Years passed. I focused on my career, trying to rebuild my confidence. But deep inside, I was still searching for peace — for someone who would love me without conditions. And then, unexpectedly, I met someone.

He was kind, gentle, and understanding. He listened to me, cared for me, and slowly, I began to feel alive again. For the first time in many years, I smiled without pretending.

But fate had another cruel twist — he too was married.

When I found out, I wanted to walk away. But love isn’t always a choice. Sometimes, it’s a storm that pulls you in even when you know it will hurt. We both loved each other deeply, and this time, it wasn’t just emotion — it was understanding and pain shared between two lonely hearts.

We wanted to marry. We dreamed of a small home, a peaceful life. But both families refused — his because he was already married, and mine because society would never accept such a union.

I tried everything — I begged, I reasoned, I cried — but no one listened.

My life once again became a battlefield between my heart and the world’s judgment. I stood at the edge of hope, torn between love and family, right and wrong, duty and happiness.

One evening, I sat alone on the balcony, the wind brushing my face. I looked at the city lights below and whispered,

“Why does happiness always come to test me?”

My tears fell silently, but there was strength in them now. I had learned that life doesn’t always reward good people, but it also doesn’t break them completely.

I decided to marry him — because if no one cared about me, why should I always think about others? My mother slapped me, my sister insulted me every day, and even my most loving brother — the one who once protected me more than anyone — turned against me.

But how can happiness live on one side when your whole family stands on the other? How can I choose love when it means losing everything else?

I was completely stuck, unable to decide what to do.

In my confusion, I turned to the only thing that had never betrayed me — writing.

I began to write about my pain, my memories, and my lessons. Words became my healing. I wrote about women like me — women who faced betrayal yet stood tall. Girls who were blamed for the sins of others. Women who kept their dignity in a world that tried to take it away.

My stories began to touch hearts. Slowly, people started to see me not as a victim, but as a voice. The same family that once doubted me began to admire my courage. The same society that once whispered behind my back started to respect my strength.

Years later, when I looked back, I realized that every wound had taught me something powerful:

When my mother left, I learned independence.

When my sister humiliated me, I learned patience.

When my family didn’t believe me, I learned self-worth.

When love betrayed me, I learned resilience.

And when the world turned its back, I learned to walk alone — and still move forward.

My life was not easy, but it was meaningful. I no longer waited for love or approval. I built my own peace, my own identity.

Now, when people ask me, “Don’t you regret anything?” I simply smile and say,

“I don’t regret the pain. It made me who I am — a woman who fell a thousand times but still stands taller than her fears.”

Moral of the Story:

A woman’s strength is not measured by how many times she is loved, but by how many times she rises after being broken.

Parizad’s life reminds us that even when the world doubts you, truth will always find its way.

No pain lasts forever — and no woman who keeps her dignity ever truly loses.