"Coming Home to Myself"

My name is Mehjabin. I’m 34 years old. Today, I want to tell you my story—because after many years, I finally have the courage to speak my truth.

I was born into a middle-class family. My father was a school teacher, my mother a homemaker. From an early age, I was drawn to books. While most girls around me were expected to become doctors or engineers, I dreamt of being a writer. But in our society, dreams are only valid when they fit into someone else's mold.

The turning point of my story began on the day of my wedding.

I got married at 22. My husband, Riyad, was considered the “perfect man” by family and relatives—stable job, well-mannered, good-looking. But it didn’t take long after marriage for me to realize that sometimes, perfection is just a polished surface hiding deep cracks.

I had dreams of writing, but Riyad wanted a wife who would manage the house, stay silent in front of his friends, and follow every expectation set by his parents. At first, I tried to explain—tried to say that I, too, was a human being, with desires, feelings, and aspirations. But every attempt ended in disappointment.

"Why would a woman waste time writing?"

"Will your words feed this family?"

"Focus on your children and home. That’s your real job."

And so, my pen stopped moving. I gradually began to accept it—maybe this was my fate. Children were born, the family grew. But inside, something in me withered. Day by day, I began losing the person I once was. I’d look in the mirror and see a stranger. My face, my eyes, my smile—they all felt unfamiliar.

I laughed, but it was hollow.

Ten years passed this way.

Then one morning, I woke up with a strange heaviness in my chest. I asked myself, "When was the last time I made a cup of tea for myself? When did I last read a poem without fear of being judged? When did I cry freely—without hiding it?"

That same day, I decided—no more.

I picked up the pen again. Quietly at first. I would write at night, after everyone had fallen asleep. I started posting online under a pseudonym. No one knew the writer was me. But with every comment, every like, and every word of encouragement—I found little pieces of myself returning.

Then, one day, a piece I wrote went viral. Friends, acquaintances, even strangers messaged me:

"Beautiful!"

"How did you put my feelings into words?"

"Who are you, writer?"

I was stunned—I was alive again. Riyad couldn’t handle this change. He told me, “If you keep going down this path, we’ll have to go separate ways.”

I was scared. But that fear was smaller than my newfound love for myself. I quietly said, “So be it. I’ll walk this path alone if I must.”

My mother cried. “How will you manage everything by yourself, daughter?”

I smiled gently and replied, “I’ve been dying alone for so long, Ma. Let me try living alone now.”

I started a small freelance writing agency. Work was slow at first, but I stayed patient. Slowly, my client base grew, money started coming in. I rented a small apartment and enrolled my children in school.

Today, I stand on my own feet, with my own identity.

People still whisper—“She’s divorced. A single mom.”

I reply, “No—I’m a survivor. A fighter. A woman who rewrote her own story.”

I know many women are living like I once did—quietly breaking inside under the weight of a relationship. Women who ask themselves daily, “How much more can I take?” Women who hide their tears and lose themselves in silence. To those women, I say—your life is more than just your marriage or your family. You are a person first. You deserve to live, to dream, to be loved—even by yourself.

My life isn’t some perfect, rosy fairytale. I still have struggles, I still face hardship. But there’s a big difference now—through those struggles, I don’t lose myself. I find myself.

These days, I make myself a cup of tea every morning. I look in the mirror and smile—because I finally recognize the woman looking back at me. Her name is Mehjabin. And after many years, I’ve found her again.

This story isn’t about a heroine or a revolutionary. It’s about an ordinary woman who one day dared to say, “This life is mine. And I choose to live it my way.” Final Words:

Every woman has a moment in her life where she has to choose—lose herself, or find herself again. If you’re standing at that crossroad, let today be the day you choose you. Life is too short, and loving yourself is not a luxury—it’s your right.