This blog is a transcript of a speech I gave. You can watch the video here (it’s 3.5 minutes long) or you can read the story below the video
When I was born, my dad stood over my crib and cursed me for… being a girl
I never had a chance to talk to him about it, because my parents had separated when I was two weeks old and he died when I was 20, but my grandma used to tell me this story with a great gusto. And when she noticed my reaction, she used to reassure me:
‘But don’t you worry, Allah has punished him. He gave him another three daughters from his second marriage.’
In my head, it sounded almost like a joke: ‘What could be worse than one daughter? Four daughters, of course!’
But it wasn’t funny. Because growing up I believed that girls didn’t matter; that my voice didn’t matter; that I didn’t matter.
And do you know what happens when you grow up on a diet of limiting beliefs? You settle for toxic relationships. You stay in unfulfilling jobs. You don’t feel that you deserve the good things in life.
So when I came to England in 2005, I embarked on an epic healing journey. I did therapy like a full-time job, and things got better. But there was a gaping hole inside of me, a void I couldn’t fill no matter how hard I tried.
Until I decided that enough is enough and this man will not have any power over my life anymore.
In December 2011, I went to my home town to find his grave and to say my goodbyes.
I couldn’t find his grave.
Defeated, I went into the town centre to buy my ticket to return to England, when suddenly I remembered something I hadn’t thought of for three decades. When I was 6 or 7, my mum told me that I had an auntie, her name was Tahira and she lived in the town centre.
On an impulse, I went knocking on people’s doors and eventually, I found the right one. She came out and peered into my face.
‘You look so familiar. But I can’t place you.’
‘That’s because we’ve never met. I’m your brother’s daughter.’
She hugged me and cried tears of joy. She took me inside her house, and it turned out that I’d walked into her 58th birthday celebration. There were around forty of my newly found relatives and that day I was showered with so much love, I returned to England transformed.
When I got back, I decided to write about this experience. But once I started, I couldn’t stop. It was like my soul wanted me to tell my story. It was not negotiatiable.
And through the process of writing my memoir, I realised, you know what?
My life matters. My voice matters. I matter.
And so do you.
You matter. Your voice matters. Your life matters.
Tell your story, even and especially if it’s a painful one.
Tell Your Story.
And if you are scared or stuck, let me help you.
P.S. I’ve created a powerful healing programme for writers. It’ll help you to reclaim the parts of yourself you’ve denied or rejected. You will be able to manifest your dreams from the place of inner peace and integrity. When you heal your fears and limiting beliefs, your productivity will flourish. Give it a go. All the details are here.