The Haitian proverb Men anpil, chay pa lou—many hands make the light load—shaped how I understand responsibility. In a family rooted in the legacy of the first Black republic, I was raised to see progress as collective. Haiti’s 1804 revolution was not distant history to me. It taught me that resilience means building even when the odds are against you. That mindset defines how I approach my education and my future. My parents carried that same resilience when they immigrated, working long hours to give my siblings and me opportunities they never had. Watching that made my education intentional. I do not approach school passively. Through my research on democracy and ethnic identity, I studied how systems shape opportunity and exclusion. That work pushed me to think beyond individual success and toward understanding the structures that define entire communities. That perspective drives my interest in law and economic policy. During my time in the HP Tech Ventures externship, I analyzed startups and investment strategies, learning how capital flows shape which ideas succeed. I began to see that opportunity is often not about talent alone, but about access. That realization connected directly to my interest in law. I want to work at the intersection of policy and economics to address the structural barriers that limit communities like my own. My commitment to collective progress shows up in how I lead. As Director of Publicity for Outreach Debate TX, I helped expand access to debate education by building outreach campaigns and increasing student engagement. Debate is not just competition. It is a tool that teaches students how to think, speak, and advocate for themselves. By helping grow that platform, I contributed to creating opportunities for students who may not have otherwise had access to that space. I have also worked to empower students through Youth in Law, where I helped organize outreach efforts focused on introducing students to legal education and career pathways. Many students are never exposed to these opportunities early on. Being part of that process allowed me to help make those pathways more visible and accessible. I am shaped by Haitian resilience and the opportunities I have here. My responsibility is to connect the two. The same idea behind Men anpil, chay pa lou guides me now. I plan to give back by creating access for Haitian American students who, like me, rely on information, mentorship, and opportunity rather than existing networks. Whether through legal advocacy, outreach, or mentorship, I want to make those pathways clearer and more accessible. The goal is simple. The next generation should not have to figure everything out alone.

Loss didn’t enter my life all at once. It came slowly, then all at once. For the first fourteen years of my life, my grandmother raised me. While my parents were working hard to make ends meet by doing various jobs, she was everything. She provided me food, put me to bed, and ensured I never felt like we lacked anything. At a place where every penny counted, she gave us the sense of warmth that cannot be bought. Then, she fell ill. Even as she developed metastatic breast cancer, she never let it change how she cared for us. I watched her fight through pain she never complained about, still showing up every day with the same quiet strength. When she passed, the house felt different. Quieter. Not just because she was gone, but because the person who held everything together was no longer there. Having gained some understanding of what happened to Brooks and hearing about the background of this scholarship, I understood loss from a different angle. He died young; his death was both unexpected and painful. Regardless of whether or not I know him personally, his story is significant because it reminds us that life is very fragile. Loss accelerates one's maturity at an unreasonable pace. It impacts one's perception of time. Instead of thinking that there will be plenty of it in the future, we learn to treasure every moment and every person. To be honest, it made me more urgent. There is nothing distant about my education or my success now – I realize it belongs to those who gave their lives for me, especially to my grandma. It was her influence that taught me to walk. Although she never had many opportunities, she ensured that I would have them. The loss of my grandmother has not only shaped the way I view life. Instead, it showed me what I would be doing with my life in the future. I wish to practice law because I know what it means for a family to deal with situations without any advice or help from any sources. Coming from a family of limited financial means, I was able to understand how a lack of information at an early age can influence the rest of your life. My grandmother tried her best with what little she had, and I often find myself wondering how our lives could have turned out had she had more help. This motivates me, and I wish to create a career where I can help others, specifically those families similar to mine that are trying their hardest with little to no help. This is a responsibility that I take upon myself in everything that I do, whether it be leading my debate team, participating in my community, or having a career in law. There is nothing that I can do to change what I’ve lost. However, there is something that I can do with what I have lost. The lessons that my grandmother passed down to me will always include strength, determination, and resilience. And through this scholarship, I also want to honor Brooks by living with intention and making an impact that reflects the value of every life, no matter how short.

According to Merriam-Webster, money is a measure of value. People tend to focus on wealth and status, but I always wondered why humans are so fixated on status and wealth when the real question is whether we feel any value within ourselves. For most of my life, I didn’t. I rarely spoke. I avoided eye contact. I moved through crowded hallways, trying not to be noticed. I was quiet because I was scared of the world. My dad would always say to my brother, "You've got what it takes to be a lawyer." When he looked at me, he would smile and say, "You'll be fine doing something else." I tried to smile, but deep down, I’d always felt connected to the law, even if my dad never saw it. I was the son who never spoke at the dinner table, while my brother was the star with everyone's attention. Leaving Richardson, I vividly remember walking into Wylie High School alone, holding onto my schedule tightly, afraid that someone would notice how nervous I was. My hands shook as I searched for my first class, my eyes fixed on the floor. I was tired of not being able to voice my thoughts. I decided to join debate, something that would change absolutely everything about how I viewed myself. At first, the thought of standing in front of a crowd and debating a stance scared me. At the beginning, I would go into each round with sweaty palms and words dropping mid-sentence. I lost all four practice rounds before my first tournament. It was humiliating, but I took the criticism as a challenge, practicing on my own. Over time, the effort began to pay off, not just in winning local tournaments or qualifying for nationals my first year, but in realizing that my voice could command attention. After spending seven days a week reading and drilling in isolation, I began to believe my voice actually mattered. Debate taught me that my voice had value, which meant being a lawyer wasn't actually impossible. That is why becoming an Executive Director for Empower Debate means so much to me, because it made me want to help other students find the confidence I had to learn the hard way. As Director of Rural Recruitment, I work with students who don't have access to resources in debate. I once met a student named Issac. His story reminded me exactly why I joined debate. People counted him out. He had no real support. He joined our program because he wanted to prove he mattered. I treated him like he was my little brother, giving him advice day in and day out. Helping him find his voice reminded me of why I do this. Growing Empower Debate to over three thousand students means so much to me because debate gave me my value, and now I get to help others realize theirs. I will continue to mentor underclassmen in debate, guiding them through the anxieties and obstacles I once faced. I hope to dedicate more of my time to hosting workshops and one-on-one drilling sessions for students in rural areas who lack access to traditional resources. Growing up, I understood what it felt like to be overlooked, and I believe these are the questions I want to explore. I want to become a lawyer and advocate for those people who are dismissed by the systems meant to protect them. Debate provided me with a voice, but law will allow me to use my voice to make a difference. Linkedin - https://www.linkedin.com/in/haroon~adam/

The law is supposed to protect the innocent. Or at least, that is the expectation. I think about the time that I was first exposed to my uncle’s story, and not just the one that people want to tell to make things easy for me. The one that means every decision that is made by a person in power actually matters, and those decisions can’t be undone. My uncle was sentenced to death for a crime he did not commit while he was in the United States. There was no immediate change. There were years when my uncle’s life was reduced to paperwork and procedure. My family had to live with the reality that a system designed to bring Justice had instead gotten it wrong. There is a lot that people talk about when it comes to my uncle and his situation, and one of the things that people talk about is that he was finally exonerated. The problem is that it doesn’t actually bring anything back. It brings a future, but it does not bring back the past. So, while my uncle was finally cleared, people refer to that as justice, and that is something that never really sat well with me. Justice would have been getting it right the first time. Law enforcement needs to start with an accountability that people can see. If misconduct occurs and it is swept under the rug, it sends a message. The system protects itself first. If there is no consequence, there is no reason for behavior to be changed. However, trust can’t be established if it is only seen during tense situations. It needs to be seen during regular interactions. Training needs to be based on reality. Cops have to make split-second decisions that can affect a person for the rest of their life. If they aren’t trained on judgment, perception, and biases, they are essentially being left to rely on instincts. Debate taught me how to argue, but more importantly, it taught me how to recognize when an argument is based on reality. The strongest arguments aren’t always the ones with the best rhetoric. They are the ones that can’t be ignored because they are based on reality. This isn’t abstract to me. If you ask me about law enforcement and the African American community, I can tell you what it means for a system to have power over someone’s life and get it wrong. This is why I want to pursue law. It isn’t just a career path for me. It is a calling. I have seen how long it can take for a system to correct a wrong that should never have been made in the first place. I want to be part of a system that doesn’t take years to recognize the truth. If law enforcement agencies are to have better relationships with the African American community, they must first build on honesty. Because at the end of the day, the question is simple. If someone puts their life in the hands of the system, they will see that they are human. I have already seen what happens when the answer is no. The SMU Law Rising Scholars Program furthered my passion by allowing me to engage with actual legal reasoning and courtroom preparation. It reaffirmed for me that my calling is not just to speak but to use my voice in the service of justice. For me, law is the most direct means to translate conviction into impact, to turn empathy into action.

The law is supposed to protect the innocent. Or at least, that is the expectation. I think about the time that I was first exposed to my uncle’s story, and not just the one that people want to tell to make things easy for me. The one that means every decision that is made by a person in power actually matters, and those decisions can’t be undone. My uncle was sentenced to death for a crime he did not commit while he was in the United States. There was no immediate change. There were years when my uncle’s life was reduced to paperwork and procedure. My family had to live with the reality that a system designed to bring Justice had instead gotten it wrong. There is a lot that people talk about when it comes to my uncle and his situation, and one of the things that people talk about is that he was finally exonerated. The problem is that it doesn’t actually bring anything back. It brings a future, but it does not bring back the past. So, while my uncle was finally cleared, people refer to that as justice, and that is something that never really sat well with me. Justice would have been getting it right the first time. I think about law enforcement and the African American community, and while people talk about the lack of trust, that is not really the problem. The problem is a series of moments where people felt that their lives just did not matter as much. Law enforcement needs to start with an accountability that people can see. If misconduct occurs and it is swept under the rug, it sends a message. The system protects itself first. If there is no consequence, there is no reason for behavior to be changed. However, trust can’t be established if it is only seen during tense situations. It needs to be seen during regular interactions. Cops who show up in communities without an agenda of enforcement start to close the gap between themselves and the people who fear them. Training needs to be based on reality. Cops have to make split-second decisions that can affect a person for the rest of their life. If they aren’t trained on judgment, perception, and biases, they are essentially being left to rely on instincts. Debate taught me how to argue, but more importantly, it taught me how to recognize when an argument is based on reality. The strongest arguments aren’t always the ones with the best rhetoric. They are the ones that can’t be ignored because they are based on reality. This isn’t abstract to me. If you ask me about law enforcement and the African American community, I can tell you what it means for a system to have power over someone’s life and get it wrong. This is why I want to pursue law. It isn’t just a career path for me. It is a calling. I have seen how long it can take for a system to correct a wrong that should never have been made in the first place. I want to be part of a system that doesn’t take years to recognize the truth. If law enforcement agencies are to have better relationships with the African American community, they must first build on honesty. Because at the end of the day, the question is simple. If someone puts their life in the hands of the system, they will see that they are human. I have already seen what happens when the answer is no.

People say that debate teaches you how to argue. Well, debate taught me how to live. Before any debate round, I spent years in the classroom with my head down, in the back of the room, hoping I would not get called on. I attribute every aspect of my development to the individuals who decided to invest in me before I was able to invest in myself. Currently, I attend Wylie High School, which was a challenging environment that pushed me intellectually and as a person. My passion lies in debate, public service, and helping students identify their capabilities. Debate was the inspiration behind everything that I do. It gave me direction, purpose, and the skill of communicating ideas that I once kept bottled up inside. My mentors presented me with expectations that I never thought were within reach. They were the first individuals in authority who saw me, not as who I was, but as someone with more to offer. These experiences led me to pursue careers in working with communities. I work as the Director of Rural Recruitment for Empower Debate, a project that provides greater debate opportunities for resource strapped schools. I empower students with leadership skills, which helps them shape their own destinies. After high school, I will pursue law and economics. I would like to serve communities that usually remain unseen, as was my own experience. The person who impacted me most was a student named Hamza. He entered our program late. He carried a notebook that was not personalized with his name, and he talked softly enough that I had to lean in to hear him. His quiet did not appear peaceful. It seemed like a lifetime of being overlooked. When I asked him why he wanted to begin debate, he said, “I just want to be good at something.” We began working together. At first, he was not able to get through the constructive speech. His hands shook as he attempted to read. His voice broke every few words. However, he kept coming. Each week, we focused on structure, presentation, rhythm, and conviction. Gradually, he improved. His voice was more consistent. His confidence grew. He began volunteering more. During our end of the season scrimmage, he won his match with the best speech he had ever prepared. He was thrilled. “I did not know I could do this,” he said. I told him that I always knew he could. Instances such as this shaped the way I understand giving back. People supported me even when I did not believe in myself. Honoring what I received means passing it on to students who deserve the same chance. If I were starting a charity, I would begin one called Voice Forward. The purpose would be to help students who feel invisible find strength in their own voice. Voice Forward would serve youth in rural and low income communities. Volunteers would provide debate classes, help with writing speeches, and teach students the tools of effective communication. The mission would be to lead students down a path of discovery, just as others led me. I would not be who I am without the people who gave to me. Voice Forward would be my way of giving that gift to someone else.

People think that debate teaches one how to argue. Well, I learned how to live through debate. Before I was ever in a debate, I spent years in school with my eyes cast down, sitting in the back of the room, hoping I would not be called on. Wylie High was the first school that challenged me, as opposed to letting me slide. It’s because of this that I choose to pursue further education. I did not become confident overnight. My high school was challenging in ways that I did not see coming. Administrators and instructors pushed me. Coaches forced me to think deeper. Debate, the thing that gave me terror initially, was the thing that helped rebuild me. It forced me to speak with a shaking voice. It forced me to address the fear that I had been holding for years. Each round, every practice, every call that was well past midnight with my debate partner was something that helped fortify something within me that I once believed was weak. After I began growing, though, I realized something important. The confidence that I was able to gain was not mine alone. It was a gift from a group of people who were prepared to invest in me. Once I realized this, I realized that I also had a responsibility. It is for this reason that I began working with Empower Debate, which aims to increase debate accessibility in under-resourced schools. Currently, I hold the position of Director of Rural Recruitment. These students remind me of who I once was. They are shy, uncertain, and unnoticed. But they hold greatness within them, they simply haven't been exposed to the strength of their own voice. Among the students that I will always remember is Hamza. He entered our program relatively late. He had a notebook with no one’s name on it, and he barely talked above a whisper. His quiet didn't seem calm. It was like a lifetime of being underestimated. When I asked him the reason for wanting to learn debate, he explained, "I just want to be good at something." I knew exactly what he was getting at. But we began working together. At first, he was not able to finish his constructive argument without stopping. His hands shook as he attempted to read. His confidence was barely there. But he kept coming back. Each week, he challenged himself. We practiced structure, presentation skills, and the understanding that he deserved his voice to be heard. And with time, he gained more control over his voice. He volunteered more often. He was able to maintain eye contact as he argued. Incidents such as that are exactly what fuel my passion for education. Wylie High School inspired me to seek higher education, but more importantly, I realized that education can be the difference that changes one’s course in life. Debate gave me a different perspective on myself. Empower Debate gave me a different perspective on others. Serving students in rural areas taught me that sometimes, all it takes is one person’s faith in you in order to unlock your entire future. Wylie High School gave me a voice. Empower Debate taught me how to use that voice. College will allow me to enhance that voice so that I may further inspire individuals such as Hamza, individuals who merely require one person in their corner until they can believe in themselves.

People think that debate teaches one how to argue. Well, I learned how to live through debate. Before I was ever in a debate, I spent years in school with my eyes cast down, sitting in the back of the room, hoping I would not be called on. Wylie High was the first school that challenged me, as opposed to letting me slide. It’s because of this that I choose to pursue further education. I did not become confident overnight. My high school was challenging in ways that I did not see coming. Administrators and instructors pushed me. Coaches forced me to think deeper. Debate, the thing that gave me terror initially, was the thing that helped rebuild me. It forced me to speak with a shaking voice. It forced me to address the fear that I had been holding for years. Each round, every practice, every call that was well past midnight with my debate partner was something that helped fortify something within me that I once believed was weak. After I began growing, though, I realized something important. The confidence that I was able to gain was not mine alone. It was a gift from a group of people who were prepared to invest in me. Once I realized this, I realized that I also had a responsibility. That is the reason I began working with Empower Debate, which aims to increase debate accessibility in under-resourced schools. Currently, I hold the position of Executive Director of Rural Recruitment. These students remind me of who I once was. They are shy, uncertain, and unnoticed. But they hold greatness within them, they simply haven't been exposed to the strength of their own voice. Among the students that I will always remember is Hamza. He entered our program relatively late. He had a notebook with no one’s name on it, and he barely talked above a whisper. His quiet didn't seem calm. It was like a lifetime of being underestimated. When I asked him the reason for wanting to learn debate, he explained, "I just want to be good at something." I knew exactly what he was getting at. But we began working together. At first, he was not able to finish his constructive argument without stopping. His hands shook as he attempted to read. His confidence was barely there. But he kept coming back. Each week, he challenged himself. We practiced structure, presentation skills, and the understanding that he deserved his voice to be heard. And with time, he gained more control over his voice. He volunteered more often. He was able to maintain eye contact as he argued. Incidents such as that are exactly what fuel my passion for education. Wylie High School inspired me to seek higher education, but more importantly, I realized that education can be the difference that changes one’s course in life. Debate gave me a different perspective on myself. Empower Debate gave me a different perspective on others. Serving students in rural areas taught me that sometimes, all it takes is one person’s faith in you in order to unlock your entire future. Wylie High School gave me a voice. Empower Debate taught me how to use that voice. College will allow me to enhance that voice so that I may further inspire individuals such as Hamza, individuals who merely require one person in their corner until they can believe in themselves.

My dad always told me: “When your body fails you, never fail your spirit.” When ALS stole his voice, his words became my lifeline to this moment. Today, I realize that “strength is not just surviving pain but surviving pain when you have no control over it.” It broke me in ways that I did not realize at the time but have come to realize now: Watching my dad lose his strength and his speech broke me. It hit me just how much illness affects not just our bodies but also our minds. My family had just this thing to deal with every single day. And seeking therapy was never an option because it was too costly and just too stigmatized within my community. This experience has solidified my passion for providing care for one's mind as accessible as conversation itself. My goal is to establish a series of programs initiated by students to place counselors, listeners, and art therapists directly within schools-even those schools starting off with limited resources to begin with. No one should have to choose between buying groceries or therapy or between silence and shame. My dad's illness opened my eyes to the reality that at some point, the most vocal pain is also the unspoken pain because it is this realization that makes me want to be the one speaking for unspoken pain.

My dad would always say to my brother, "You've got what it takes to be a lawyer." However, when he looked at me, he smiled and said, "You'll be fine doing something else." I tried to smile, but deep down, I’d always felt connected to law, even if my dad didn't see it. I was the son who never spoke at the dinner table, while my brother was the star with everyone's attention. I remember walking into Wylie High School alone, holding onto my schedule tightly, afraid that someone would notice how nervous I was. My hands shook as I searched for my first class, and my eyes stayed glued to the floor so that I wouldn't have to make eye contact with anyone else. I was tired of not being able to voice my thoughts. I decided to join debate, something that would change absolutely everything about how I viewed myself. At first, the thought of standing in front of a crowd and debating scared me. But I wasn't going to let fear get to me this time. I joined debate to convince myself that I was capable of speaking up, even if my voice did shake. At the beginning, I would go into each round with sweaty palms and words dropping mid-sentence. I lost all four practice rounds before my first tournament. It was humiliating, but I took the criticism as a challenge, practicing on my own. Eventually, my tears, time, and sweat all paid off when I started winning local tournaments and even qualifying for nationals in just my first year. After spending seven days a week reading and drilling in isolation, I began to believe my voice actually mattered. As a senior, I can look back and understand just how far I've come. The freshman who started high school in fear of being noticed would never have thought that one day he would be captain of a team. I still ask myself to this day who I would be without joining debate. Joining debate didn't just make me a better speaker but also made me understand who I am as a person. I mentor underclassmen in debate, guiding them through the anxieties and obstacles I once faced. Every single time I doubted myself, it became a learning experience in patience and growth. Debate did not teach me to debate; it taught me how to have faith in myself, speak with purpose, and listen to my own voice. The SMU Law Program furthered my passion by allowing me to engage with actual legal reasoning and courtroom preparation. It reaffirmed for me that my calling is not just to speak but to use my voice in the service of justice. For me, law is the most direct means to translate conviction into impact, to turn empathy into action. At the end of the day, debate was never the destination. It was the training ground that proved to my father and me that I was capable all along. It gave me the courage to imagine myself as a lawyer, the ability to argue effectively, and the confidence to fight for those who cannot fight for themselves. The question I ask myself every day is how I will transfer the skills I have learned in debate into being a lawyer who truly helps people. And although I haven't found all the answers yet, this much I do know: if debate can transform the shy, hesitant student I once was into the speaker that I am today, then the courtroom is no longer a dream but a possibility for me.

Some mornings, I still wait to hear my dad call my name. Before ALS took his voice, not a day went by without him greeting me with a joke or question about school. When the jokes stopped, the house grew quiet, and life changed in ways I never expected. My dad's diagnosis forced my family to rebuild from the ground up: Mom became a full-time caretaker for him, and hospital bills took the place of comfort in the form of savings. We learned to measure time in appointments and small victories. I learned what it means to watch someone strong become fragile, and what it means when the ground beneath your feet feels unsteady - to stand still. At first, I just couldn't handle it. Grades slipped, motivation disappeared, and each day felt like walking through fog. I would come home and see my dad's wheelchair as a constant reminder of just how unfair life can be. I was angry, but even more than anger, I felt helpless. Depression followed me everywhere, convincing me that everything I did mattered little. Then one evening my mom said to me, "You cannot let this disease take both of you." And somehow, those words stuck. I began to see that while I could not control what was happening to my dad, I could control how I reacted to it. I started studying again, trying to rebuild a sense of purpose. Each exam passed became a minor triumph, an act of defiance against despair. Money became another battle. My mom had to leave her job, and we came dangerously close to losing our home. I learned how to stretch every dollar, to live with "no" as a normal answer, and to find gratitude in what we still had. Some days, I went without lunch so there would be enough for groceries. Yet I refused to let our situation decide my future. Education became more than a goal; it became proof that struggle does not have to end in surrender. Through all of this, I found strength in places I never thought to look. I learned to help my dad communicate when words failed him. I learned patience, empathy, and persistence. I learned that resilience is not the absence of pain but the decision to keep going in spite of it. This scholarship would lighten a burden my family has carried for years. It would allow me to focus fully on my classes without watching my mom choose between bills and books. It would mean security, relief, and the opportunity to continue building the life ALS tried to take from us. My dad cannot speak anymore, but his eyes tell me everything. Every time I talk to him about my classes and plans, he smiles. That is all it takes for me to be reminded why I get up and keep going forward. I will never be able to go back in time and somehow magically heal him, but I will live a life that honors him. Education gave me direction when life tried to take it away. With this opportunity, I can continue to grow, give back, and most importantly, live out the lesson my dad's illness taught me: strength is found not in what life spares us from but in how we rise after it changes us.

As a child, my comfort zone was silence. I was the child who was silent in all classes, the one teachers didn't call on, the one who never raised a hand. I assumed that being quiet made me invisible. There were things I wished to say, and the words never appeared to come out. All this was changed on the day that I joined debate. My first tournament found me shaking, as I could barely stand. My voice failed, my arguments disintegrated, and my thoughts told me that I had already failed by even beginning. I sat alone in the hall after my first round, looking at the floor, questioning if it would be worth it at the end. There was a coach beside me, and he told me something that I will never forget. One does not have to be the loudest to be heard. That was my turning point. My perception of debate changed to more than a contest. It was one of the classes where I was taught to be courageous in my own manner. I learned not only facts and reasoning but humans. I heard the way other people talked, how they stopped or how they employed silence to create meaning. Slowly, I found my rhythm. I would get into a debate as my means of showing that silent people do not lack power. And our power is patience, thought, and words, which do matter. I spoke more and more, understanding that there was no winning-round debate. It was concerning the use of words to represent something. I started to mentor new students, most of them no less nervous than I used to be. That was what my coach had said to me; I saw them develop. Confidence was given to me by debate. It gave me purpose. It was that object that directed me toward the law. I do not want to be the winning lawyer of a case, but rather an attorney for justice on behalf of the helpless. I would like to defend, explain, and let people's voices be heard through my voice. Another kind of debate round is found in the courtroom, which involves real-life consequences. I would like to be that kind of lawyer who would listen first and speak second-that would fight with his mind and feelings. I have already started planting those seeds of change in my community. I now help organize workshops, which give students from smaller schools an opportunity to debate for the first time. We were able to get 3 thousand students in our first year. I was able to see freshmen with all their shyness give a first speech, and I saw the spark that once rescued me. That is why I can tell this is the right path. Debate not only made me a speaker; it made me one who believes in voices, all voices. It is one such belief that I will bring into my career. I would like to make legal materials and advocacy available to people who seem lost, who are most intimidated by the system. I'd like to be able to show that power and compassion can be used in the same sentence. I may have been the quiet kid, but I understand: even the quietest voice could be a change maker when it has something to say that's the right thing. I'm not trying to be the most vocal, but I want to be the one who will see others have an opportunity to speak too.

“You have 24 hours left.” And those were the words I heard first when I opened my eyes. The physician made it flat, as it was merely one more sentence of his time. But to me it seemed that the air had cleared out of the room. My mother was crying. Her hands were shaking. I could see how her fingers grasped mine as she was attempting not to allow me to slip away. The machines continued to beep, the lights continued to hum, but time no longer existed. Twenty-four hours. That's what I was worth now. A number. A deadline. I did not even realize what was wrong on my part. I only felt that my body was heavy, my chest was sore and my head was noisy. I wasn't ready. I hadn't prayed enough. I hadn't said sorry enough. I hadn't lived enough. At first, I was angry. Furious with the world, furious with Allah, furious with myself. Why me? Why now? I would like to inquire, but I was too weak to speak. I shut my eyes and made an attempt to breathe. And then, as I heard her cry, my mother told me something I will never forget to this day. Nothing loads a soul more than God can. (Qur'an 2:286). I had heard that verse before. It was what my granny used to recite when life was too heavy. However, on this night it seemed to be written to me. I said it again and again in my head, and each word crowded in the places that had been occupied by fear. As Allah does not overburden a soul without its capacities. It didn't erase the pain. It didn't promise I would live. But it brought me such as I had never had before, peace. I knew faith did not work to remove the storm. The fact that Allah controls the rain and the rainbow was supposed to remind me. I went to sleep saying that verse like breathing. As I awoke, something had happened. The physicians were speechless in amazement. My numbers were improving. My heart rate steadied. They said it didn't make sense. I didn't need it to. That verse saved me. It still does. Whenever I believe I am breaking, I repeat it. I go back to it when I am tired, when I fail, when I lose hope. It makes me remember that all the sorrows are weighed, all the trials administered with a purpose, and that I exist now only under a kind of usury of the breath I draw. Prior to that evening, I had faith in Allah due to my upbringing. I thought because I felt him after the night. I do not know why He gave me a second opportunity. Perhaps to remind me that life is not a given but gratitude is. Perhaps to demonstrate to me that faith is not something you learn by recitation, but an experience. I continue to say that verse day by day. Here and there, here and there, here and there: sometimes under my breath, sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes when I am alone. It reminds me that Allah sent me to bear some burden because He knew that I could do it. And when He had confided to me that, I can confide to him all the rest.