I walk down the road,

sun spilling over my skin,

the breeze soft like it remembers me.

For a moment, I forget.

I forget that I am a woman.

A being not allowed to simply be.

For one breath,

I am not too much.

Not too loud.

Not too soft.

Not too opinionated.

Not too free.

I am just human.

But it never lasts.

Because every step I take

is watched.

Measured.

Corrected.

Too skinny.

Too thick.

Too covered.

Too exposed.

Too quiet.

Too bold.

So I fold myself smaller.

I tuck my voice into corners

where people step on it without noticing.

I wrap my dreams in rags

and hide them under my ribs

so no one can accuse me of wanting too much.

I scream into a world

that pretends it cannot hear me.

And I keep walking.

My ears stay tense,

waiting for the next verdict:

“You’ve lost too much weight.”

“You’ve gained too much weight.”

“Cover yourself.”

“Show more.”

“Smile.”

“Don’t be so much.”

So I reach for fabric,

for makeup,

for anything that might mold me

into something acceptable.

Something safe.

I walk faster,

hoping to outrun the judgment.

But I never do.

Because this was never just about me.

We were trained to disappear.

To soften our edges.

To make other people comfortable.

Cook.

Be gentle.

Be quiet.

Don’t dream too loudly.

Don’t take up space.

Don’t make a man feel small.

Give up your future

so someone else can keep theirs.

But Allah interrupted that lie. He said:

“Indeed, the Muslim men and Muslim women, the believing men and believing women, the

truthful men and truthful women, the patient men and patient women, the ones who remember

Allah men and women, for them is forgiveness

and a mighty reward.” (Qur’an 33:35)

Allah said my name belongs beside theirs.

Not beneath.

Not after.

Beside.

So I ask:

Don’t I have a ḥaq?

A right

to breathe without apology.

To gain or lose weight

without being dissected.

To dream as wide as my soul.

To fail and rise.

To walk down a street

without being owned by every gaze.

I am not on this stage

to beg for sympathy. 

Not from men.

Not from anyone.

I do not need your pity

to make my pain real.

I do not need your approval

to make my voice valid.

I am here because I exist.

Because I am a woman

and that alone gives me the right

to speak,

to feel,

to take up space.

I am here for the women

who were never allowed to become.

For the dreams buried under fear.

For the girls taught to shrink

so others could feel tall.

I am here because I have ḥaq.

And I will not make myself smaller

so anyone can feel comfortable.

I am grateful I serve a God who is just.

A God who sees me beyond my mistakes.

Who does not demand perfection to grant me mercy.

A God who does not break me down,

who does not delight in the tears that fall from my face.

A God who lets me dream and dream

until I am exhausted from becoming.

A God who chooses me

even on the days I struggle to choose Him.

And after this, you might wonder

am I a feminist?

Because I speak of women’s rights.

Because I refuse to be quiet.

Because I take up space.

You might say I want attention.

You might say I am too woke.

So I say: yes.

I am a feminist.

Not by choice,

but by force.

Because when women do not fight for their rights,

this world sinks a knife into our bodies and then tells us

at least we’re still breathing.

Let a woman be angry

if anger is what truth sounds like.

Let her feel deeply

without being called weak.

Let her fail without being erased.

Let her life belong to her.

Let her be.

And no force, no voice, no hand,

no knife, no gaze can take that away.

For her life, her breath, her voice

belongs to her.

And Allah sees her.

And Allah honors her.

And in her freedom, may we all find ours.