By Dania Daud
High school feels like a place full of eyes, each glance landing somewhere between curiosity and judgment. It was a morning in 2021, at the beginning of grade nine, amid the chaos of the COVID-19 pandemic, when I decided to wear the hijab. A new school, new hallways, new faces everywhere, although most were hidden behind medical masks. I thought about the conversation I had with my mom the year before, when she suggested I start wearing it. Back then, I had hesitated, worried about standing out and on edge of the thought that I may be the only one.
But that morning, I realized that staying true to my sense of self mattered more than comfort. I didn’t wake up suddenly fearless. With that, I just knew I couldn’t keep hesitating. My stomach twisted in knots as I held the fabric in my hands, smoothing it over my hair and tugging it just right. My reflection looked both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Would people stare? Would they whisper? Would I feel utterly alone in the cafeteria? I took a deep breath and whispered to myself that this was for a higher purpose, something greater than myself that I may not seem to know yet, a decision guided by Light, and that was enough.
Walking into school that morning, the air felt heavier than usual, as if every pair of eyes could see the change. Some were intrigued, some indifferent and some perhaps judgmental. I smiled anyway. I adjusted the hijab one last time in the bathroom mirror, grounding myself with a silent reminder: this is an act of faith. Underneath the nerves, something inside me felt steady, almost like I was protected.
The first few weeks were a constant balance of reassurance and self-consciousness. But what stood out were the pauses. A teacher’s slight hesitation before calling on me. A classmate’s uncertain glance. The way strangers’ eyes flickered toward my headscarf and then away. I couldn’t help but wonder if they saw the hijab as a statement about me or about them. Could a piece of fabric really carry so many assumptions? At times, it felt like an unspoken test of courage. Could I remain myself in the face of judgment?
Yet, not everything was hard. Some days, I felt invisible in the best way—just another girl walking to class, laughing with her friends. Someone once told me the colour of my hijab suited me, and that small comment stayed with me longer than I expected. Moments like these helped build my confidence. They felt like tiny affirmations that the world could still hold softness.
Over time, I began to notice understated changes in my own perspective. Wearing the hijab forced me to reflect on my intention, values, and how I wanted to carry myself in the world. I realized that my identity wasn’t tied to what anyone else thought of me. There were mornings when I struggled with self-doubt, but each time I put the hijab on, I reaffirmed who I was. It became somewhat of a ritual that grounded my sense of self.
Unexpectedly, the hijab altered my perception of others. I became aware of how quickly we all make assumptions about people before we truly know them. I began to question my own unconscious biases and instant impressions. Wearing the hijab became a mirror for empathy, encouraging me to pause and consider perspectives beyond my own. How often do we really see people for who they are rather than what they show?
Small gestures of solidarity and understanding became luminous. A teacher taking time to pronounce my name correctly, a stranger offering a genuine smile. These moments didn’t erase all the challenges, but they added warmth and meaning to an experience that could otherwise feel isolating. Wearing the hijab became a bridge connecting me to faith, culture and a deeper awareness of the humanity around me.
There were still times when I questioned myself. Was I doing enough to embody the values I believed in? Was I expressing my faith in a way that felt authentic, or was I just performing it for others to see—first worrying about the eyes of those outside my community, and later realizing that even among my own people, judgment could linger? These questions came from the internal struggle of trying to live intentionally.
I began noticing the confidence that grew from consistent practice. The hijab taught me that identity isn’t a fixed image. It is a process, a continuous reflection on our values and intentions. Sometimes it feels like the world is trying to define you for its convenience, but wearing the hijab showed me that I get to write my own definition.
Looking back now, I see more than that nervous girl in front of the mirror. I see growth in mindset and in empathy. I see a pattern of resilience that moves between fear and faith. Each glance, each hesitation, each smile from someone else became a thread in a tapestry I’m still weaving.
Wearing the hijab hasn’t erased my doubts, but it’s changed the way I hold them. They no longer feel like weaknesses. They serve as reminders to reflect and balance my faith, even while the world is watching.
I still face moments of challenge, but I carry them differently now. I understand that the hijab is neither a shield nor a limitation. It is a demonstration of who I am and who I strive to be.
Every step of this adventure has shown me how important it is to keep my eyes on me while holding my heart in faith, two pieces of a journey I continue to carry with me every day.
Even when the world is watching, the most important gaze is the one I give myself. From uncertain mornings in grade nine during the pandemic, to walking the streets today with confidence and a steady heart, I move forward grounded in belief and unshaken by judgment. This path has been one of quiet growth, courage, and learning to honour what I believe in, where I learned that faith is not just what I wear, but how I carry myself. And that strength to be truly seen, comes from within.
Riadh Magazine 
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