General-Info

A Quiet Confession: Glimpses of Me and My Journey

I’m the sixth child in a family of eight siblings. As a child, I often felt shy mentioning the size of my family, not quite understanding the value of what I had. But as I grew older, I came to deeply appreciate the love, support, and wisdom that came from growing up in such a large household. With both older and younger siblings around, I was never alone—there was always someone to learn from, to lean on, or to look out for.

My parents worked incredibly hard to provide for us, making sure we had food on the table, clothes to wear, and the basic comforts of a modest life. But because they were so busy trying to hold everything together, they didn’t always have the time to teach us every nuance of life. That role was filled by my siblings—especially my sisters—who helped guide me through both everyday challenges and major life decisions. I truly can’t express how grateful I am for their presence, especially during my happiest moments and my most difficult times.

If I could go back in time, I would proudly tell everyone that I have seven siblings. The pride I feel for being part of such a large, close-knit family has only grown with time.

I remember when I first started elementary school, my grades in the first semester were always low. In our system, we were graded out of 20, and I clearly recall scoring 7/20 and 8/20 in some subjects. The school’s policy was that struggling students had to stay after hours, rotating through different teachers for extra help. I hated those late afternoons—not because I didn’t want to learn, but because I missed sitting down for lunch or dinner with my family.

Despite this rough start, I noticed something important: even when the teachers explained concepts repeatedly, some of my classmates still couldn’t grasp them. Meanwhile, I could often understand new topics the first time around. That realization sparked something in me. At just seven years old, I began to believe in my potential. I understood that if I worked hard and stayed focused, I could succeed—and maybe even shape my own future.

But growing up in a Persian household, that sense of individuality was difficult to nurture. It might sound funny, but if you were raised in a culture like mine—where speaking up, expressing your thoughts, or making independent decisions as a child wasn’t encouraged—you’d understand the weight of those early years. We weren’t even allowed to talk in front of elders or question their decisions. Doing so often meant being labeled as impolite or disrespectful. In many Persian families, children are constantly compared to one another, and being a “good” kid means being quiet, obedient, and respectful—even when those we’re told to respect are wrong.

As a result of that environment—and an education system that didn’t promote self-expression or storytelling—I often struggled to articulate my thoughts, present with confidence, or speak about my achievements. I didn’t lack ideas or accomplishments; I just didn’t know how to talk about them.

Still, even as a shy child, I pushed myself to speak up. Whenever a teacher asked for a volunteer to present a lesson or teach a concept, I raised my hand. I wanted to grow, even if it meant trembling through every word. These small moments helped me chip away at my fear. I gradually gained a little more confidence—though that progress wasn’t always steady.

During my second and third decades of life, a series of personal and professional setbacks shook my confidence. I lost the fragile self-assurance I had worked so hard to build. It wasn’t until I began my PhD that I started to reclaim it. My advisor was instrumental in this process. He taught me how to frame my work, how to tell a story, and how to speak about my contributions without minimizing them. For that, I’ll always be grateful.

I remember the first time I presented a project in the U.S.—a project I had worked very hard on. I was struck by how confidently my American peers spoke about their work. They presented it like no one else could have achieved what they had. Meanwhile, I found myself downplaying my accomplishments, as though being modest was the only acceptable way to exist. That contrast made me realize how much I had to unlearn.

Living in the U.S., especially when navigating internships, job opportunities, or networking events, has shown me just how important it is to “sell” your knowledge and skills. It’s not about arrogance—it’s about communicating your value. This is still a skill I’m learning, but I finally understand that sharing your story is not a sign of pride—it’s a sign of growth, of self-awareness, and of honoring how far you’ve come.