When I first got to Oregon, I didn’t sound like anyone. Not really.
I didn’t sound Saudi enough for the Saudis.
Didn’t sound American enough for the Americans.
Didn’t even sound like myself, now that I think of it.

I was just shy of 17. A kid who’d graduated high school early, stuck under a soft curfew that said you can go to college… but only if you live with your grandma.
Which I did.
And I was grateful.
And I was terrified.

You have to understand — I was quiet. Not shy exactly, just… untested. I liked sci-fi, got awkward around girls, and genuinely believed eye contact was rude. Especially with women. That’s what I’d been taught. You respect people by not staring. By keeping your gaze low. Polite. Distant.

Until one day, Professor Ingrid Gramm — my anthropology professor — locked eyes with me across the room and said,
“Look at me when I speak to you. It’s disrespectful otherwise.”

Her voice didn’t flinch.
Neither did her stare.

Something in me cracked.

It wasn’t defiance. It wasn’t shame. It was like… someone had flipped on a light switch in a room I didn’t know existed inside me.
She didn’t just ask me to see her — she dared me to be seen.

And I did.

At first it was clumsy.
I stared at everyone. Overcompensated. Studied people’s faces like I was deciphering sacred texts. There was one study session — Calculus, I think — where I kept locking eyes with my classmate until she finally asked,
“What’s wrong with my face?”

God bless her patience.

I told her what Professor Gramm had said. That I was learning. That I was trying to understand what it meant to really see someone, and look them in the eyes.
And maybe — okay — maybe I thought she liked me.
But I was 17, newly aware of hormones, empathy, and the weight of being looked back at. Give me a break.

What came after that was rapid. Wild. Unstoppable.

By sophomore year, I was a peer coordinator for international students. Hosting campus events. DJing at the town’s international hotspot. I couldn’t shut up if I tried.
I was dancing. Laughing. Leading.
I had become this social version of myself that… I never even imagined existed.

But sometimes, when things got too loud, I’d catch my own voice and wonder who it belonged to.

Because here’s the thing no one tells you about transformation —
Sometimes you don’t feel like you’ve grown.
You feel like you’ve left someone behind.

And yeah, my grades took a hit. That’s a story for another time. But I don’t regret it. Because during that time, I learned something even more valuable than any class I took:

That voices evolve.
That being yourself isn’t always a static thing — sometimes it’s who you become when someone finally invites you to show up.

And in Oregon, for the first time in my life… I showed up.

Not polished.
Not fully formed.
But real.

And once I heard that version of me — I couldn’t go back to silence.