The Beginning of Something Greater

I didn’t become a lawyer because I thought the system was perfect—I became a lawyer because I lived what happens when it isn’t.

At 17, I was charged with misdemeanor assault and battery and wrongfully convicted. The day before, we had a multi-hour bond violation hearing because the primary complainant claimed we had violated a no-contact order. She didn’t know a video existed that proved she was lying. Still, the judge excluded the video from trial—and the complainant was never held accountable for giving false testimony under oath.

Afterward, two jurors told my attorney they assumed I was guilty the moment they saw my hijab. I was born and raised in America. I saw myself as a regular American kid, so I was shocked. My mom owns a small business, and during my case, most of her clientele were non-Muslims. Though she’s been a U.S. citizen for decades, her accent still marks her as an immigrant. I grew up watching customers treat her with warmth and respect and never imagined my hijab would be viewed in such a negative light.

I’m also Palestinian, and my attorney—a Jewish man who had stood by me from day one—was equally shocked. We appealed, believing justice would prevail, and it did: My conviction was reversed. I was grateful to the judge presiding over my appeal, but I didn’t fully grasp the weight of that moment until becoming a lawyer myself.

It’s about the courage to stand for what’s right, to hold power accountable, and to be persistent in the pursuit of justice.

Last year, I read the transcript for the first time as an attorney. It moved me to tears of gratitude. The judge didn’t just quietly fix the mistake—he called it out, boldly and on the record. The transcript reminded me how much one courageous advocate—and one principled judge—can change a life; that what I faced at 17 wasn’t the end, but the beginning of something greater; and that God was in control, so I trust that his plan is always better, even when things don’t make sense.

I went on to earn my business degree and worked at Ford Motor Company, but corporate life wasn’t my calling. I was meant to stand beside people the way my lawyer once stood beside me.

That’s what led me to law school at the University of Toledo College of Law, one of the best decisions I ever made. My experience at UT is one of the reasons I sometimes forget I’m wearing a hijab. I was the only Muslim woman for most of my time in Ohio, yet never once did anyone make me feel different. In fact, as a veiled Muslim woman, I often felt like the moderate—caught between proudly conservative classmates who were very protective of me and passionate progressives who made me feel like the coolest person they ever met. 

But the deans, faculty and staff were the real MVPs. Their support was quiet, constant and deeply sincere. They treated me like I belonged at the very top, even though I had average grades and, as my confused mom would say, “wore the same hoodie almost every day.”

Law school challenged me far more than my wrongful conviction ever did. I had never worked so hard and still felt like failure was one misstep away. It was good preparation for the courtroom, where support isn’t guaranteed. Advocacy can mean standing alone, and that’s where 

I’ve learned the deeper meaning of winning. A mentor once taught me that even when you lose, you’re still winning.

To me, winning isn’t always about the outcome. It’s about the courage to stand 

for what’s right, to hold power accountable, and to be persistent in the pursuit of justice. On two separate occasions, a state and a local prosecutor told me—after months of going head-to-head—“You’re not afraid to go into the courtroom and swing.” That struck.

As a public defender, it’s far easier to go along and let the system quietly fail your client. But I became a lawyer after seeing firsthand what happens when someone does fight back. That experience shaped my belief in holding power accountable, my refusal to take shortcuts, and my conviction to fight for justice.

I’ve found advocacy to be both a gift and responsibility. The system is far from perfect. If you don’t push against its weight and demand better, you forfeit the fight before it ever begins.

This isn’t my fight alone. I believe I was placed here for something greater. I’m proud to enter the courtroom ready to swing. I didn’t come into this profession to make friends—I came to raise the standard.