Letters from Our Founder
Sometimes, Wearing Hijab Makes Me Feel Insecure
A personal reflection on hijab, insecurity, belonging, and remembering why I chose it.
There is something I have hesitated to share for a long time.
As the founder of a Muslim brand, perhaps I am supposed to tell you:
Be proud of your hijab. Be confident. Don’t worry about what other people think.
And I believe those things.
But if I put aside the title of “founder” for a moment, and simply speak to you as another hijabi woman, there is something else I want to admit:
Sometimes, wearing hijab makes me feel insecure too.
Even now, I cannot fully explain where that insecurity comes from.
The strange thing is, I have never doubted why I wear hijab. I know why I chose it, and I have never wanted to give it up because of these feelings.
I have slowly learned that conviction and vulnerability can exist at the same time.
When You Are Seen Before You Speak
I notice this feeling most when I attend forums, meetings, training sessions, or walk into unfamiliar social spaces.
When you are the only woman in the room wearing hijab, it is easy to feel like the person who is different.
Sometimes, before you introduce yourself, before you share an idea, before anyone has a chance to understand your knowledge or your character,
your hijab has already made you visible.
And when that visibility meets my own doubts about my professional knowledge, experience, or whether I am capable enough to be in that room, the feeling becomes even stronger.
I start noticing how I speak. How I carry myself. How people look at me.
And sometimes I wonder:
What do they think when they look at me?
I have told myself countless times: just be yourself, do your best, and do not worry about what other people think.
But people are not switches.
You cannot simply tell yourself not to care and suddenly stop caring.
Sometimes I still notice the looks. Sometimes I still worry about how I am being judged. Sometimes I still walk into a room and feel that I do not quite belong.
And somewhere inside me, there is another feeling too.
If someone notices my hijab and their first thought is, “She is a Muslim woman,” then I quietly hope that after meeting me, they are left with something good.
A little kindness. A little respect. A little more understanding.
I hope the way I work, speak, treat people, and carry responsibility leaves a beautiful impression.
Perhaps that desire has also created pressure for me.
Because sometimes, I feel like I am not only representing myself.
A Conversation That Stayed With Me
A few days ago, I happened to be talking with one of my colleagues about hijab.
She told me that she believes living in a Western country while wearing hijab can be a much bigger challenge than many people realise.
Some of her relatives had moved abroad. When they first arrived, they sometimes experienced distance and exclusion from strangers because their Muslim identity was immediately visible.
She described something very simple.
Imagine sitting quietly in a park. You are not bothering anyone. You are simply resting.
But people nearby choose to keep their distance.
No one necessarily says anything. There may be no argument, no confrontation, nothing dramatic.
Yet you can still feel the message:
They do not want to be close to me.
I know this does not represent everyone.
There are countless kind, open-minded people who respect different beliefs, cultures, and ways of life.
Experiences like this may not happen every day.
But they do happen.
And for the person experiencing it, even once can stay with them.
Then I Saw a Video
Not long after that conversation, I came across a video on social media.
Two young hijabi women were filming together in Spain.
They were not disturbing anyone. They were simply doing what countless young people do every day — creating a video together in public.
A man passing by suddenly began shouting at them and told them to go back to their country.
One of the women immediately stood her ground.
She told him:
“We were born here. We live here. This is our country too.”
She did not shrink. She did not apologise for existing. She did not allow someone else’s anger to make her question whether she belonged.
I admired her confidence.
And at the same time, I felt deeply sad.
Because I found myself asking:
Why should a young woman have to defend her right to belong somewhere simply because she wears hijab?
She was born there. She grew up there. She lives there.
It is already her home.
Every Hijabi Girl Carries a Different Story
That moment made me think differently about my own insecurity.
My experiences may have been far less direct.
For me, it might be a look.
For another sister, it might be someone deliberately keeping their distance.
For someone else, it may be an insulting comment.
Some women worry whether hijab will affect a job interview.
Some may have lost opportunities because of how they dress.
Some may have been made to feel unwelcome in places they had every right to enter.
And some may never have experienced obvious discrimination, but still know the quiet feeling of walking into a room and suddenly becoming very aware of themselves.
Our experiences are not all the same.
But many hijabi women have, at some point, faced a similar question:
If I choose to live according to my faith, will the world still allow me to live an ordinary life?
When I think about women who have been denied work, excluded from spaces, or made to feel unwelcome simply because of hijab, it still hurts me.
Because what we are asking for is actually very simple.
We Are Not Asking for Special Treatment
We do not need everyone to understand hijab.
We do not expect everyone to share our beliefs.
And we are not asking for special treatment simply because we are Muslim women.
We simply want to live.
To study. To work. To attend meetings. To sit in a park. To make a video with friends. To travel. To build careers. To become doctors, teachers, designers, lawyers, founders — or whatever we hope to become.
And while doing all of those things,
we still want to be able to wear our hijab.
We are not asking for special attention.
We are asking for something much simpler: ordinary human respect and kindness.
You do not have to share my faith. I do not need you to completely understand why I wear hijab.
But we can still respect one another.
Being different does not mean we have to be distant.
So Why Do I Still Choose Hijab?
If hijab sometimes makes life more difficult, why do I continue wearing it?
My answer has never really changed.
For Allah.
I did not choose hijab because it makes life easier.
I did not choose it because wearing it suddenly made me fearless or confident.
In fact, sometimes hijab has forced me to confront my insecurity, my fear of judgement, and my own weaknesses.
But none of those things changed the reason I chose it.
I chose hijab for the sake of Allah.
Hijab Has Become a Reminder
Over the years, my understanding of hijab has changed.
I no longer see it simply as something I put on before leaving the house.
For me,
hijab is no longer just a piece of fabric. It has become a responsibility and a reminder.
When I lose patience, it reminds me.
When I become too concerned about how other people see me, it reminds me.
When I face difficult decisions in business, it reminds me.
When I deal with customers, colleagues, family, or strangers, it reminds me.
Quietly, it asks:
“Are you living in a way that Allah would be pleased with?”
And I have realised that this question is much bigger than what I am wearing.
If I wear hijab but fail to control my words, if I ask others to respect my faith but forget to respect them, if I care deeply about how Muslim women are perceived but do not first ask myself to become kinder, more honest, more responsible,
then perhaps I have missed part of what hijab is trying to teach me.
I Am Not a Perfect Muslim Girl
I do not want this story to sound as though I have figured everything out.
I have not.
I still make mistakes. I still become anxious. I still lose patience. I still care too much about what people think sometimes.
There are still moments when I question whether I am capable enough.
Even today, I can walk into an unfamiliar room wearing hijab and suddenly feel different.
Hijab does not automatically make me a perfect Muslim girl.
I am still far from the woman I hope to become.
But perhaps that is exactly why I need the reminder.
Every morning when I put on my hijab, it is almost like asking myself again:
Who do I want to become today — not according to the world, but according to what I hope will please Allah?
To Every Sister Who Has Ever Felt Different
I do not know whether you have ever experienced something similar.
Maybe you have been stared at because of your hijab.
Maybe someone has asked you a question that made you uncomfortable.
Maybe you have felt out of place at school or work.
Maybe you have worried that hijab could affect an opportunity.
Or maybe nothing openly discriminatory has ever happened to you, yet you still know that quiet feeling of being different.
If you do,
I do too.
And I still have not completely overcome it.
But I am beginning to understand that confidence does not mean never caring what other people think.
Courage does not mean that every time someone hurts us, we must respond perfectly and fearlessly.
Sometimes you speak up.
Sometimes you walk away.
Sometimes you go home and feel hurt.
None of that means your faith is weak.
We are human first.
We feel fear. We feel sadness. We feel insecurity. We get hurt.
Perhaps strength is not about never feeling those things.
Perhaps strength is remembering why you chose hijab in the first place — and continuing.
I Hope One Day...
I hope one day a hijabi woman can walk into a meeting room without first worrying about what everyone thinks of her.
I hope she can sit in a park without someone choosing to move away because of her faith.
I hope she can walk into a job interview and be seen first for her abilities, rather than judged first for what she wears.
I hope she can make a video with her friends in the street without ever having to defend the words:
“I belong here.”
Because she already does.
We do not all have to be the same.
We do not even have to fully understand one another.
But we can choose respect. We can choose kindness. And we can give one another the freedom to live with dignity.
Until then, I will keep learning. Keep growing. Keep trying to become better.
Sometimes I may still walk into a room wearing hijab and suddenly feel different.
I may still feel nervous. I may still notice the looks. And sometimes, I may still feel insecure.
But I will still walk into the room.
Not because I am no longer afraid.
But because I know why I chose hijab.
For Allah.
And I hope every sister wearing hijab knows this too:
You are allowed to have vulnerable days.
You are allowed to still be growing.
You can study. You can work. You can travel. You can build something. You can pursue your dreams.
You can wear your hijab,
and still walk boldly into the life that belongs to you.
