A woman wearing a dark blouse and white pants is packing office supplies into a cardboard box. The box contains folders, a striped notebook, and red pens. A laptop, eyeglasses, and a green plant are visible on the desk in the foreground.

Photo by Anna Shvets

For as long as I can remember, I’ve felt a deep desire to help people. I’ve always enjoyed talking and, according to my parents, debating. At one point, I thought law might be a natural fit for me, especially given my passion for advocating for others. But alongside that, I was also drawn to psychology, literature, music, and art— all of which I saw as powerful expressions of the human experience. Growing up, I found myself torn between pursuing law or psychiatry, but at the time, mental health wasn’t as widely discussed, and I didn’t know much about becoming a therapist beyond psychiatry. By the end of high school, I realized medical school wasn’t for me, so I decided to pursue law school instead.

I went in with a desire to become a public interest lawyer, focusing on reproductive rights and gender and race-based discrimination, while also studying art and intellectual property law. I worked part-time at Legal Aid’s Tax Clinic, and for the first time, I felt like I was doing meaningful work. For a while, I was happy and engaged in my studies.

A young woman in a white shirt rests her head on a desk, looking exhausted as she reaches toward an open laptop, illuminated by its screen in a dimly lit room.

Photo by Ron Lach

However, as I progressed in law school, my perspective shifted. I began to realize that the legal system wasn’t just about individual cases—it was about systemic oppression. I questioned how a corporation could be granted legal personhood, but there was no clear legal definition of pregnancy or viability. I saw how legal asylum requirements left people fleeing violence from countries like Guatemala and Honduras without protection. One class that had a lasting impact on me was international human rights law, where I learned that, despite good intentions, there are limited enforcement mechanisms to protect human rights on a global scale. I also read works by Kimberlé Crenshaw and Catharine MacKinnon, and began to see how the legal system often fell short in addressing the inequities caused by the historical systems of colonialism, misogyny, and capitalism. By the time I graduated, my views had evolved to focus on anti-colonialism, anti-capitalism, and abolition. Witnessing the Ferguson riots and the murders of Michael Brown, Jamar Clark, and Philando Castile, these events forced me to reflect on whether law was truly the best tool for creating the kind of change I wanted to see in the world.

A close-up of a woman with curly hair writing in a yellow notebook, capturing a quiet, focused moment of journaling or reflection.

Photo by: MART PRODUCTION

Meanwhile, outside of my legal studies, I was making progress in my personal healing journey. I began to reflect on my own experience as a first-generation Iranian living in the diaspora. I became more aware of how white supremacy and Islamophobia had shaped my life, along with the pressures of colonialism and beauty standards. I also started to unpack my own relationship to systemic oppression, generational trauma, and how these factors influence mental health. As part of my healing, I turned to yoga and meditation, which helped me find internal peace despite external challenges. This process not only helped me grow personally but also positively impacted my interactions with others. I noticed that as I changed, others responded to that shift. 

It became clear to me that true transformation doesn’t come from changing the laws—it comes from within. My choice to focus on healing and being with others is a clearer vision on how I want change to occur for all of us. Our individual healing is the key to a changing world for the better.

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Pride is a Protest: Mental Health, Liberation, and Queer Resistance