Shahnaj

"I had a plan for my life. And then I had to rethink the plan."

By Students of NYC

March 13^th, 2026

Language is identity. It’s mother tongue. It’s who you are. I think that’s why I can’t let go of writing. Even though I was born here, I grew up speaking Bangla at home. I actually failed the gifted and talented test in pre-K because I didn’t really know English yet. My parents were like, okay — we have to start speaking to her in English more. And instead of speaking it first, I picked up reading. That’s where my relationship with language really started. Reading turned into writing. And once I picked up a pencil, I couldn’t stop. I would write about my day. I would write stories. I had little notebooks all through elementary and middle school filled with fiction — fantasy, historical fiction, romance. During COVID, I switched to Google Docs and just kept going. I haven’t shared much publicly, but writing has always felt like the most honest part of me. creative writing feels like a quieter kind of magic. It’s imagination. It’s escape. It’s politics and truth hidden inside fantasy worlds. Last summer, I was selected to read my poem at the New York City Poetry Festival on Governor’s Island. It was July 12. It was hot. There were microphones and poets everywhere. My poem was called “Reflection Between the Air.” It compared a girl like me — safe, waking up under a roof — to a girl across the world whose life is defined by war. The only difference between them is luck. Geography. Where you were born. Language can hold that kind of truth.

But 2025 changed me in a different way. I was diagnosed with chronic migraines and PCOS at the same time. I’m fifteen. I have a severe form of chronic migraine — I have a headache every single day. The pain fluctuates, but it’s always there. Some days I’m in a dark room with cooling caps from the freezer and tiger balm to fight the nausea. Some days I can function a little more. The migraines changed school for me. Bright lights, noise, assessments — they became overwhelming. For someone who always pushed herself — the oldest daughter in a Bengali household, the one who leads, who excels — it felt like my identity was being stripped away. I couldn’t push through this. Health doesn’t let you. It humbled me. But it didn’t take away my passion. If anything, it made it sharper. I’ve always wanted to go into medicine. I want to be an OB-GYN. But I had never imagined myself on the other side of it. Being there made me realize how easily young women’s pain is dismissed. Birth control was handed to me at fifteen like it was the only option. No one really explained things gently. No one told me I wasn’t alone.

I started a youth organization called Code Red. In Bangla, “laal” means red. We’re working on Project Laal — raising money to send period products to an all-girls school in Bangladesh. Period poverty is real, even in Queens, even in 2026. Pads should not be a luxury. I’ve walked into school bathrooms and seen empty boxes. It’s political to have no pads in a space meant for girls. We wanted to teach younger girls about periods, to help them feel comfortable. So we cold-called summer programs until one said yes. We held a workshop teaching girls the biology of periods — ovaries, eggs, the uterus. Not just “you’re bleeding now.” We handed out Post-its and asked them to write anonymous questions. One girl stayed after and asked when she would get her period, if she should be scared. She was almost twelve. I told her it’s okay to be scared. And it’s okay to ask questions.

This is my elementary school. I still come here to visit. My memories here are amazing. COVID hit in March of my final year. We were planning senior trips, end-of-year activities, all the fun fifth-grade milestones. And then suddenly, everything stopped. Graduation was canceled. We were on screens. It felt like something was taken from us. But our teachers — Ms. Stutz, Ms. Finnerty, and Ms. Realmuto, our paraprofessional — they decided that wasn’t going to be the end of our story. For three days straight, they carpooled to every single student’s house. They decorated their car with a huge ‘Class of 2020’ banner and those shiny spiral decorations hanging everywhere. They brought our yearbooks. They even burned our Lion King performance onto a CD because we had done it on Google Meet. They had goodie bags with little things to remember fifth grade. I remember waking up that morning so excited. I kept checking the time on my iPad. I was waiting by the window. When I saw their car pull up, I didn’t even wait for the doorbell. I saw all the decorations and ran outside. It was weird seeing my teachers in masks. We were all masked. But it still felt like home. My family made sure we had food for them. I gave each teacher an orchid — a real one. I was thinking about how orchids take time to bloom. It felt symbolic. Like our relationship would keep growing even after elementary school. A few months later, my teacher sent me a picture of it. She had kept it alive. She said it was thriving. She told me, ‘You’re my orchid.’ I had a plan for my life. And then I had to rethink the plan. But I still love writing. I still want to practice medicine. I still want to work in women’s health. I still want to tell stories about girls like me. The orchid took a long time to bloom. It was still thriving. So am I.