Fighting For Your Freedom Ft. Atikah Gardezi

In this conversation I sit down with Atikah Gardezi, a model whose path here was anything but straight. We talk about growing up in Saudi Arabia, moving to Pakistan at sixteen, and the long struggle to break free from the expectations that kept her small. This one is about choosing your own struggle, finding community when family feels far, and the quiet courage it takes to believe you are more than the protection people wrap around you.

Born in Makkah, raised with a sense of wonder

Atikah was born in Makkah. Her father had moved there young, and the whole family grew up in a building full of expatriates. Indians, Pakistanis, Arabs. She tells me it was like a mini family. They would travel together, go to the beach, and she was the hyperactive kid jumping over walls to explore the streets. Then at twelve or thirteen, things shifted. “I think because I was a girl, so that changed. It was really frustrating for me,” she says. That early restriction planted a seed, though she didn’t know it yet.

She moved to Pakistan at sixteen, straight into a Beaconhouse campus that felt like a university. Five hundred new kids, a whole new country, and a mother who, understandably afraid, put heavy restrictions on her. “I could see all of my friends having fun without me, and I would just be at home. The first year I was really depressed.” She remembers how her life in Saudi had been sheltered. “Unki life kaafi sheltered thi,” she says. Their life was quite sheltered. Suddenly she was in a world where other teenagers had freedoms she could only watch from the window.

Architorture and the weight of dependence

University was supposed to be NCA in Lahore, where she wanted to study filmmaking. But her mother said no, that’s not a degree. So she landed in NUST, studying architecture, which she lovingly calls architorture. Five years that taught her a lot, but also deepened her anxiety. Her father retired, her parents’ savings were stretched, and as the youngest of four she felt the pressure early. “I didn’t want to be a burden on my family,” she says. She worked on the side, saved money from a job at Red Bull, and dreamed of buying a camera. But when she asked her brother for a small loan, he told her mother instead of her. The message was clear: your choices are not your own.

She was also deeply co-dependent on her mom. “My mom started saying, if I die, I’m worried what will happen to you. That thought really scared me.” So she began to pull back, knowing she needed to learn to live without her family before anything happened. But living at home, every move felt conditional. If a work opportunity came, she’d have to convince her mother, then her brother, and the pressure of not failing became so heavy she would lose motivation before she even started.

A car accident that re-centred everything

Atikah was on her way to a wedding when the car spun out of control. She remembers time slowing down. “I thought, okay, I’m going to die. And for some reason that thought didn’t scare me. I was like, I’m fine with dying right now.” It was only when she thought of her mother that she fought to live. Later, she sat with that. “I realized, wow, if it weren’t for someone else’s attachment to me, I probably wouldn’t want to be here. That really scared me.”

That was her breaking point. She had so little value for her own life that it took her mother’s grief to want to survive. She decided she had to move out. Not to rebel, but to learn how to exist as her own person. She announced it to her mom, who laughed. She spent months calculating budgets on paper, checking room listings, and finally her friends Sani and Kenza offered a room. Their landlord had just given them notice because he didn’t want two single girls in his house. So they looked together, found a brand new house with light wells and a basement, and somehow negotiated the rent down. Atikah signed the lease before her family could stop her.

Moving out: a quiet rebellion

When the day came, she packed her things in batches. Her dad sat outside, and as she walked past him he simply said, “Better job.” She was shocked. Then she ran before he could change his mind. Her mom, crying, said something that stuck: “You know, I expected this from your other sisters, not from you.” That hurt. But it also lit a fire. “I can’t come back home now until I’ve proven myself,” she thought.

She worked three jobs: teaching second graders, tutoring Korean kids in English, and interning as an assistant director on a drama serial for 10,000 rupees for two months. She’d wake up at 6am, come home exhausted, and sleep on a mattress on the floor with her housemates. They had no furniture, one AC, and they laughed through the struggle. “It was some of the hardest months of my life, but also the best. This felt more like home than my own home did at times.” At home, she couldn’t share her feelings without worrying about the reaction. With her friends, she learned to be vulnerable.

Friends become family

When she lost all her jobs and was about to be homeless, she laughed about it with her old university friends. Then one friend messaged: she was sending money. Actually, the whole group had chipped in for her rent. “She sent this really long message that made me cry. She said, this money is from all of us. We don’t want you to give up. We think you’re doing great.” Another friend gave her an advance for video work so she could pay rent. That community kept her going. She realized family isn’t only blood. It is the people who show up when you’re empty.

At the same time, her relationship with her family began to shift. She could see their love in non-verbal ways: her mom packing food, her brother dropping her off. When she was able to finally go home, she could show them she was okay. And eventually, she could give back financially, which eased a lot of the old friction. The pressure on her brother, the patriarchal weight on her dad, all that stress that had trickled down started to loosen. She says, “I realized a lot of the stress and struggles in our dynamic were external factors. When I could take care of myself, I could actually improve things for everyone.”

How modelling found me

Modelling was never the plan. It came through a series of tiny, almost accidental steps. A friend styling a shoot needed a replacement model for Grazia. Then a brand called Kyle reached out. Then Outfitters called on a Sunday night for a 3am call time the next day. She was in Islamabad, on her first day of her period, with cramps, and she still got on a bus to Lahore because something in her said, why not? Then she followed a videographer on Instagram whose work she liked, and he messaged her: “Are you available for a shoot for Sapphire in Hunza next week?” A model had cancelled, and he had spotted her profile. She still doesn’t fully see herself as a model. When people ask what she does, she gets uncomfortable. But the work has given her something invaluable: the ability to support herself and her family. And it taught her she could step out of her comfort zone, again and again.

She still has an itch for filmmaking. She’s decided to focus on getting past that fear this year. “Hopefully I’ll make something,” she says. I believe her.

Freedom is a daily fight, but worth it

Atikah’s story is extraordinary, but she doesn’t see herself as a hero. She says she chose her struggle, while so many others have no choice. But in our culture, where girls are often crippled by protection, choosing your own path is a radical act. It is saying, I trust myself enough to fall and get back up. It is telling your parents, I am not your fear. I am your strength. And it is learning, as she did, that the only way to stop being a burden is to stand on your own two feet, even when they tremble.

I hope this conversation reaches someone who is stuck, who feels like their life is not their own. Take the small steps. Save the money, whisper the truth to a friend, look at a listing. The universe has a way of meeting you halfway when you finally say yes to yourself.