The CSS Life for a Pakistani Woman Ft. Qandeel Fatima Memon

This conversation is one of those raw, real ones that I wish more young women could hear. I sit down with Qandeel Fatima Memon, a Pakistan Administrative Service officer, and we talk about the journey to the civil service that nobody tells you about. The late nights, the personal losses, the quiet doubt. And then, what comes after. The constant proving yourself, the endless balancing act, and the small wins that make it all worth it.

Qandeel’s story is not a glossy success reel. It is messy, human, and incredibly honest. She talks about failing her first attempt while recovering from a miscarriage, about giving birth to her daughter only eight days before her second result came out, and about leaving that same baby behind for over a year of training. This is what the CSS life looks like for so many Pakistani women. And I am so grateful she opened up about it.

The weight of a dream that wasn’t only hers

Qandeel’s drive to join the civil service did not start with her own ambition alone. “My father always had this wish,” she tells me. “He kept saying, you can do it, you will do it.” After her marriage in 2015, her father-in-law shared the same hope, putting that quiet pressure on her to take the exam. She was already a university gold medalist, so the expectation sat heavy. She wanted to make them proud.

The first time she sat for the exam in 2016, she was newly married and expecting. The stress of the preparation and the physical toll led to a miscarriage right after the papers. When the result came and she had failed, it shattered her. “I asked myself, what did I do wrong? I had studied everything. I was so depressed.” It took months to gather herself. But she sat again in February 2017, this time knowing she was pregnant again. The fear of another loss was real, but her husband told her, “If Allah has sent this soul, the exam will happen alongside it.” She gave the papers, and eight days after her daughter was born, the result declared she had cleared. Everyone said, “Beti hai, rahmat lekar aayi hai”: the baby girl brought blessings with her.

Leaving your child to build a career

The part that breaks your heart is what comes next. After passing the written and interviews, she had to report to the academy for training. Her daughter was one and a half years old. She had to leave her. “Half the week she would be with my husband, half with my mother. I was away for the whole training period. You miss those first words, the small things. Sometimes I would feel so full of guilt, like I am not there for my baby.” She would get calls about her child being unwell and feel helpless, stuck far away.

Even now, with frequent postings, her daughter is the one who bears the brunt. “She has already changed three schools, from Hyderabad to Chakwal to Rawalpindi. She says to me, ‘Mama, I made friends with such difficulty and you brought me here.’” Qandeel tells her they will make new friends, a better school. But the uncertainty remains. She moves her entire family with each posting, her mother living with her to help, her husband commuting from Hyderabad. She refuses to leave her kids behind again. “I want to make sure I am there for my children, no matter how tired I am. A mother’s care is irreplaceable.”

Proving yourself twice over

Being a woman in the civil service means you start from a disadvantage. Qandeel doesn’t shy away from this. “You are a woman, so they assume you won’t be available at night, you can’t handle tough enforcement work, you might get scared. So you have to work extra to prove you are equal, maybe even better.” She learned quickly that to get work done from subordinates who had decades more experience, she had to know the rules inside out. “If you have a grip on the system, if you know revenue, they can’t fool you. I also built a system of rewards and punishments. Appreciation certificates for good performance, and strict inquiries for those who crossed the line. You have to be firm without losing your decency.”

That balance is delicate. “You develop assertiveness over time, and you learn to use words very carefully. It is a thin line between being assertive and sounding mad. You can’t let them walk over you, but you can’t scream either. I learned the art of getting work done through praise or pressure, depending on the person.” The discrimination is still there: subtle remarks, a resistance to taking orders from a woman. But she is determined to make her mark and break the stereotype.

Why women must lift each other

One of the most powerful points in our conversation was about how women treat each other in the workplace. Qandeel was blunt. “We women are often our own worst enemies. Instead of supporting each other, we create competition and pull each other down.” She has made it a principle to always give good remarks about any female colleague, to make sure bosses see them as capable officers. “We go through the same circumstances: working, feeding the family, looking after kids, facing discrimination. If you can’t be there because your baby is sick, tomorrow the same could happen to me. So we need to support each other.”

She sees the jealousy and insecurity for what it is, a reminder of one’s own unhealed failures. “When a woman like you succeeds, it triggers insecurity. We need to look past that and celebrate the next woman’s success because she is carving a path for all of us.” And she ties it back to faith, to the abundance mindset. “Allah has so much to give. Just because someone else received something doesn’t mean there is less for you. The more you believe in His abundance, the more He rewards you.”

A word for the dreamers

For anyone considering this path, Qandeel had simple, grounded advice. Choose your optional subjects wisely, from a syllabus that feels doable to you. But more than that, write. “A lot of people just read and don’t write answers. In the exam, the flow doesn’t come. I wrote around 22 answers for just one subject to practice.” And don’t listen to every self-proclaimed guru. “Not every book suits you, not every piece of advice applies. Be very careful whom you follow.” At the end of the day, she says, “This is an exam taken by humans. Humans did it before you, humans will do it after. Work hard, keep your prayers strong, and it will happen.”

This conversation matters because it strips away the glamour and shows the real cost. The lost time with children, the personal heartbreaks, the daily fight to be taken seriously. But it also shows the deep satisfaction of serving, of solving a problem with a single phone call, of the prayers of strangers whose lives you touched. For every young woman dreaming of a career that pulls her in a hundred directions, Qandeel’s story says: you are not alone, and it is worth it. Not because it is easy, but because you can do it honestly, without losing your softness or your strength.