Through Tough Times With Strength Ft. Natasha Zubair

This one is a conversation I sit down with Natasha Zubair, a name you probably know from the world of fashion photography. But what we talk about goes far beyond camera settings and pretty pictures. We talk about the body breaking down, about a mother who forgot her own daughter’s wedding, about growing up with a brother who is deaf, and about the quiet, stubborn strength it takes to keep showing up when life keeps knocking you down. It is a conversation full of honesty, and I am so grateful Natasha trusted me with these parts of her story.

A childhood shaped by difference

Natasha grew up between London and the US, not because her parents were chasing a dream, but because her older brother was born deaf. Her parents wanted him to have an education and a life that Pakistan simply could not offer at the time. So they stayed abroad until he was settled in university, and then the family moved back to Lahore when Natasha was fifteen. She tells me about the culture shock, about losing a beloved aunt just weeks after arriving, about crying at school because she could not find her people. But she also tells me about a teacher, Miss Marine, who took her under her wing and taught her Urdu when she could have just let her drop the subject. “She made me trace my letters and learn,” Natasha says. “Now I can literally read sign boards because of her.” That small act of kindness stayed with her.

As a child, Natasha was painfully shy. She calls herself “mute” around adults. But she found a spark early on: graphic design. She discovered a website like a graphic design Reddit and, at eight years old, made it to the number one spot on the homepage. “I told my mom, she didn’t understand,” she laughs. “But that gave me this small confidence. I was like, I’m keeping this, I’m never letting this go.” That determination would become a theme.

Finding her place in fashion

Natasha studied communication design at NCA, but photography had already grabbed her. She asked for a camera instead of an iPod as a kid, and she never really put it down. Her first paid gig was a child’s birthday party, ten thousand rupees, and she felt on top of the world. Then came her first fashion shoot with a well-known model and makeup artist. “I was star struck,” she says. “If I look back, I am proud of myself.”

But being a female fashion photographer in Pakistan came with its own quiet battles. Natasha tells me about the mansplaining on set, the clients who would question her settings even though they had hired her for her eye. “I feel like 90 percent it’s amazing, but there’s 10 percent that all female photographers go through,” she says. “For some reason men think they know more about a camera even if they’ve had half your experience.” She used to stay silent. Now, almost eight years in, she speaks up. “I’ll say, let me do my work.” She also noticed that female clients sometimes do this to female photographers, and that, she says, is the most heartbreaking.

The body keeps score

Behind the lens, Natasha’s body was fighting its own war. During her time at NCA, she developed a recurring cyst that required four major surgeries, each one leaving her bedridden for months. She would disappear from college, recover, and return, only for it to happen again. “I was destroyed,” she says. “I thought I was done with this.” The final surgery was risky, but it worked. Then, while healing from that, she started getting painful scabs on her hands and face, then mouth ulcers so severe she slept with an ice pack on her cheek. In early 2021, she was diagnosed with lupus, an autoimmune disease where the immune system attacks the body’s own healthy cells.

She remembers reading the word “lupus” on her dermatologist’s notes and feeling a strange certainty. “I just knew,” she says. The diagnosis was fast, but the emotional whiplash was brutal. One doctor scared her so much he told her to change her career because of sun sensitivity. She cried everywhere. Then she found a female rheumatologist who gave her something no one else had: hope. “She was like, you’re completely fine, why do you think you’re special that you’re going to have some issue?” Natasha recalls. “It just changed my mindset.” She still deals with daily symptoms, stomach issues, exhaustion, but she has learned to read her body and keep going. “I have that mentality now with everything,” she says. “K bu, okay so what, you just get back up.”

When a parent breaks

Just hours before her nikah, Natasha’s mother had a severe mental breakdown. She stopped recognizing her own daughter. She was hospitalized, and on the day of the barat, they had to bring her from the hospital. “My mother has zero recollection of my wedding,” Natasha says, her voice heavy. “That is so incredibly painful.” She wanted to cancel the wedding, but elders insisted the show go on. So she went through the motions, physically present but emotionally absent. “I don’t feel joy when I look at my wedding images,” she admits. “I was not there.”

Her mother is now in treatment, but the road is long. Natasha carries guilt for not seeing the signs earlier, but she also recognizes how deeply our culture buries mental health. “My mother is the type of person who’s always kept things hidden, like most Pakistani women,” she says. “This was her peak moment.” Now, she pushes her mother to live for herself, to find her own voice. She urges anyone listening: if you see a parent hurting, do not just sit and let time pass. Be the voice for them. It is never too late.

Small joys and letting go

Amid all this, Natasha built a small stationary brand, born from a love of notebooks and a gap she spotted in the market. She used her own savings, found a printing press, and sold her first designs at college like a salesperson. She hand-packed orders and typed thank you notes. It was a passion project, never about the money. Now, with new chapters in her life, she is planning to close it for a while. “I don’t believe in doing something halfway,” she says. “I want to do it with my full heart, and right now I don’t have that energy to give.” There is wisdom in knowing when to pause, and I admire her for that.

Why this conversation matters

Natasha’s story is not a neat, inspirational arc. It is messy and real. It is about a woman who built a career while her body fought her, who became the translator for her deaf brother and the mediator for her family, who held her mother’s hand through a darkness she never saw coming. She does not pretend it is easy. She just keeps showing up. And that, I think, is the kind of strength we need to talk about more. The small, daily, unglamorous kind. I hope you find something in her words that makes you feel a little less alone in whatever you are carrying.