You Are Your Own Hero Ft. Farah Nadeem

This one is a deeply personal conversation with Farah Nadeem, a woman who spent decades in the classroom and then, when her body forced her to stop, built a small crochet business from scratch. I found her story because I knew she had switched from a long teaching career to running a handmade brand, and I wanted to understand how that shift happens, especially when life throws health battles and family responsibilities at you. What I didn’t expect was how openly she would share the guilt, the pain, and the small acts of creativity that kept her going.

Growing up with books, a garden, and a pretend classroom

Farah was born in Lahore but raised in Islamabad, in the quiet, tree lined streets of F-6. Her father was a teacher, a man who came from India after Partition with nothing and went on to earn top positions in his studies. He became a role model for her. “My father always said he would never go to a school to pull strings for us,” she tells me. “That stayed with me. I knew I had to stand on my own.”

Her home was full of books. “Ammi’s punishment for us was hiding our books,” she laughs. She would read aloud from the newspaper in front of a mirror, draping a dupatta and pretending to be a newsreader. But she never told anyone that dream, because in her family, some professions were simply not discussed. Instead, the teacher in her emerged early. She would draw a chalkboard on the backyard wall and line up imaginary students. “I was always a teacher. Even before I knew what it meant.”

Marriage at eighteen and a baby during the final year

Just as she entered her first year of college, a proposal came through her grandfather. Farah was clear she didn’t understand marriage at that age, but her parents decided. “I was told, this is your rishta, and that was that,” she says. The nikkah happened while she was in her first year. The marriage itself waited until her third year, with a mutual understanding that she would complete her bachelor’s first.

But life had other plans. She got pregnant during her third year. Morning sickness, long bus rides from F-10 to F-6, and the physical toll of carrying a baby while studying. She missed her home exams and was told she might have to switch subjects or appear privately. “I remember the principal telling me, ‘You are married with a child, how will you manage?’ That discrimination stung. But my husband, my mother-in-law, everyone at home said, ‘You will do it.’ And Alhamdulillah, I did.”

Farah still carries the ache of leaving her baby daughter crying when she went to give an exam. “Thirty-five years later, I can still see her face. The guilt stays with you.” That little girl grew up calling her grandmother “mummy” because of the time they spent together, a bond Farah is grateful for but also grieves.

The calling of classrooms and the weight of loyalty

She began teaching almost by accident, a casual stint at a school near her home while her daughter was young. But once she stepped into a classroom, she never looked back. She taught at a few schools before joining Weekend House, where she would spend eighteen years. She started with primary grades and rose to senior mistress, handling discipline, parent interaction, and whole school programs.

Why did she stay so long? “I am a loyal person. When I find a style I like, I buy four sweaters in different colors. I wear the same brand of shoes for years. Weekend House gave me space, listened to my voice, and I felt it was my second home.”

But the school’s culture shifted. She witnessed changes she found painful. The discreet, dignified teachers of the past, the ones who rarely ate in front of students and carried a certain grace, were being replaced by a more commercial approach. Class sizes grew, admissions stopped interviewing parents, and the quality of teacher training dipped. “It hurt me because I was emotionally tied to that place. I saw its drawbacks and I felt them personally. But I still believed I could make a difference.”

Her body, however, started breaking down.

When your body says stop, but your hands need to move

Farah’s health issues began quietly and then cascaded. A diagnosis of fibromyalgia meant constant pain, and doctors could only offer heavy medication. “I refused to be sedated. I cannot tolerate being inactive,” she says. Around 2018, she needed surgery to remove a tumor. The year after that, she suffered a heart attack. She would drag herself to school, arrange soft boards, and then go to the hospital. “I had a blocked artery. The doctor told me I was still coming in with full makeup and red lipstick. That has always been my thing, to show my body we are ready.”

After a maternity leave for her last child, she was on the verge of accepting a promotion at another branch when a difficult question came up during the interview. “They asked me, ‘How will you bring admissions? How will you market the school?’ I told them education proves itself. I am a teacher, not a public relations officer.” She turned down the offer. Later, a new opportunity at a school near her home fell through over salary and approach. And then, she knew. It was time to leave.

Beliji by Farah: crafting quality over competition

During a mandatory stay in the US for her green card process, Farah found herself alone during the day. “I thought, what do I do? I couldn’t read that much. Then on YouTube I saw how to make a scarf and I ordered yarn. That was it.”

The crochet gave her a kind of physical therapy. The constant, gentle movement of her hands soothed the fibromyalgia pain. “I started making gifts for colleagues. Then I made bags. I realized my pain was decreasing because my body was no longer idle. It was a turning point.”

Back in Pakistan, Beliji by Farah was born. She sells handmade crochet bags, toys, rattles and home items. “My products are luxury. The quality is something I never compromise on. So my pricing reflects that.” She faces the common pushback: “People tell me, ‘Our dadi also does this, why is it so expensive?’ I explain, but sometimes I just let it go. The right customer will understand.”

She refuses to hire underpaid labor from underprivileged backgrounds, a popular model some suggest. “I would rather empower my educated friends who have left their jobs and want to do something. I pay them a fair commission, I give them patterns, I train them. That is empowerment to me.”

Showing up even when motivation is gone

Farah credits her family’s unwavering support, especially her husband. “He never once told me the food was bad. He taught me to cook and never complained. When I ask for space, he gives it, even if he doesn’t fully understand.”

Yet she has learned to express her needs. She recounts a moment of clarity: “I told him, in twenty years of marriage, you never once sat me down to say what you needed. I always had to ask. But when I do ask and it still doesn’t happen, that hurts too. Now I try to say it, and then let it go.”

Her mantra is consistency. “Real success comes from consistency, not motivation. There are days I don’t want to do anything. I still pick up my crochet hook. I put on lipstick, do my hair, and tell my body, ‘We are ready.’ And it works. My physical health improves when I stay mentally active.”

She also runs a container gardening workshop at a finishing school, her true hobby, and continues to find purpose in small, green things. “I feel like my life is very purposeful. I teach, I create, I share. That keeps me moving.”

What this conversation means for you

Farah’s journey isn’t a neat timeline of success. It is layered with guilt over motherhood, the sting of being underestimated, the pain of leaving a career she loved, and the slow, stubborn rebuilding through crochet. She shows us that loyalty is noble, but so is walking away. That asking for help is okay, and that a simple red lipstick can be an anchor on the worst days. For any Desi woman feeling stuck, this is a reminder that you are already your own hero, just as Farah is hers.