Saudi Beauty Queen Goes Viral For Her Conversion: “Jesus Appeared to Me Every Night”

Before I leave, I want to use this opportunity to tell you about Jesus Christ.

He was killed and hung on the cross.

He died for you and me.

That was me 6 months ago at a charity gala.

I was there as a pageant contestant, but I was also there as a witness.

If you had told me three years before that moment that I would stand in front of hundreds of people and say those words, I would have laughed.

Or maybe I would have been terrified because 3 years before that I I was still in Saudi Arabia and just thinking those words could have gotten me killed.

Let me take you back to the beginning to Riyad that to the house where I grew up to the girl I used to be.

I Hello viewers from around the world.

Before our sister continues her story, we’d love to know where you are watching from and we would love to pray for you and your city.

Thank you and may God bless you as you listen to this powerful testimony.

I was born into a cage, but I didn’t know it was a cage at first.

When you’re a child, you think the world you know is the only world that exists.

My world was our house in Riyad.

A big house with high walls and a courtyard that no one from outside could see into.

My world was my mother in her abaya.

Uh my father in his th brothers who could do things I couldn’t do.

I was the only girl, the youngest child.

My mother told me once that when I was born, some of the women who came to visit her said things like, “Maybe next time,” or, “At least you have three sons already.

” Even my birth was a disappointment.

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t understand that being a girl meant being less.

You learn it before you can even read.

You learn it in the way people speak to you versus how they speak to your brothers.

You learn it in the things you’re not allowed to do.

You learn it in the way your father looks at you or doesn’t look at you.

My brothers could play outside.

I had to stay in the courtyard.

My brothers could go to the market with my father.

I had to stay home.

My brothers could laugh loudly, run, shout, climb trees.

A park.

I was pulled aside when I was seven years old because I laughed too loud at something funny my youngest brother said.

My mother’s hand was gentle on my arm.

But her voice was firm.

Girls don’t laugh like that.

It’s not proper.

I remember thinking, why? Why can’t I laugh? What’s wrong with laughing? But I learned not to ask why.

Asking why only brought trouble.

When I was eight, my father brought home new abayas for me, black, heavy, serious.

I had been wearing colorful dresses in the house and a simple covering when we went out.

But now it was time for the full abaya.

I remember my mother helping me put it on for the first time.

The fabric felt like it was swallowing me.

I couldn’t see my feet.

I felt like I was disappearing.

You’re growing up, my mother said.

She sounded sad but also resigned like this was just what happened.

Like there was no other way.

I wore that abaya every single day for the next 10 years.

School was different for me than it was for my brothers.

They went to schools where they learned English, where they had computers, where teachers encouraged them to ask questions and think for themselves.

My school was all girls all the time.

We learned to read and write Arabic.

We learned math and somei science but mostly we learned religion.

Every day started with Quran recitation.

We had Islamic studies classes where we learned the rules.

So many rules.

Rules about how to pray, how to wash, how to dress, how to speak, how to behave.

rules about what happened if you broke the rules, the punishments, the hell that was waiting for us if we weren’t careful.

I tried to be good.

I really did.

I memorized the suras.

I prayed five times a day.

Uh I fasted during Ramadan even when I was so hungry I thought I would pass out.

I covered myself properly.

I lowered my gaze.

I was quiet and obedient and everything a good Muslim girl was supposed to be.

But I had questions.

So many questions.

Why did my testimony in court only count as half of a man’s testimony? Why did my brother inherit twice what I would inherit? Why couldn’t I travel without a male guardian? Why couldn’t I drive? Why couldn’t I choose who I married? Why did I have to cover every inch of my body while my brothers wore whatever they wanted? The one time I asked these questions in class, the teacher looked at me like I had just spit on the Quran.

These are Allah’s laws.

You don’t question Allah’s laws.

Questioning is a sign of weak faith.

I never asked again, but the questions didn’t go away.

They just lived inside me, growing bigger and heavier with every year that passed.

When I was 12, I found a magazine.

One of my brothers had gotten it somewhere.

a western fashion magazine with pictures of models and actresses.

Beautiful women with long hair flowing free, wearing dresses and jeans and showing their faces, their arms, their legs, smiling, looking confident, looking free.

I hid that magazine under my mattress.

At night after everyone was asleep, I would take it out and look at it by the light of my phone.

I would study those was I believed those women’s faces, the way they stood, the way they looked directly at the camera unafraid.

I wanted to be like them.

I wanted to be beautiful like that.

I wanted to be seen like that.

I started dreaming about being a model, about wearing beautiful clothes and having my picture taken and being celebrated for being beautiful instead of being told to hide myself.

I would practice poses in the mirror when I was alone in my room.

I would imagine walking down a runway, everyone watching me, everyone thinking I was sunning.

It was a stupid dream.

I knew it was stupid, but it was my dream.

And it was the only thing that made me feel like maybe, just maybe, there was more to life than what I was living.

When I was 16, my father told me I was engaged.

I wasn’t asked.

I was told.

The man was 34.

I had met him exactly once at a family gathering where he spoke to my father and my brothers while I sat silently with the women.

I remembered he had a beard and wore expensive clothes and barely looked at me.

Now he was going to be my husband.

He’s from a good family.

My father said he has money.

You’ll be well provided for.

I sat there on the floor of our living room, my mother beside me, my brothers somewhere else in the house, and I felt something crack inside my chest.

This was it.

This was my life.

This was all my life would ever be.

I was going to marry a man I didn’t know and didn’t love.

I was going to have his children.

I was going to cook and clean and serve and obey.

I was going to disappear into his house just like I had disappeared into the abaya when I was eight years old and there was nothing I could do about it.

My mother hugged me after my father left the room.

She whispered that everything would be okay.

That marriage was what happened to all women.

That I would learn to be content.

Content.

Not happy.

Content.

I cried that night.

But I cried quietly into my pillow so no one would hear.

I cried for the little girl who wanted to laugh loudly.

I cried for the teenager who wanted to be a model.

I cried for the future I would never have.

But I didn’t cry for long because somewhere in the middle of that grief, a new feeling started to grow.

It was small at first, just a tiny spark, but it was there.

Anger.

The engagement didn’t happen right away.

The man wanted to finish building his new house first.

So I had time, maybe a year, my father said.

Maybe two.

I started paying attention to the world outside Saudi Arabia.

I had a phone.

All of us did by then.

And I had access to the internet even though my father monitored it.

I learned to clear my history.

I learned to use apps that disappeared after you closed them.

I learned to be secret because I followed western fashion accounts on Instagram.

I watched YouTube videos of models and pageantss and fashion shows.

I saw women living lives that seemed impossible, going to university, choosing their careers, wearing what they wanted, marrying who they loved, or not marrying at all.

I saw women who looked like me, Arab women, Muslim women who had left and were living in the West.

Some of them still covered, some of them didn’t, but all of them seemed to have something I didn’t have.

Choice.

I started researching universities in the UK.

I don’t even know why I chose the UK.

Maybe because I had learned British English in school.

Maybe because London seemed far enough away.

Maybe because I saw pictures of London and it looked like another planet compared to Riad.

I applied to three universities.

I used my school email.

So now I wrote essays about wanting to study business, about wanting to build bridges between east and west, about wanting to represent my country well.

I said all the right things.

I didn’t say what I really wanted, which was to run as far and as fast as I could and never come back.

Two universities rejected me.

One accepted me.

When I got the acceptance email, I sat in my room staring at my phone screen for probably 20 minutes.

My hands were shaking.

This was real.

This was a door.

It was a tiny door.

and maybe it would slam shut, but it was there.

Now I just had to figure out how to walk through it.

Convincing my father was the hardest thing I had ever done up to that point in my life.

I planned it carefully.

I waited until he was in a good mood.

I made sure my brothers were there, too, because I thought maybe they would support me.

I I dressed modestly.

I spoke respectfully.

I kept my eyes down.

I told him about the acceptance.

I told him it was a good university.

I told him I would stay with his cousins who lived in London, a conservative man with a wife and daughters who all covered properly.

I told him I would video call every single day.

I told him I would come back after one year and get married like he wanted.

I lied.

I lied about almost everything, but especially about coming back.

My father said, “No, immediately girls don’t go abroad to study.

Girls study here, if they study at all, and then they get married.

That’s the way it’s always been.

” But my oldest brother surprised me.

He said it might be good for the family to have someone with a British education.

He said it would make me a better wife, more sophisticated.

He said one year wasn’t that long.

I I don’t know why he helped me.

Maybe he felt sorry for me.

Maybe he was more progressive than I thought.

Maybe he had his own reasons, but he convinced my father.

It took weeks of conversations, but eventually my father agreed.

The conditions were strict.

I would live with his cousin.

I would cover properly.

I would not socialize with men.

I would video call home every single day at the same time.

I would come back in one year to get married.

If I broke any of these rules, I would be brought back immediately.

I agreed to everything.

I would have agreed to anything.

Packing my bags was surreal.

I could only take two suitcases up, one with clothes, one with books and personal items.

Everything I owned had to fit into two suitcases.

I packed my abayas, my hijabs, my prayer mat, my Quran, things I knew my father would check for.

What? But I also packed hidden at the bottom of my suitcase under my clothes that old-fashioned magazine folded and worn and completely inappropriate.

I don’t know why I packed it.

Maybe as a reminder of the dream I had.

Maybe as a promise to myself that I would find a way to live it.

My mother cried when it was time to say goodbye.

She held me for a long time at the airport.

My father and brothers were standing nearby watching, but she didn’t care.

She held me and cried into my shoulder.

Her last words to me were in Arabic, whispered so only I could hear.

Be careful, Habibi.

The world outside is dangerous for girls like us.

I nodded.

I hugged her back.

I didn’t tell her that I was more afraid of staying than I was of leaving.

The flight to London was nine hours.

9 hours sitting next to my oldest brother who had been assigned to escort me.

9 hours of feeling every minute take me further from the life I knew and closer to something I couldn’t even imagine.

I kept my hijab on, my abaya wrapped tight, my eyes mostly down, playing the part, being the good girl.

But inside I was screaming.

Inside I was already running.

When the plane landed and we walked through Heathrow airport, I saw women everywhere.

Women in jeans, women in dresses, women with their hair uncovered flowing down their backs dyed different colors.

Women laughing loudly.

Women walking alone.

Women holding hands with men who weren’t their brothers or fathers or husbands.

I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t help it.

This was freedom.

This was what it looked like.

My father’s cousin met us at the airport.

Duck.

He was a serious man with a long beard and a stern face.

His wife was with them covered completely in black nicob.

Their three daughters, all teenagers, wore hijab and modest clothes.

They looked at me with curiosity and something else.

Maybe pity, maybe recognition.

My brother stayed for two days, making sure I was settled in, making sure the living arrangements were appropriate.

Then he flew back to Riyad and I was alone in London.

Not free, not yet, but alone.

And that was the first step.

The house I lived in was in East London in an area where many Arabs and Muslims lived.

It felt almost like being back in Riyad, except the buildings looked different, and the weather was cold and gray instead of hot and bright.

My father’s cousin was strict, maybe stricter than my own father.

Uh, his rules were clear.

No going out without his wife or daughters accompanying me.

No talking to men.

No western clothes.

Hijab at all times.

Even in the house when he was home, university and back.

That was it.

I followed the rules.

For the first few weeks, I followed every single rule.

I started classes, business administration.

The university was big and diverse.

But there were students from everywhere.

India, China, Nigeria, other Arab countries, British students of all backgrounds.

In my classes, I saw women wearing whatever they wanted, jeans and t-shirts, skirts, dresses.

Some wore hijab, but modern hijab with makeup and fashionable clothes.

Some were Arab or South Asian, and wore nothing on their heads at all.

I sat in the back of every class.

I took notes.

I didn’t speak unless called on.

I kept my head down, but I watched u I watched everything.

I watch the way female students raised their hands and argued with professors.

I watched the way they laughed with male students, casual and easy.

I watched the way they walked across campus with confidence, like they had every right to be there, like no one was going to tell them they couldn’t.

I watched and something inside me started to wake up.

Her name was Aisha.

British Pakistani, 20 years old, same as me.

She wore hijab, but it was colorful and styled fashionably.

She wore jeans.

She wore makeup.

She smiled at everyone.

She sat next to me in our marketing class one day about a month into the term.

She said hello.

I said hello back quietly.

She asked where I was from.

I told her Saudi Arabia.

Her eyes lit up.

Oh, I’ve always wanted to visit.

Is it beautiful there? I didn’t know how to answer that.

Why was it beautiful? The desert was beautiful.

The architecture was beautiful.

But was the life beautiful? It’s different.

I said finally.

She didn’t push.

She just smiled and started talking about the lecture, about the professor, about how hard the course was.

Easy conversation, normal conversation.

After class, she asked if I wanted to get coffee.

My father’s cousin’s rules rang in my head.

No socializing.

Straight to university and back.

But I was so lonely, so desperately lonely.

And she seemed kind.

I said yes.

We went to a cafe near campus.

I had never been to a cafe before.

Never sat in a public place with a friend ordering coffee just talking.

It felt strange and wonderful and terrifying all at once.

Aisha talked easily.

She told me about her family, about growing up in London, about her major, about her plans after university.

And she asked about me.

But when I gave short answers, she didn’t push.

She just kept talking, filling the space, making it comfortable.

When we left, she said, “We should do this again.

” I agreed, even though I knew I probably shouldn’t, but I went back again and again.

Coffee after class became our routine, and slowly, carefully, I started to talk.

Three months into my time in London, I took off my hijab, not at home, not anywhere near my father’s cousin’s house, but in a neighborhood across the city where no one knew me.

Aisha had invited me to go shopping with her in central London.

I lied to my father’s cousin’s wife, told her I was going to the library to study.

Then I met Aisha at the tube station.

We were walking through Oxford street surrounded by thousands of people and I saw my reflection in a store window.

Black abaya a black hijab invisible.

Everyone else was wearing colors jeans dresses.

Their hair was showing.

They looked like people.

I looked like a shadow.

Something snapped.

Can we go in there? I pointed to a clothing store, a normal store like H&M or Zara, the kind of store I had never been allowed to enter.

Aisha looked surprised but said yes.

Inside I found a simple long-sleeved shirt, navy blue, and a pair of jeans.

That’s all.

Nothing revealing, nothing crazy, just normal clothes.

Can I try these on? I asked Aisha.

She looked at me carefully.

I think she understood this was bigger than just trying on clothes.

Of course, she said in the fitting room, I took off my abaya.

I took off my hijab.

I put on the jeans and the shirt.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

I looked like a person, a normal person.

Who? A woman with a face and hair and a shape.

I could see myself.

I started crying right there in the fitting room, tears running down my face, but I was smiling too.

I don’t know if I was sad or happy.

Maybe both.

I bought the clothes.

I wore them out of the store, my abaya and hijab stuffed in the shopping bag.

Walking down Oxford Street with my hair uncovered, wearing jeans, I felt naked, exposed.

Every person who looked in my direction made me want to hide.

I kept waiting for someone to shout at me, to tell me, to cover up, to hurt me.

But no one cared.

No one even noticed.

I was just another woman walking down the street.

I felt terrified.

I felt guilty.

I felt like God was watching me and shaking his head in disappointment.

But I also felt alive.

The double life started after that at my father’s cousin’s house.

Uh I was the good Saudi girl.

Hijab on abaya on quiet and obedient.

I video called my father every day like I promised, making sure my room was in the background so he could see I was where I was supposed to be.

But during the day between classes, I was someone else.

I kept my jeans and western clothes in a locker at the gym on campus.

I would go there in my abaya, change into normal clothes and spend the day as a regular student.

Then before going home, I would change back.

I started going to cafes alone.

I would sit with a book and a coffee and just exist in public, uncovered, unafraid.

I started taking walks in parks, feeling the sun on my hair.

I started talking to people, classmates, cashiers, strangers who said hello.

I was tasting freedom in small sips.

And every sip made me thirstier.

But the guilt was always there.

Uh, every time I took off my hijab, I heard my mother’s voice.

Every time I laughed with a male classmate, I remembered the rules.

Every time I felt happy.

I wondered if I was sinning.

I was taught that Allah sees everything.

That angels record your every deed, that hell is waiting for people who disobey.

Was I going to hell? Was this freedom worth eternal punishment? I didn’t know.

I didn’t know anything anymore.

All I knew was that I couldn’t go back to being who I was before.

The cage door was open and even though I was terrified I was stepping out.

Six months into my time in London, my father’s cousin found out.

One of his daughters saw me on campus.

I didn’t know she was there.

I was sitting in the cafe with Aisha wearing jeans and a sweater, my hair uncovered and flowing down my back.

I was laughing at something.

Aisha said, “Uh, his daughter saw me and she told her father that night he was waiting for me when I came home.

His face was red with anger.

His wife and daughters were there, too.

Their faces showing a mix of shock and disappointment.

He didn’t hit me, but he shouted.

He called me names I won’t repeat here.

He said I was bringing shame on his family and my family.

He said I was acting like a He said he should have never agreed to let me stay in his house.

Then he called my father.

I sat on the floor of the living room while he spoke in rapid Arabic, telling my father everything.

That I had been removing my hijab.

That I had been wearing inappropriate clothes.

That I had been socializing with non-Muslims.

That I was out of control.

My father’s voice came through the the phone speaker.

Loud and angry.

He wanted to speak to me.

I took the phone with shaking hands.

My father didn’t shout.

His voice was cold, which was somehow worse.

He said, “I had one choice.

Come home immediately right now and get married like I was supposed to or be completely cut off from the family, disowned, dead to them.

You’re not my daughter if you continue this path.

” He said, “I should have apologized.

I should have begged for forgiveness.

I should have promised to do better.

But I didn’t.

Then I’m not your daughter, I said.

The words came out before I could stop them.

And once they were out, I couldn’t take them back.

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

Then my father spoke again, his voice hard.

You are dead to us.

Don’t ever contact this family again.

He hung up.

I sat there holding the phone, my whole body numb.

My father’s cousin was staring at me in shock like his wife and daughters looked horrified.

You need to leave this house, he said.

Tonight, now I will not have you here bringing this shame into my home.

So I left.

I packed my two suitcases.

I took the few pounds I had saved from my student allowance.

I walked out of that house at 11:00 at night in London with nowhere to go.

I had just lost my family, my country, my identity, everything I had ever known.

I sat on a bench outside a closed shop and cried, not quiet crying this time.

I sobbed.

I sobbed so hard I thought I might break into pieces.

I had wanted freedom.

I had gotten it.

But the price was everything.

I called Aisha.

Even though it was late, even though I had no right to ask, she answered on the second ring.

I could barely speak through the tears.

But I managed to tell her what happened.

Aa, say where you are, she said.

I’m coming to get you.

30 minutes later, she pulled up in her car.

She helped me put my suitcases in the trunk.

She didn’t ask questions.

She just drove.

She took me to her flat.

She lived with two other girls, all students.

They made space for me on the couch.

They gave me tea and blankets and didn’t make me explain anything.

I slept that night on a stranger’s couch, completely alone in the world.

And somehow, despite everything, I felt lighter than I had in years.

The cage was broken.

I had no family, no home, no safety net, but I was free.

I lived on Aisha’s couch for 3 weeks.

Her flatmates were kind to me, but I could see the strain.

Three of them in a small twobedroom flat, and now me taking up their living room with my suitcases and my mess.

I tried to be invisible.

I tried to take up as little space as possible, but I was still there, still an extra person in a place that was already too small.

During the day, I went to classes.

I kept going to university like nothing had changed.

Even though everything had changed, I sat in lectures about marketing strategies and business models and I took notes like I had a future planned out.

But really, I was just going through the motions.

My mind was somewhere else trying to figure out what I was going to do with my life.

At night, I would lie on that couch and think about my family.

I wondered if my mother was sad.

I wondered if my brothers talked about me.

I wondered if they really meant it when they said I was dead to them.

I tried calling my mother once using a different number I borrowed from one of Aisha’s flatmates or someone answered.

I think it was my oldest brother.

And when I said hello, there was just silence.

Then he hung up.

I didn’t try again.

The grief came in waves.

Sometimes I would be fine going about my day.

And then suddenly I would remember my mother’s face or the sound of my youngest brother’s laugh.

And the pain would hit me so hard I couldn’t breathe.

I cried a lot those first few weeks.

Quietly with my face pressed into the pillow so no one would hear.

I grieved for people who were still alive but might as well have been dead to me.

But mixed in with the grief was something else.

Something I hadn’t expected.

Relief.

I was free.

Actually free.

No one was monitoring me anymore.

No one was checking my phone or telling me what to wear or where I could go.

No video calls to my father.

No lying about where I was, no double life.

I could just be.

It was terrifying and wonderful at the same time.

I needed to find a place to live.

I couldn’t stay on Aisha’s couch forever.

But I had no money beyond my student loan, which barely covered my tuition and books.

I needed a job.

Aisha helped me update my CV.

She helped me practice and interview questions.

She drove me to job interviews at cafes and retail stores.

I applied to 20 places, maybe more.

Most of them said no.

Some never responded.

A few told me I didn’t have enough experience or my schedule didn’t work for them.

But finally, a small boutique clothing store near campus said yes.

part-time, minimum wage, mostly weekends and evenings.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

My first day of work felt significant in a way that’s hard to explain.

I was helping customers, folding clothes, running the register, done simple tasks.

But I was earning money, my own money, money that no man had given me or controlled.

money I earned because of my own work.

I thought about my mother who had never worked a day in her life, who had to ask my father for money anytime she needed anything, who didn’t even have her own bank account.

I was 20 years old and working in a shop, and it felt like the most powerful thing I had ever done.

Finding a place to live was harder.

With my small income from the shop and my student loan, I couldn’t afford much.

Rents in London were insane.

Even rooms in shared flats cost more than I could manage.

Aisha suggested I look into housing for vulnerable women.

There were organizations that helped women escaping difficult situations.

Women like me.

I didn’t want to think of myself as vulnerable.

own.

I wanted to think of myself as strong, as someone who had made a choice and was handling it.

But the truth was, I was vulnerable.

I had no family support, no savings, no backup plan.

I was one missed paycheck away from being on the street.

So, I went to a women’s or organization that Aisha found online.

I sat in a small office with a kind woman named Sarah who asked me about my situation.

I told her the short virgin that I had left my family because of religious and cultural differences that I was cut off financially that I was a student trying to support myself.

She didn’t ask for all the details.

She didn’t judge.

She just listened and took notes.

Two weeks later she called me.

They had a room available in a shared house with three other women.

The all of them were in similar situations.

Women who had left difficult families or relationships and were rebuilding their lives.

The rent was subsidized.

I could afford it.

I moved in the next week.

The house was in North London, about 40 minutes from my university by tube.

It was old and a bit rundown with creaky floors and temperamental heating.

My room was small, just enough space for a single bed, a desk, and a small wardrobe.

But it was mine, my own space, my own door that I could close.

I sat on the bed that first night and looked around at the blank walls, the bare floor, the single window that looked out onto the street.

I had left a big house in Riyad with a courtyard and servants and everything I could need.

Now I was in a tiny room in a shared house in a foreign city, and I was happier than I had ever been.

The other women in the house became something like family.

There was Maria from the Philippines who had left her abusive husband.

She was quiet and gentle, always cooking food for everyone and making sure we were okay.

There was Yuki from Japan who had come to London to study and ended up estranged from her traditional family when she came out as gay.

She was funny and sarcastic and taught me how to do makeup.

And there was Fatima, a Kurdish woman from Iraq who had fled an arranged marriage and was now studying to be a nurse.

She was tough and loud and fiercely protective of all of us.

None of them judged me for leaving my family.

They understood.

They had all done the same thing in different ways.

We would sit in the kitchen late at night drinking tea and talking about our lives.

They told me their stories and I told them mine.

And we cried together.

We laughed together.

We celebrated small victories together.

Someone passing an exam, someone getting a job, someone making it through a hard day without falling apart.

They were the family I chose and they chose me back.

University continued.

I changed my major.

Business administration felt too connected to the life I was supposed to have.

Coming back to Saudi Arabia, working for my father’s company or my husband’s company, being the educated woman who still did what she was told.

I didn’t want that anymore.

I switched to fashion and media studies.

It was impractical.

It wouldn’t lead to a stable career, but it was what I actually wanted.

It was my dream, the one I had hidden under my mattress in that magazine all those years ago.

I started learning about fashion design, about styling, about the business of beauty.

Um, I took classes in photography and media.

I started a small Instagram account where I posted photos of outfits I put together from charity shops and cheap high street stores.

I wasn’t trying to become an influencer.

I was just expressing myself, showing that I existed, that I was a woman with a face and a style and something to say.

The account grew slowly.

a few dozen followers, then a few hundred.

People started commenting, mostly positive, some negative.

I got messages from other Arab and Muslim women asking how I had the courage to show my face and hair.

I got messages from Muslim men calling me a and a traitor.

I blocked the hateful ones.

I responded to the kind ones and I kept posting.

I was learning something important.

I could be seen.

I could be visible.

And the world wouldn’t end.

But freedom was complicated.

I was free to wear what I wanted, but I didn’t know what I wanted to wear.

I had spent 20 years being told exactly what to put on my body.

Now I had to figure it out for myself.

I was free to talk to whoever I wanted, but I didn’t know how to read social cues.

I didn’t understand British humor.

I didn’t know when someone was flirting with me versus just being friendly.

I was free to make my own choices.

But I had no framework for making choices.

Every decision felt huge.

What should I eat? Where should I go? What should I study? Who should I trust? I made mistakes, a lot of mistakes.

I trusted people I shouldn’t have trusted.

I went to parties where I felt completely out of place.

I tried drinking alcohol for the first time and hated it, but forced myself to finish the drink because I thought that’s what you did.

I dated a guy from my class who seemed nice but turned out to just want sex.

And when I wasn’t ready, he called me a tease and stopped talking to me.

The Western world I had dreamed about wasn’t quite what I thought it would be.

It had its own problems, its own ways of objectifying women, its own ways of making you feel like you weren’t enough.

But at least here I had choices.

I could say no.

I could walk away.

I could change my mind.

That was everything.

About 6 months after I left my family, I did something I had always wanted to do but never thought I could.

I entered a beauty pageant.

It was a small one.

Miss South Asian UK or something like that.

Nothing huge, nothing that would make me famous, but it was a pageant.

A real pageant where you got to wear an evening gown and walk on stage and be judged on your beauty and your poise.

When I saw the advertisement for it online, I stared at it for a long time.

This was my childhood dream.

the magazine under my mattress, the poses in the mirror, the secret fantasy that I would one day be the kind of woman who was celebrated for being beautiful instead of hidden.

I almost didn’t apply.

The voice in my head, the one that sounded like my father, like my teachers, like everyone from my old life, told me I shouldn’t, that it was immodest, that it was shameful, that good women don’t parade themselves on stage.

But I applied anyway.

I filled out the form.

I submitted photos.

I paid the entry fee with money from my shop job.

and I got accepted.

The day of the pageant, I was terrified.

I had never been on stage before.

I had never worn an evening gown before.

I had never done my hair and makeup like that before.

Uh, Yuki helped me get ready.

She did my makeup, not too much, but enough to make my eyes stand out and my lips look full and red.

She helped me style my hair and loose curls.

She zipped up my dress, a simple navy blue gown I had bought on sale.

Nothing fancy, but it made me feel beautiful.

When I walked out on that stage, my heart was pounding so hard I thought everyone could hear it.

The lights were bright.

The audience was dark.

I couldn’t see their faces, just shapes.

But I walked.

I smiled.

I posed like I had practiced in my mirror all those years ago.

I didn’t win.

I didn’t even place in the top five.

But I did it.

I actually did it.

And when I walked off that stage, I felt like I had won something bigger than a crown.

I had won the right to be seen, the right to be myself.

But even with all this freedom, even with all these new experiences, there was still something missing.

I was free from the cage.

But I didn’t know what I was free for.

During the days, I was busy.

Classes, work, friends, exploring London.

I was constantly moving, constantly doing, constantly trying new things.

But at night, alone in my small room, the emptiness would come.

I would lie in bed and feel this void inside me.

This sense that there had to be more to life than just doing whatever I wanted, more than just experiences and fun and living for myself.

I had spent my whole life following Islam’s rules, praying five times a day, fasting, covering myself, living in fear of Allah’s punishment.

Islam gave structure to my life.

Even if it was oppressive structure, now I had no structure, no rules, no higher purpose.

I tried not to think about God.

K.

Thinking about God brought up too much pain, too much confusion.

If God was real, why did he make me a woman in a place where women were treated like property? If God was real, why were his rules so cruel? If God loved me, why did following him feel like dying? I decided I didn’t believe in God anymore.

Or if he existed, I didn’t want anything to do with him.

But the emptiness remained.

I watched my housemates.

Fatima still prayed, still identified as Muslim even though she had left her arranged marriage.

She found a way to keep her faith while rejecting the parts that hurt her.

Maria went to a Catholic church sometimes.

She said praying helped her feel less alone.

Even Yuki, who didn’t follow any religion, seemed to have some sense of purpose.

She volunteered at an LGBTQ youth center.

She said helping others gave her life meaning had nothing, just myself, just my freedom.

And it felt hollow.

I tried to fill the void with different things.

I went out more.

I partied.

I tried to date.

I bought clothes I didn’t need.

I scrolled through social media for hours, but nothing filled it.

I was free, but I wasn’t fulfilled.

I had escaped one cage, but was I just in a different kind of prison, a a prison of purposelessness I didn’t know, and I didn’t know where to find the answers.

Then one day about eight months after I left my family, something happened that would change everything.

I was at work at the boutique helping a customer find a dress.

She was a woman in her 50s, well-dressed, kind face.

We got to chatting while I was ringing up her purchase.

She asked where I was from.

I told her Saudi Arabia.

She asked how I was finding London.

I said I loved it, that it was very different from home.

She smiled at me in this warm way and said something I didn’t expect.

You have a beautiful light in you.

I can see you’ve been through difficult things, but you’re still standing.

That takes strength.

I didn’t know what to say.

No one had ever said anything like that to me before.

Then she said, “If you ever need someone to talk to, or if you’re looking for community, my church has a group for young women.

We meet every Thursday.

You’d be welcome.

” She handed me a card with the church’s name and address on it.

I took it politely and thanked her, but inside I was thinking, “No way, church.

” I left one oppressive religion.

Why would I join another one? I put the card in my pocket and forgot about it.

But over the next few weeks, I kept finding that card.

It was in my jacket pocket when I was looking for my Oyster card.

It fell out of my bag when I was looking for a pen.

It was there constantly there like it was following me.

And that emptiness inside me kept growing.

One Thursday evening, I had nothing to do.

My housemates were all busy.

I had finished my coursework.

I was sitting in my room feeling that hollow feeling again.

And I thought about that card.

Maybe I would just go once just to see, just to have something to do.

I told myself it didn’t mean anything.

I was just curious.

I wasn’t converting to Christianity or anything crazy like that.

I was just a lonely girl looking for community.

So, I took the tube to the address on the card.

It was a small church in West London.

Nothing fancy, just a regular building with a cross on top.

I stood outside for probably 10 minutes uh debating whether to go in.

I felt stupid.

I felt like I was betraying something, though I wasn’t sure what, but I was tired of being alone.

So, I walked in.

The women’s group was meeting in a small room in the church basement.

There were maybe 12 women there, all different ages, different backgrounds.

Some were British, some were from other countries.

One was wearing a hijab, which surprised me.

The woman from the boutique, her name was Margaret, saw me come in and her face lit up.

She came over and welcomed me, introduced me to the others, got me tea and biscuits.

Everyone was kind.

No one asked me too many questions.

They were just studying the Bible together, reading some passage and discussing what it meant.

I sat in the back and listened.

They were reading about a woman in the Bible named Mary Magdalene or I had heard of her before.

In Islam, we were taught that Christians worship Mary and that it’s wrong to worship anyone but God.

But that’s not what they were talking about.

They were talking about how Mary Magdalene was one of Jesus’s followers.

How she had been possessed by demons and Jesus had freed her.

How she stayed with Jesus even when the male disciples ran away.

How she was the first person to see Jesus after he rose from the dead.

One of the women said, “Jesus trusted women to be witnesses.

In a time when women’s testimony wasn’t valued, he appeared to a woman first and told her to go tell the others.

He honored women.

” Something stirred in me when she said that.

I thought about how in Islam a woman’s testimony is worth half of a man’s testimony.

How women can’t be leaders in prayer.

Like how we are told, we’re deficient in intelligence and religion.

But here was a story about Jesus choosing a woman to be the first witness of the most important event in Christianity.

Trusting her, honoring her.

I didn’t believe it.

Not yet.

But I wanted to hear more.

When the meeting ended, Margaret asked if I wanted to come back next week.

I said maybe trying to sound non-committal.

But I knew I would come back because for the first time since I left my family, I had felt something other than emptiness.

I had felt possibility.

I kept going back to that women’s group.

Every Thursday evening, I would take the tube to West London and sit in that church basement with those women, drinking tea and listening to them talk about Jesus.

I told myself I was just going for the community, for the friendship, for something to do on Thursday nights.

Uh, I didn’t tell anyone I was going.

Not my housemates, not Aisha, not anyone.

It felt like a secret, almost like I was doing something wrong.

Or maybe I was just embarrassed.

What would people think if they knew I was going to church? But the truth was, I kept going because something in those meetings spoke to the emptiness inside me.

These women had something I didn’t have.

Peace, maybe, or a purpose.

They seemed to genuinely believe that someone loved them, that their lives had meaning, that they weren’t just drifting through existence.

I wanted that.

I didn’t know if I believed it yet, but I wanted it.

The more I attended, the more questions I had.

I had been taught things about Christianity in Saudi Arabia.

We learned that Christians believe in three gods, father, son, and holy spirit and that this is sherk uh the unforgivable sin of associating partners with Allah.

We learned that Christians worship Jesus and Mary.

We learned that the Bible has been corrupted and can’t be trusted.

We learned that Christians are misguided people who will go to hell unless they accept Islam.

But these Christians I was meeting didn’t seem misguided.

They seemed confident in what they believed.

They talked about Jesus like he was real, like he was present with them, like he loved them personally.

One evening after the meeting, I stayed behind to help Margaret clean up.

We were washing teacups in the small kitchen and I finally asked her the question that had been bothering me.

Why do you believe Jesus is God? How can God be a man? Margaret didn’t seem surprised by the question.

She dried a cup slowly, thinking about her answer.

“It’s a mystery,” she said finally.

I won’t pretend to fully understand it, but I believe God loved us so much that he came down to our level.

He didn’t stay distant and unreachable.

He became one of us so he could show us what he’s like and so he could save us.

But that doesn’t make sense.

I said God is supposed to be all powerful.

Why would he need to become a man? Why would he let himself be killed? Because love requires sacrifice, Margaret said.

She looked at me with those kind eyes.

The greatest love is when someone lays down their life for their friends.

Jesus did that.

He chose to die for us.

Not because he was weak, but because he loved us that much.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

It was so different from everything I had been taught.

In Islam, God is distant, powerful to be feared.

You submit to him because you have to because he’s God and you’re nothing.

The idea that God would love humans so much that he would become one of them and die for them, it seemed impossible, but it also seemed beautiful.

I started reading the Bible on my own.

Margaret gave me a copy, a modern English translation that was easy to understand.

I would read it at night in my room, hiding it under my pillow like I used to hide that fashion magazine.

I started with the Gospels, uh, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, the stories of Jesus’s life.

What struck me immediately was how different Jesus was from what I expected.

I thought he would be stern and judgmental.

But instead, he was kind.

He spent time with outcasts, prostitutes, tax collectors, lepers, the poor.

He touched people who were considered unclean.

He forgave people who didn’t deserve forgiveness.

uh and the way he treated women amazed me.

There was a story about a woman caught in adultery.

The religious leaders brought her to Jesus, ready to stone her to death as the law required.

They asked Jesus what he thought they should do.

And Jesus said something I never forgot.

Let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone.

One by one, the men dropped their stones and walked away.

And Jesus told the woman, “Ai, don’t condemn you.

Go and sin no more.

” He didn’t condemn her.

He defended her.

He saved her life.

There was another story about a woman who had been bleeding for 12 years.

In that culture, bleeding made you unclean.

No one could touch you.

You were isolated.

But this woman pushed through a crowd and touched Jesus’s cloak, believing it would heal her.

And it did.

Jesus stopped and called her daughter and told her that her faith had healed her.

He called her daughter.

I read story after story of Jesus honoring women, teaching women, healing women, including women among his followers in a time and place where women women were considered property.

He treated them like people, like they mattered, like they had value.

I thought about my life in Saudi Arabia, about how I was treated, about how I was told that God Allah valued men more than women, that men get twice the inheritance, that a man’s testimony is worth twice a woman’s.

That men can marry four wives, but women can only have one husband.

That men can divorce easily, but women can’t.

That paradise is full of beautiful virgins for men.

But what do women get? And here was Jesus treating women with dignity and respect.

Not because they earned it.

Uh but because they were human beings made in God’s image.

I didn’t believe yet, but I wanted to believe.

My Instagram account was growing.

I had a few thousand followers now.

mostly young women, some Muslim, some ex-Muslim, some just interested in fashion and beauty.

I started posting more personal content, not just outfits, but thoughts, reflections on my journey, what it was like leaving Saudi Arabia, what it was like finding freedom.

The response was overwhelming.

I got hundreds of messages from women in similar situations.

Women trapped in conservative families who dreamed of leaving.

Women who had left and were struggling to rebuild their lives.

Women who wanted to know how I found the courage to walk away.

I also got hate, a lot of hate.

Muslim men sent me messages calling me a a traitor, an apostate.

Uh they said I deserve to die.

They said I was corrupting other Muslim women.

They said Allah would punish me.

Some of the messages were specific threats.

People saying they knew where I lived, that they would find me, that they would make me pay.

I was scared, but I didn’t stop posting.

I wouldn’t be silenced again.

I started speaking at small events, nothing big, just university panels about women’s rights or community gatherings about religious freedom.

I would tell my story in brief form, where I came from, why I left, what I discovered about freedom.

People responded.

After every talk, women would come up to me, Muslim women mostly, and thank me for being brave enough to speak out.

Some of them cried.

Some of them told me they wished they could leave, but didn’t know how.

Some of them just wanted to know they weren’t alone.

Uh, I realized my story had power.

Not because I was special, but because it was real.

And there were thousands of women, living virgins of my story.

But most of them were still trapped.

If I could give them hope, if I could show them that escape was possible, then maybe all the pain I went through had a purpose.

But success in the outside world didn’t fill the void inside me.

I was doing well at university.

My Instagram was growing.

I had friends and a job and my own place to live.

I was even starting to get small paid modeling opportunities.

Nothing major, but enough to make me feel like my dream was becoming real.

On paper, my life looked good.

I was the success story, the girl who escaped and made it.

But at night, alone with myself, I still felt empty.

I tried dating more seriously.

I thought maybe a relationship would fill the void.

Uh, I dated a few different guys, mostly British, mostly white, mostly completely confused about my background and my culture.

One of them was genuinely nice.

His name was James.

He was studying engineering at my university.

We dated for about two months.

He took me to nice restaurants.

We went to museums and movies.

He told me I was beautiful and interesting and strong.

But I didn’t feel anything or I felt something, but it wasn’t enough.

I kept waiting to fall in love, to feel that spark that would make everything make sense, but it never came.

When I broke up with him, he asked why.

I didn’t know how to explain it.

How could I tell him that I was looking for something that he couldn’t give me? That I was looking for meaning and purpose and wholeness and romance wasn’t the answer.

So, I just said it wasn’t working.

Uh that I wasn’t ready for a serious relationship.

He was hurt but accepted it and I went back to being alone.

I kept going to the Thursday women’s group.

By now, I had been attending for about four months.

I knew everyone’s names.

I joined in the discussions more.

I even started praying with them sometimes, though I wasn’t sure who I was praying to.

One evening, the topic was about God’s love.

They were reading from the book of Romans, chapter 8.

One of the women read aloud,”For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Nothing can separate us from God’s love.

” Uh, I thought about all the things I had been taught separated me from God’s love.

Being a woman, removing my hijab, leaving Islam, questioning, doubting, disobeying.

But this verse said, nothing could separate me from God’s love if I was in Christ Jesus.

What does that mean? I asked.

Being in Christ Jesus, Margaret smiled at me.

It means accepting that Jesus died for you, that his death paid for your sins, that you’re forgiven not because of anything you did, but because of what he did.

And when you believe that, when you accept that, you’re united with him.

You’re in him, and nothing can take that away.

But I’ve done so many things wrong, I said.

My voice was shaking.

I left my family.

I rejected my religion.

I’ve been living for myself.

Why would God love me? Because love isn’t based on what you do.

Another woman said gently.

Then her name was Joy and she was from Nigeria.

It’s based on who God is.

He loves you because he made you, because you’re his child, not because you earned it.

I felt tears starting.

I tried to hold them back, but I couldn’t.

In Islam, I was taught that God’s love beer has to be earned.

I said that you have to follow all the rules perfectly.

That you’re never good enough.

That you’re always one sin away from hell.

I’m so tired of trying to be good enough.

You don’t have to be good enough, Margaret said.

She moved closer and put her hand on my arm.

That’s the whole point of Jesus.

We can’t be good enough.

We’re all sinners.

We all fall short.

But Jesus was good enough for us.

And when we accept his sacrifice, his goodness becomes ours.

We are made righteous not by our works but by his grace.

Grace.

That word again.

I had heard it so many times in these meetings, but I was starting to understand what it meant.

Grace meant unearned favor, undeserved love, getting something good that you didn’t work for, the opposite of Islam, the opposite of everything I was taught.

I cried that night in the church basement, surrounded by these women who barely knew me but love me anyway.

I cried for the girl who grew up thinking she was never good enough.

I cried for the woman who was tired of trying to earn love.

I cried for all the years I spent afraid of a god who I thought hated me.

And somewhere in those tears, something began to shift.

I started attending Sunday services at the church.

Not just the Thursday women’s group, but the actual church service with the whole congregation.

It was intimidating at first.

Well, there were hundreds of people there.

All kinds of people, young and old, different races, different backgrounds.

Some dressed formally, some in jeans and t-shirts, families with children, young professionals, elderly couples, everyone mixed together.

The worship was different from anything I’d experienced.

In mosques, everyone prays the same way, facing the same direction, following the same movements.

It’s uniform and regimented.

But here people worshiped differently.

Some raised their hands, some stood still, some closed their eyes, some smiled, some cried.

It was personal, individual.

And the songs, the worship songs, they were about love, about grace, about Jesus’s sacrifice, about being forgiven and redeemed and made new.

I stood in the middle of that crowd listening to hundreds of voices singing about God’s love.

Oh, and I felt something I had never felt in a mosque.

I felt welcomed.

The sermons were different, too.

The pastor didn’t shout or threaten.

He taught from the Bible, explaining what it meant, applying it to real life.

He talked about struggles and doubts and failures.

He was honest about his own weaknesses.

And he always came back to Jesus, to the cross, to the fact that Jesus died for sinners, that his love was unconditional, that his grace was sufficient.

Every week I learned something new about who Jesus was, about what he taught, about how Christianity was not just a religion but a relationship with God.

I was still skeptical, still questioning, still afraid to fully believe.

But I couldn’t deny that something was happening in my heart.

One Sunday, the pastor preached about the prodigal son.

Well, it’s a parable.

Jesus told about a son who demanded his inheritance early, left home, wasted all his money on wild living and ended up broke and desperate.

Finally, he decided to go home and beg his father to hire him as a servant.

But when the father saw his son coming from far away, he ran to him.

Ran.

He didn’t wait for an apology.

He didn’t lecture him.

He didn’t make him prove he was sorry.

He just ran to him and threw his arms around him and kissed him.

And then he threw a party.

He gave his son the best robe, a ring, sandals.

He killed the fattened cuff.

He celebrated because his son who was lost had been found.

His son who was dead was alive again.

The pastor said, “That’s what God is like.

that when we come back to him, no matter what we’ve done, he runs to us.

He doesn’t condemn us.

He celebrates us.

I sat in that pew and I thought about my father.

How when I left, he said I was dead to him.

How there was no mercy, no forgiveness, no way back.

And I thought about my heavenly father if he existed.

Would he reject me too or would he run to me? I wanted to believe he would run to me.

I wanted to believe I could be forgiven.

I wanted to believe I could come home, but I was still afraid.

That week, I finally told Aisha I had been going to church.

We were having coffee after class and she was talking about something and I wasn’t really listening because my mind was on the Sunday sermon on the prodigal son on the question of whether God could really love me.

Are you okay? Aisha asked noticing I was distracted.

I hesitated then I decided to just say it.

I’ve been going to church.

She looked surprised.

Church? Like as a Christian church? Yeah.

There was a pause.

I waited for her to tell me I was crazy, that I had escaped one religion just to fall into another, that I was betraying my culture.

But she didn’t say any of that.

How’s it been? She asked.

confusing, I admitted, but also good.

I don’t know.

I’m still figuring it out.

Aisha nodded slowly.

I get it.

After everything you’ve been through, it makes sense you’d be searching for something.

Does it bother you? I asked.

That I’m exploring Christianity? She shook her head.

You have to find your own path.

I’m not going to judge you for that.

I’m still Muslim, but I’m not the kind of Muslim who thinks everyone has to believe the same things I believe.

I felt relieved.

I hadn’t realized how much I needed her acceptance until I got it.

I don’t know if I believe it yet, I said.

The Christian stuff, I mean, it seems too good to be true.

Like the idea that God loves me no matter what I’ve done.

That seems impossible.

Maybe it’s not.

Aisha said, “Maybe that’s exactly what you need to hear right now.

” She was right.

It was exactly what I needed to hear.

The question was, could I believe it? I started meeting with Margaret outside of the Thursday group and Sunday services.

She became something like a mentor to me.

We would meet for coffee or lunch but and I would ask her all my questions about Christianity.

I had so many questions.

If Jesus is God, why did he pray? Who was he praying to? If God is all powerful, why did he let evil exist? If Christianity is true, what happens to people who never heard about Jesus? How can you trust the Bible when it’s been translated so many times? What about all the different denominations? How do you know which one is right? Margaret never seemed frustrated by my questions.

She answered what she could, and when she didn’t know the answer, she said so.

She gave me books to read.

She introduced me to other people at the church who could help.

But mostly she just pointed me back to Jesus.

Don’t get lost in all the theological debates.

She said once, “Start with Jesus.

Read his words.

Look at his life.

See how he treated people.

What ask yourself if he seems like someone worth following.

Everything else can come later.

” So that’s what I did.

I focused on Jesus.

I I I read the sermon on the mount where Jesus taught about being merciful and pure in heart and making peace.

I read about Jesus feeding the 5000.

I read about Jesus healing the sick.

I read about Jesus raising the dead.

And I read about Jesus dying on the cross.

That part was hard.

In Islam, we’re taught that Jesus didn’t actually die on the cross.

that Allah wouldn’t let his prophet be humiliated like that, that someone else died in his place.

But Christians believe Jesus really died, that he suffered, that he was tortured and humiliated and killed, and they believe he chose it, that he could have called down angels to save him, but he didn’t.

He chose to die.

Why? Uh Margaret explained it to me using an analogy.

She said, “Imagine you committed a serious crime and were going to be executed for it, but then someone else, someone innocent who loved you, stepped forward and said they would take your place.

They would die instead of you.

” That’s what Jesus did for us.

She said, “We all deserve punishment for our sins.

We all deserve death.

But Jesus took our place.

He died the death we deserved so we could live.

It was a beautiful idea.

But it was also hard to accept because if Jesus died for me, that meant I was worth dying for.

And I had spent my whole life believing I wasn’t worth anything.

About six months into my church attendance, there was a baptism service.

Several people from the church were getting getting baptized declaring publicly that they had decided to follow Jesus.

But I watched them go into the water one by one.

The pastor would say something about their story about their decision to follow Jesus and then he would baptize them in the name of the father, son, and holy spirit.

When they came up out of the water, everyone cheered.

One of the people being baptized was a woman from the Middle East.

I didn’t know her well, but I knew she was from a Muslim background like me.

She stood in the water and she said, “I was looking for love in all the wrong places, but I found it in Jesus.

He loves me completely and I’m never letting go of that love.

” Then she went under the water and came back up behind, tears streaming down her face, smiling so big.

I wanted that.

I wanted that joy, that certainty, that love.

But I was terrified because getting baptized would mean I really was leaving Islam.

Not just culturally, but spiritually.

It would mean I believed Jesus is God, that he died for me, that I was a Christian, and apostasy, leaving Islam, is punishable by death according to Islamic law.

If I got baptized and my family found out, they would consider me truly lost, beyond saving.

I was already cut off from them.

But this would be final, permanent.

There would be no going back.

Could I do it? Could I make that choice? I didn’t know.

Not yet.

I spent the next few weeks wrestling with the decision.

Every time I went to church, every time I read the Bible, every time I prayed, and yes, I was praying now, though I still wasn’t sure who I was praying to, I felt pulled in two directions.

One part of me wanted to surrender, to accept Jesus, to be baptized, to finally have that relationship with God that everyone kept talking about.

Uh, but another part of me was afraid, afraid of making a mistake, afraid of being deceived again, afraid of the consequences.

What if Christianity wasn’t true? What if I was just emotionally vulnerable and these Christians were manipulating me? What if I converted and then regretted it? And what about my family? Yes, they had disowned me.

Yes, they considered me dead.

But getting baptized would make it official.

There would be no possibility of reconciliation ever.

They would know for certain that I had become an apostate.

Could I live with that? I started reading the Quran again, not because I wanted to go back to Islam, but because I needed to be sure I was making the right choice.

I needed to compare what I had been taught with what I was learning about Christianity.

I read the verses about women, about how men are in charge of women, uh, about how a man can hit his wife if he fears disobedience, about how men can marry up to four wives, about how a woman’s inheritance is half a man’s.

About how a woman’s testimony is worth half a man’s.

I read the verses about non-believers.

about how Jews and Christians are misguided.

About how those who don’t accept Islam will burn in hell forever.

About jihad, about fighting until all religion is for Allah.

I read the verses about apostasy, about how those who leave Islam should be killed.

And I compared them to what Jesus said.

Jesus said to love your enemies, to pray for those who persecute you, to turn the other cheek, to forgive 70 times seven times.

Jesus said that everyone who believes in him will have eternal life.

Not because of their works, but because of his sacrifice.

Jesus said, “Come to me, o all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

” The more I read both books side by side, the clearer it became.

Islam offered me rules, fear, and conditional acceptance.

Christianity offered me grace, love, and unconditional acceptance.

Islam told me I was deficient because I was a woman.

Christianity told me I was made in God’s image and loved completely.

Islam told me I had to earn my way to paradise through good good works.

Christianity told me paradise was a free gift I couldn’t earn.

The choice became obvious.

But there was still one more hurdle, one more question I needed answered.

If Jesus was real, if he really loved me, I needed to experience him for myself, not just read about him, not just hear other people’s stories.

I needed my own encounter.

So, I prayed, really prayed, not the ritual prayers I learned in Islam, like but a real conversation.

I was in my room late at night sitting on my bed and I just talked out loud.

Jesus, if you’re real, I need to know.

I need you to show me.

I’ve left everything.

My family, my country, my religion, I can’t afford to be wrong about this.

So, please, if you’re really the son of God, if you really died for me, if you really love me, show me.

Help me believe.

I didn’t hear a voice.

I didn’t see a vision.

Nothing dramatic happened.

But I felt something.

A warmth in my chest.

A peace that I can’t quite explain.

Like someone was there with me in that room.

Like I wasn’t alone.

And I had this sudden overwhelming sense that I was loved.

Deeply, completely, unconditionally loved.

I started crying.

Not sad tears, but tears of relief.

Like I had been holding my breath for years.

And finally, finally, I could breathe.

Uh I don’t know how long I cried.

But when I stopped, I knew Jesus was real.

He loved me and I was his.

I told Margaret the next day that I wanted to be baptized.

Uh we were having coffee and I just said it straight out.

I want to be baptized.

I want to follow Jesus.

I’m ready.

Her face lit up as she reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

Are you sure? She asked.

Do you understand what this means? Yes, I said.

It means I’m choosing Jesus.

It means I’m declaring publicly that I believe he died for me and rose again.

It means I’m a Christian now.

It also means you might face opposition, Margaret said gently.

From your community, from other Muslims.

Are you prepared for that? I’m already facing opposition, I said.

I already get death threats.

I am already disowned.

This won’t change that, but it will change me.

Then it will make it real.

Margaret nodded.

Then let’s talk to the pastor and set a date.

The baptism was scheduled for three weeks later.

In those three weeks, I met several times with the pastor and some church leaders.

They wanted to make sure I understood what I was doing, that I wasn’t being pressured, that I had counted the cost.

We talked about my testimony, my story of how I came to faith.

They encouraged me to write it down and share it at my baptism.

Writing my testimony was emotional.

I had to go back through my whole life growing up in Saudi Arabia.

The oppression, the escape, the emptiness, the search, the finding.

I wrote about how Islam taught me to fear God, but Jesus taught me to love him.

How Islam made me feel worthless but Jesus made me feel precious.

How Islam offered me rules but Jesus offered me relationship.

I wrote about the moment I prayed and felt his presence about how I knew without any doubt that he was real and that he loved me.

Reading it back to myself, I couldn’t believe this was my story.

that I had gone from a girl in an an abaya in Riyad to a woman about to be baptized in London.

God had brought me so far.

The day of my baptism, I was nervous, not because I doubted my decision, but because I was about to stand in front of hundreds of people and declare my faith publicly.

My housemates came to support me.

Aisha came even though she was still Muslim.

Some of my classmates came.

The women from the Thursday group were all there sitting in the front row.

I wore a simple white dress, white for new beginnings, white for purity, white for the clean slate I was receiving through Christ.

When it was my turn, Adi, I stepped into the baptismal pool.

The water was warm.

The pastor was standing there smiling at me.

He asked me to share my testimony.

I took a deep breath and spoke into the microphone.

My voice shaking a little at first but getting stronger.

I told them about Saudi Arabia, about being told I was less because I was a woman, about escaping to London, about the freedom that still felt empty, about finding the church, about reading the Bible and seeing how Jesus treated women with dignity and love.

About the night I prayed and felt God’s presence for the first time.

about how I knew without any doubt that Jesus was the way, the truth, and the life.

For so long, I was told I had to earn love.

I said that I had to be perfect to be accepted.

That I was never good enough.

But Jesus showed me that love is a gift.

Uh that I’m loved not because of what I do, but because of who I am, his child.

And that changes everything.

There were tears in the audience.

I could see Margaret crying.

Even Aisha had tears in her eyes.

Then the pastor asked me the questions.

Do you believe that Jesus Christ is the son of God? I do.

Do you believe that he died for your sins and rose again? I do.

Do you accept him as your Lord and Savior? I do.

Then I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

He put his hand on my back and lowered me into the water.

For a moment, I was completely submerged, completely under.

And in that moment, I felt all the old life washing away.

All the shame, all the fear, all the worthlessness, all the years of being told I wasn’t enough, gone.

Then he lifted me up out of the water.

I gasped.

Odd water streaming down my face.

My hair plastered to my head, and I felt new, clean, reborn.

The congregation erupted in applause and cheers.

I was crying and laughing at the same time.

The pastor hugged me.

Margaret was there with a towel, wrapping me up, crying with me.

“Welcome to the family,” she whispered.

“I was home.

Being baptized didn’t magically make all my problems disappear.

I still had struggles.

I still had doubts sometimes.

I still made mistakes.

But everything was different now because I knew I was loved.

When I messed up, I didn’t have to fear that God would reject me.

I could come to him and ask for forgiveness knowing he would give it.

When I felt lonely, I could pray and know that he was with me.

When I felt afraid, I could remember that nothing could separate me from his love.

Uh, I started learning what it meant to be a Christian.

Not just in belief, but in practice.

I learned about forgiveness, real forgiveness.

The pastor preached about how Jesus told us to forgive, not seven times, but 70 times.

Seven times to forgive as we have been forgiven.

That was hard because I had a lot of unforgiveness in my heart toward my father, toward my family, toward the culture that oppressed me, toward the religion that taught me I was less.

But I started praying for them, actually praying for them, asking God to open their eyes, to help them see his love, to set them free from the bondage I had been in.

It didn’t happen overnight.

Forgiveness is a process, but slowly the bitterness started to loosen its grip.

I also learned about grace, extending to others the same grace God had extended to me.

I thought about all the people who had hurt me and I realized they were trapped too.

My father was trapped in a system that taught him women were property.

My mother was trapped in a life where she had no voice.

The religious leaders were trapped in a rigid interpretation of Islam that left no room for love or mercy.

They weren’t free.

They were just as much prisoners as I had been.

And Jesus died for them, too.

That realization changed how I saw them.

I could hate what they did without hating them.

I could reject their beliefs without rejecting their humanity.

My relationship with my church family deepened.

These people became my real family.

The family I chose and who chose me back.

When I was sick, they brought me soup.

When I was struggling with coursework, they helped me study.

When I was sad, they sat with me.

Oh my.

When I celebrated something good, they celebrated with me.

This was what family was supposed to be, not control and obligation, but love and support.

I also started serving in the church.

I joined the hospitality team, helping welcome new visitors.

I knew what it felt like to walk into a church for the first time, nervous and uncertain.

So I made sure to greet people warmly to make them feel seen and valued.

I also started helping with the international students ministry, reaching out to other students from Muslim backgrounds who were exploring Christianity.

I could relate to their questions, their fears, their struggles.

I could share my story and help them see that it was possible to leave Islam and find real peace in Jesus.

This became my passion, helping other women who were trapped like I had been.

My Instagram continued to grow.

Uh, I was posting regularly about my faith now, pictures of me at church, Bible verses that meant something to me, reflections on my journey.

The response was mixed.

Some people celebrated with me.

Other ex-Muslims reached out to say my story gave them hope.

Christians thanked me for being brave enough to share.

But the hate increased, too.

I received more death threats, more messages calling me an apostate, a traitor, a People said I had sold out my culture for the West, that I was going to hell, that Allah would punish me.

Some of the messages were specific and frightening.

People claimed to know where I lived, threatened to find me, promised to make me pay.

I was scared sometimes.

I won’t pretend I wasn’t.

There were nights I doublech checked my locks and looked over my shoulder walking home from the tube.

But I refused to be silent.

Because for every hate message I received, I also received messages from women thanking me.

Women saying my story helped them.

women saying they were leaving Islam too because they saw that there was hope on the other side.

If my story could help even one woman find freedom, the risk was worth it.

I also started speaking more publicly, not just at small university panels, but at conferences, at churches, at events focused on religious freedom and women’s rights.

I would tell my story, the whole story, growing up in Saudi Arabia, the oppression, the escape, the search, finding Jesus, and I would speak directly about Islam, not with hate, but with truth.

I talked about the specific teachings that harmed women.

The verse that says men can strike their wives.

The law that says a woman’s testimony is worth half a man’s.

Uh the practice of child marriage, which Muhammad himself participated in when he married Aisha at age six.

I talked about the hypocrisy I witnessed.

Men who prayed a five times a day but were cruel to their wives.

Religious leaders who preached piety but lived in luxury.

A system that claimed to honor women but treated them like property.

I talked about the fear that per permeates Islam.

Fear of hell.

Fear of punishment.

Fear of doing something wrong.

living your whole life afraid of a God who seems more interested in judging you than loving you.

And then I would talk about Jesus, about how he set me free, how he showed me what God is really like.

Not a distant judge waiting to punish, but a loving father running to embrace his lost children.

How he died for me while I was still a sinner.

Not after I cleaned up my life, but while I was still a mess, I would end every talk with an invitation.

If you’re a Muslim woman who feels trapped, I want you to know there is hope here.

There is freedom.

There is love waiting for you in Jesus Christ.

I’m not asking you to leave your family or your country.

Though you may have to make hard choices, I’m asking you to open your heart to the possibility that Jesus is who he says he is, that he loves you, that he died for you, that he wants to set you free.

Read the Gospels for yourself.

Ask Jesus to reveal himself to you, and see what happens.

Some people walked out of these talks.

Some shouted at me, but others stayed.

Others cried.

Others came up afterward and asked how they could know more.

And some months or years later or would send me messages saying they had given their lives to Christ because of my testimony.

That made everything worth it.

About a year after my baptism, I was invited to speak at a gala in London.

It was a charity event raising money for women’s rights and they wanted me to share my story as part of the program.

This was a big event.

Hundreds of people, professional setting, formal dress.

I wore a red evening gown.

Red because I could wear red now.

Red because I was no longer hiding.

read because I was alive and free and unashamed.

I stood on that stage looking out at the crowd and I thought about the journey that brought me there from a girl in an abaya in Riyad to a woman on stage in London.

I shared my story, the usual parts, Saudi Arabia, oppression, escape, freedom, but I ended differently this time.

Oh, I looked out at all those faces and I said, “There’s someone I need to talk about.

Someone who changed my life.

His name is Jesus Christ.

He was killed and hung on the cross.

He died for you and me.

He died for every person in this room, regardless of what you believe or where you come from.

And I’m here today free and whole and loved because of him.

If you’re searching for meaning, if you’re searching for love, if you’re searching for freedom, come to Jesus now to be saved.

He’s waiting for you with open arms.

There was silence for a moment, then applause.

Not everyone agreed with me, I’m sure, but they let me speak my truth, and that was all I needed.

That moment on stage was six months ago.

Now I’m sitting in my flat in London, a different flat, a nicer one that I can actually afford now.

And I’m recording this video to share my full story with you.

A lot has happened in the two and a half years since I left Saudi Arabia.

A lot has happened in the year and a half since I gave my life to Christ.

I want to tell you what my life looks like now.

Not because it’s perfect, it’s not.

But because I want you to see what freedom looks like, what peace looks like, what real love looks like.

I wake up most mornings around 7.

The first thing I do is pray.

Not ritual prayer where I’m going through motions and reciting words I memorized, but actual conversation with God.

I tell him good morning.

I thank him for the new day.

I ask him to guide me.

Then I read my Bible.

Usually just a chapter or two.

Sometimes I read the Psalms.

Those ancient prayers and songs that express every human emotion.

Oh, from joy to despair.

Sometimes I read from the Gospels, spending time with Jesus.

Sometimes I read from Paul’s letters, learning about what it means to live as a Christian.

The Bible is alive to me now.

It’s not just a book of rules or a history text.

It’s God speaking to me.

Every time I read it, I find something new, something that applies to exactly what I’m going through.

It’s like God is writing me personal letters.

After that, I usually go for a walk.

London is beautiful in the morning.

I walk through the parks watching the city wake up and I pray some more.

I pray for my family even though they don’t speak to me.

I pray for other women in situations like I was in.

I pray for my church.

I pray for the people I’ll interact with that day.

Prayer isn’t a chore anymore.

It’s not something I do because I have to.

No, it’s something I do because I want to.

Because I know God hears me.

Because I know he cares.

I’m still at university finishing my degree in fashion and media studies.

I graduate in a few months.

I don’t know exactly what I’ll do after graduation, but I’m not worried.

God has taken care of me so far.

He’ll continue to take care of me.

My Instagram has grown to over 50,000 followers now.

It’s become a platform not just for fashion but for faith.

I post outfits, yes, but I also post Bible verses, reflections on my journey, encouragements for other women who are struggling.

I’ve had to be careful.

The death threats are real.

I’ve reported the worst ones to the police.

I’ve had to block thousands of accounts.

I’ve had to make my location settings private and be cautious about what I share.

But I won’t stop using my voice.

All right.

I get messages every single day from women around the world.

Women in Saudi Arabia, Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Egypt, Turkey.

Women who are trapped in situations like I was, women who are questioning Islam, women who want to know more about Jesus.

I respond to as many as I can.

I pray for them.

I point them to resources.

I connect them with safe churches or organizations that can help them if they decide to leave.

Some of them do leave.

Some of them come to faith in Christ.

And when they tell me their stories, when they send me pictures of their baptisms, I cry with joy.

This is my purpose now.

This is why God saved me.

Not just for my own freedom, but so I could help others find freedom, too.

I’m also involved in modeling more seriously.

Now, I’ve done some small campaigns, some runway shows, some photo shoots.

Nothing huge yet dare, but it’s growing.

For a long time, I thought wanting to be a model was vain, that it was shallow or selfish.

But I’ve realized it’s not about vanity.

It’s about using the gifts God gave me for his glory.

I am beautiful because God made me beautiful.

And I can use that beauty to point people to him.

I can stand on a stage or in front of a camera and represent women who look like me.

Arab women, Middle Eastern women, women from Muslim backgrounds and show the world that we are valuable, that we are worth seeing, that we are not just bodies to be hidden or controlled, but human beings made in God’s image.

Recently, I have started competing in pageantss again, bigger ones.

This time I placed in the top 10 in one competition.

I won mis congeniality in another.

But the crown I’m chasing isn’t made of rhinestones and metal.

The crown I’m chasing is eternal.

The crown that God promises to those who love him.

Still, I use these pageantss as platforms.

Every time I have a chance to speak, I talk about my faith.

I talk about Jesus.

I make it clear that my beauty, my worth, my value, none of it comes from how I look or what I accomplish.

It comes from being a daughter of the king.

My church family continues to be my anchor.

I see them multiple times a week.

Sunday service, Thursday women’s group, and various other gatherings throughout the week.

We celebrate together.

We mourn together.

We do life together.

When one woman in our group lost her job, we all helped her with rent until she found something new.

When another woman got engaged, we threw her a party.

When I was sick with the flu last winter, people brought me groceries and medicine and checked on me every day.

This is what the body of Christ is supposed to look like.

We’re not perfect.

We have disagreements sometimes.

We annoy each other sometimes, but we love each other.

And that love is real.

I’ve also started leading a small group for ex-Muslim women.

There are about eight of us who meet every other week.

We study the Bible together, pray together, and support each other through the unique challenges we face.

Because leaving Islam for Christ isn’t easy.

We all deal with guilt, with grief over lost families, with fear of threats and violence, with confusion about how to live as Christians when we’re still learning what that means.

But we don’t have to go through it alone.

We have each other and we have Jesus.

People ask me sometimes if I regret my decision, if I wish I had stayed in Saudi Arabia, followed the path that was laid out for me, kept the peace with my family.

The answer is no.

Not for a second.

Yes, I lost my family.

That pain is real and it doesn’t go away.

There are days I miss my mother so much it physically hurts.

There are days I wonder what my brothers are doing, if they ever think about me, if they miss me too.

But I gained so much more than I lost.

I gained freedom, the freedom to think for myself, to make my own choices, to be myself without apology.

I gained purpose.

My life has meaning now beyond just existing or serving others.

I have a mission to share the love of Jesus with others who need to hear it.

I gained peace, real peace, not the absence of problems, but the presence of God in the midst of problems.

I don’t have to be afraid anymore.

So, I don’t have to earn love anymore.

I don’t have to prove my worth anymore.

And I gained Jesus, the one who died for me, the one who loves me.

unconditionally.

The one who calls me his own.

How could I regret that? I still struggle sometimes.

I want to be honest about that.

I struggle with forgiveness.

Even though I pray for my family.

There are days I’m angry at them.

Angry at what they did to me.

Angry at what they continue to do to other girls in their care.

I struggle with fear.

The death threats are real.

The danger is real.

I’ve had to take precautions.

I’ve had to be careful.

I struggle with loneliness.

Even though I have my church family and friends, there are times I feel the weight of being cut off from my biological family, of not having that connection.

I struggle with doubt sometimes too.

Not doubt about Jesus.

I know he’s real.

So, but doubt about myself.

Wondering if I’m doing enough, if I’m living the way I should, if I’m making the right decisions.

But when those struggles come, I do what I’ve learned to do.

I pray.

I read the Bible.

I talk to my church family.

I remind myself of the truth.

The truth is that I’m loved.

Not because of what I do, but because of who I am, God’s child.

The truth is that nothing can separate me from God’s love in Christ Jesus.

The truth is that Jesus is with me always, even in the hard moments.

And that truth sets me free every single time.

Let me speak directly to some of you watching this.

If you’re a Muslim woman feeling trapped, whether you’re in Saudi Arabia or Iran or Pakistan or anywhere else, I want you to know something.

You are not alone.

You are not crazy for wanting more.

You are not wrong for questioning.

The doubts you have uh about Islam, they’re valid.

The questions you’re asking, they deserve answers.

You’ve been told that that a woman’s testimony is worth half a man’s testimony.

That’s not from God.

That’s from men who wanted to control you.

You’ve been told that men can have multiple wives, but you can only have one husband.

That’s not love.

That’s oppression.

You’ve been told that your father or brother or husband is your guardian.

that you can’t travel or work or make decisions without their permission.

That’s not protection.

That’s imprisonment.

You’ve been told that if you remove your hijab or question Islam, you’ll burn in hell.

That’s not truth.

That’s fear used to control you.

I’m not saying Islam is the only religion with problems, but I am saying that the specific problems in Islam, especially regarding women, are real and they’re serious and they’re harming millions of women around the world.

And there is another way.

Jesus said, “Come to me all who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.

If you’re tired of carrying the weight of all those rules, all that fear, all that shame, he’s offering you rest.

Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.

” If you’re searching for truth, that he is it.

Not a system of rules, not a religion, but a person, a relationship.

Jesus said, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.

” real freedom.

Not just freedom from hijab or guardianship laws, but free of freedom from sin, from shame, from fear.

I know it’s scary.

I know it costs.

Believe me, I know.

But Jesus is worth it.

I’m not asking you to make a decision right now.

I’m just asking you to be open.

Read the Gospel of John.

just one book that see what Jesus says about himself.

See how he treats women.

See if it resonates with your heart and pray.

Even if you’re not sure God will hear you, pray.

Ask Jesus to reveal himself to you.

Ask him if he’s real.

Ask him to show you the truth.

He will.

I promise you, he will.

To my Christian brothers and sisters watching this, I have a message for you too.

There are Muslim women in your communities, at your universities, in your workplaces, in your neighborhoods, who are searching for truth, who are questioning, who are hungry for love and acceptance and freedom.

Will you reach out to them not to argue with them or to prove them wrong but to love them to befriend them to show them the love of Jesus in practical ways.

Invite them for coffee.

Ask about their lives.

Listen to their stories.

Don’t preach at them.

Just be their friend.

And and when they ask questions, and they will ask questions, answer with grace and truth.

Don’t be afraid to talk about the hard things about how Jesus treated women, about how Christianity is different from Islam, about the freedom we have in Christ.

But do it with love.

Always with love.

also support women like me, ex-Muslim women who have left Islam for Christ.

We face unique challenges.

We need safe communities.

We need disciplehip.

We need people who understand what we’ve been through.

If your church doesn’t have a ministry for ex-Muslims, consider starting one.

Or at least be aware that we’re there and we need you.

To those of you who aren’t Muslim or Christian, maybe you’re watching this and thinking about your own faith or lack thereof.

Maybe you’re an atheist and you think all religion is harmful.

Uh I used to think that too after I left Islam, but I was wrong.

Not all religions are the same.

Some offer bondage, some offer freedom.

Jesus offers freedom.

Maybe you’re from another faith, Hindu, Buddhist, Jewish, whatever.

I respect that.

I’m not here to attack your beliefs, but I am here to tell you that Jesus changed my life.

That he loved me when I was unlovable.

That he gave me a purpose when I felt worthless.

And I believe he can do the same for you.

Whatever you believe, I just ask that you be open to truth.

Be open to the possibility that Jesus is who he says he is.

That he died for you.

That he loves you because he does.

Whether you believe in him or not, he loves you.

He created you.

He knows every hair on your head.

And he wants a relationship with you.

Sometimes people ask me what happened to my family.

uh if I’ve had any contact with them, the answer is no.

Not in over two years.

I don’t know what my mother is doing.

I don’t know if my brothers are married.

I don’t know anything about their lives.

Sometimes I look at my phone and think about calling, but I know what would happen.

They would either not answer or they would answer and tell me I’m dead to them.

So I don’t call.

Instead, I pray.

I pray that God would soften their hearts.

I pray that they would encounter Jesus somehow.

I pray that one day maybe we could be reconciled.

But even if that never happens, I have a family, my church family, my sisters and brothers in Christ who have loved me and accepted me and walked with me through everything.

And I have a father, a heavenly father who will never disown me, never reject me, never stop loving me.

That’s uh more than enough.

A my life now is so different from what it was supposed to be.

I was supposed to be married to that man my father chose for me.

I was supposed to be in Saudi Arabia cooking and cleaning and having babies.

I was supposed to be covered from head to toe, invisible, voiceless, powerless.

Instead, I’m in London.

I’m a university student.

I’m a model.

I’m a speaker.

I’m a Christian.

I have a voice and I use it.

I don’t live in a palace.

I don’t have wealth or fame.

I have a small flat and a part-time job and a tight budget.

But I have something more valuable than all the riches in Saudi Arabia.

I have freedom.

I have purpose.

I have peace.

I have love.

And I have Jesus.

Recently I was reading in the book of Revelation.

And I came across this verse.

Be faithful even to the point of death.

Uh and I will give you life as your victor’s crown.

a victor’s crown.

That’s what Jesus promises to those who are faithful to him.

I’ve competed in pageantss.

I’ve worn crowns made of metal and plastic and rhinestones.

They’re pretty.

They sparkle.

They makes for nice photos, but they’re temporary.

They tarnish.

They break.

They mean nothing in the end.

The crown Jesus offers is eternal.

It’s a crown that will never fade, never break, never lose its value.

That’s the crown I’m living for now.

The crown that matters.

I was a beauty queen for a moment.

But I’m a daughter of the king forever.

So this is my story.

From a gilded ca cage in Riyad to freedom in Christ.

From a girl who was told she was worthless to a woman who knows she’s precious.

From a life of fear to a life of love, Jesus did this, all of it.

He reached down into my darkness and pulled me into his light.

He took my shame and gave me dignity.

He took my chains and gave me wings.

And he can do the same for you.

Whoever you are, wherever you are, whatever you’ve done, Jesus loves you.

He died for you.

He’s calling you to come to him.

Don’t wait.

Don’t let fear or doubt or pride or anything else keep you from the love that’s waiting for you.

He was killed and hung on the cross.

He died for you and me.

Come to Jesus now to be saved.

He’s waiting for you with open arms.

Just like the father in the story of the prodigal son.

He’s watching for you.

And when you take that first step toward him, he’ll run to you.

He’ll embrace you.

He’ll celebrate you because his love is unconditional.

His grace is sufficient.

His mercy is endless.

This is my testimony.

This is my story.

And I pray uh with everything in me that it will become yours too.

Come home.

Come to Jesus.

Come and see.

The crown that matters is waiting for you.

I close my laptop after finishing the recording.

My face is wet with tears, but I’m smiling.

This is my life now.

Sharing my story, pointing others to Jesus, using my voice for his glory.

It’s not what I planned.

It’s better.

I look out my window at the London skyline.

Somewhere out there are women like I used to be trapped, hurting, searching.

I pray that my words reach them.

That my story gives them hope.

That Jesus uses my broken pieces to show them he can make something beautiful.

Because that’s what he does.

He takes the broken and makes them whole.

He takes the lost and brings them home.

He takes the dead and gives them life.

That’s the Jesus I serve.

That’s the King I follow.

Uh and I will spend the rest of my life telling anyone who will listen about the love that saved me.

I was a beauty queen who lost everything.

But I found my true crown in Christ and that makes all the difference.