How are you feeling?

How do I respond to that? How do I compress 45 years of emotions into 2000 words? How do I convey my sense of otherness without making it about race again? How do I express the awful sense of vindication I feel now when a dear friend and colleague told me years ago that not everything is about race? How do I articulate my disappointment when, during an interview for a women’s leadership panel, the first question is about my arranged marriage? How do I address the well-meaning but condescending way my educated, liberal English friends introduce us as their ‘Muslim friends’?

How do I make it clear that my fear of your Great Dane knocking over my five-year-old son has nothing to do with religious restrictions? How do I explain that I avoid alcohol because hangovers hit harder at 45, not due to any cultural or religious prohibition? How do I describe my husband’s automatic acceptance of a glass of wine to counteract my refusal of it, a refusal often interpreted through an ethnic lens? How do I express that I will always choose the high road in a disagreement with a white person, not out of meekness but because I understand my place in a predominantly white society? How do I convey that I’m not a pushover when the train conductor tells us to wear our shoes, but rather someone who understands the dynamics of a white-dominated world? How do I explain that I feel emboldened rather than submissive when confronting a brown person?

How do I express the daily fear I feel for my mother going out in the streets wearing a scarf to protect her 80-year-old skin from sun damage? How do I explain why I refuse to speak Farsi in public with my kids? How do I explain that it took me 30 years to learn how to pronounce my own name?  How do I make it clear that refusing to acknowledge Palestine feels like refusing to acknowledge my existence? How do I explain that I always overdress because a smart daughter of immigrants is better than a dishevelled one who is out to steal your job? How do I explain choosing my kids’ schools based on the ratio of white to brown students? How do I explain to my white-presenting daughter that her Black friend’s comment about her not being brown comes from her own Black experience? How do I express that my family celebrated the birth of my light-skinned daughter but worried when my son was born with darker skin? How do I explain that I’m extra strict with my kids in public to avoid them being perceived as a nuisance?

How do I convey the discomfort I feel when the blue eyes turn to me for a palatable explanation of the situation in Palestine? Inevitably starting with “of course I condemn the attacks on 7th October,” How do I explain that It didn’t begin on 7th October.

How do I explain that my privilege protects me from the street mobs ? How do I explain that I weaponise my private school accent to differentiate from my brothers and sisters? How do I articulate the hypocrisy of Ukrainian men being hailed as heroic for defending their country, while Palestinian men are branded as barbaric for doing the same? How do I explain the deep pain felt by brown folks when so many English families were falling over themselves to open up their homes for Ukrainians fleeing war whilst demanding the dinghies full of brown people turn back. How do I explain that the image of the lifeless body of two-year-old Aylan Kurdi will haunt me forever?

How do I convey that it’s not a compliment to say I don’t look brown? How do I explain my pride in both my Iranian heritage and in being a born and bred Londoner? How do I express that I am fully committed to supporting the Women Life Freedom movement while also feeling proud of the Islamic Republic’s resistance against Western bullies? How do I articulate that skinheads in the streets with gas canisters and swastikas tattooed on their bodies are less frightening to me than the educators teaching my children?

How do I nurture my children’s sense of identity and pride in their heritage when the world around them sends a different message? How do I reconcile my desire to protect them from the harsh realities of racism with the need to prepare them for it?

How do I express the gnawing anxiety that haunts me every time I step into a space where I know I’ll be the only person of colour? How do I convey the silent negotiations that take place within me before I enter a room, assessing the potential microaggressions and deciding which battles are worth fighting? How do I determine when enough is enough? How do I explain that my silence in meetings isn’t compliance but a strategy to navigate the double-edged sword of being perceived as too aggressive or too passive? How do I explain that my pain and discomfort is worth less than your pain and discomfort?  How do I convey that a part of me dies each time I’m asked to validate your white privilege?

How do I explain that simply existing as a brown woman in this society is a form of resistance? How do I explain the internalised pressure to excel, to prove that I belong here, that I am worthy of respect and opportunities? How do I make you understand that every achievement, every accolade, comes with the burden of representing an entire community, of being a token of diversity?

How do I express the complex mix of emotions I feel when I see people protesting for justice, knowing that while their voices are loud today, they will be silent tomorrow? How do I explain the frustration of witnessing performative allyship, where solidarity is a trend, not a commitment?

How do I balance my hope for change with a deep-seated fear that real change might never come? How do I balance the optimism of seeing more diverse faces in positions of power with the cynicism that it’s merely a facade, a checkmark for inclusivity?

How do I make you see that my story and experiences are not isolated incidents but part of a larger narrative of systemic racism and inequality? How do I ensure that my voice is heard, that my struggles are acknowledged, and that the dialogue around race and identity moves beyond superficial gestures to meaningful action?

How do I convey that my exhaustion is not just physical but emotional and spiritual, a weariness that comes from constantly having to prove my humanity?

How do I explain that my skin speaks before I do?

How do I explain that I’ve run out of fuel, that I am tired, that I am exhausted.