When Thinking is treated as a Disease

In a society that worships sameness, thinking becomes an act of defiance.

I learned this early—before I even knew the word different. I was three years old. In kindergarten, a teacher pulled my hair because I hadn’t colored the stars yellow. Her scream split the room in two. The other children fell silent. There was no question, no curiosity—only punishment. My drawing was torn apart. An order was given: never do that again.

That moment was the opening wound of a story too long to tell. There were many other tears, many other silences forced into place. Perhaps that is why I speak now. Because I know what it feels like to be made smaller. To be told, again and again, that your way of seeing is wrong.

So hear this: follow your instinct. Especially when someone tries to dim you. Especially when you are made to feel misplaced in the world.

Because stars do not stop shining just because they are erased from paper. They carry their light inward. They remember.

And light unsettles those who cannot read the hidden grammar of existence. No one truly knows what Alif Lam Mim means—yet it beats like a secret key inside the human heart. We are not meant to understand everything. We are meant to remember one thing only: stars are not yellow like cornmeal.

Today I know this: that torn drawing was never lost.

It became sky. It became voice. It became the courage to protect what glows, even when it is unrecognized, unnamed orunapproved.

In the end, stars do not ask for permission.

They shine.