Walking Through Pain

She was born only five minutes after her sister. Two little souls entered the world together—twin girls, alike in heart but not in body. One was healthy and strong; the other, from the very first moment, bore a visible difference. Her legs didn’t match—one thin and fragile, the other swollen and heavy.

The doctors didn’t know what to call it, and people around whispered old beliefs: “When twins are born, one is often born with weakness.” While one sister grew with ease, the other grew with pain. Her days blurred with doctor visits, treatments, and medicines. Her father spent his entire salary on her care—but nothing changed. She remained the same fragile girl, with aching legs and a body that didn’t quite belong.

Then something small yet meaningful happened. One day, a doctor suggested new names for the girls: Rozana, meaning “the brightness of day,” and her twin was renamed Shabana, “the quiet of night.” It wasn’t a cure, but it brought a shift—a glimmer of hope that this child, despite her suffering, carried a special light within her.

But the struggle was far from over. Neighbors continued to tell her mother that the girl wouldn’t survive. “You can’t raise her,” they said. “She will die young.” But her mother refused to give up, and Rozana didn’t give in. She started school beside her twin, but her journey was nothing like her sister’s. Some mornings she came home in tears. Some evenings her sister would hold her tightly as they walked back, trying to absorb her pain. Some days, neighbors helped her.

Despite the pain, Rozana was exceptional—sharp-minded, wise beyond her years, and stunningly beautiful. She carried a quiet dignity. When she spoke, it felt like you were listening to a philosopher. She understood kindness more deeply than most people ever would.

In school, Rozana quickly rose to the top of her class. When she was offered first position, she said,
“Please give me second place. I don’t want to be called to the office every day. I can’t keep walking that far.”
Who gives up first place out of humility? Only someone who has already fought battles far greater than grades.

On the streets, girls her age would race home from school. Rozana always lagged behind, moving step by painful step. During Eid, her classmates visited each other, celebrating with joy. Her twin went too. But Rozana stayed home—not ashamed of who she was, but of how others looked at her.

She had a face that turned heads and a heart that softened anyone who sat with her. And yet, she often felt invisible.

In Mazar, she began therapy. A hard plastic brace was wrapped around her leg to support her walk. Under the sun, she moved with difficulty—but also with determination. Her therapist praised her spirit.
“You’re better than most of our patients,” they told her.
“We want to offer you a scholarship to study MBBS.”

She smiled but declined—not because she wasn’t capable, but because she feared the offer came from pity, not respect. The brace helped, and the difference between her legs became less visible. But the emotional scars remained.

She passed the university entry exam with a high score and enrolled in the engineering department. Everyone was proud. But again, she asked for second place—not because she lacked intelligence, but because she didn’t want to walk across campus too much. The journey, every day, was still hard.

One day, she and her little sister went shopping to prepare for university life. The market was crowded. On the street, shop materials were placed carelessly. Her leg caught on something, and she stumbled. A boy shouted,
“Hey, disabled girl! Be careful!”

She didn’t reply, but her little sister saw the pain in her eyes—the way she held her head lower after that. Still, she moved forward.

She finished university with grace. At family weddings, she was always the most beautiful woman in the room. But she never stood, never danced—only sat quietly, smiling—because she didn’t want anyone to look at her with sympathy.

She got a job, until the Taliban returned and took it away. But she didn’t break. She used her sharp mind to find another opportunity. Today, she manages the finances of a large hospital with such precision and skill that even senior staff are in awe. But again, she sits alone. Her desk is behind a glass barrier.

Everyone who meets her feels her kindness. Patients love her. She often helps the poor without taking money. But some still don’t understand. One day, a woman came to speak with her. When Rozana stood up, the woman gasped,
“Oh—you’re disabled?”

And just like that, behind her kind smile, another storm brewed. She went home that day and didn’t eat. She slept for hours. Because sometimes, even the strongest people fall apart—quietly.

Her family adores her. Her twin sister is now married and has a child. Rozana is full of joy for her. When she is happy, the world feels brighter. But no one truly knows what dreams she holds. What fears she hides. What strength it takes just to exist in a world that is quick to judge and slow to understand.

No one knows—except one person.
The one who watched her struggle, fall, and rise again.
The one who learned strength just by watching her live.

She isn’t a famous character from a novel. She isn’t a TV personality or someone history will write about.
She is the kind of person whose story quietly lives in the hearts of those who truly see her.

Yes, she is my sister.
And I’m the little one who grew up watching her walk through fire.
She’s not just my hero—she’s my whole world.