Dear Aalleyah:

Enclosed is the first Hijab I wore to my first day of seventh grade (it’s a bit tattered, and I know you won’t ever wear it because you’ll think it’s ugly—but still, it’s supposed to mean something). I could stop here but I won’t.

You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. I’m not exaggerating when I say that your beauty strikes me in ways you will never know. I know we are sisters, and there may be some expected jealousy between us at you being quite a great deal more beautiful than I am—but I am filled with so much pride when I see you, I’m sure my heart is going to burst like the plumes of an overstuffed feather pillow. I love how dark and rich your skin is, even if our particular subcontinent of the world won’t value it; I love your large, slightly upturned eyes, though it’s unbearably annoying when you roll them, which you do almost all the time; I love the delicate blooming of your smile, your smirk, the contorted faces you make when you’re trying to be funny. Beauty was a distant abstract until I realized yours.

And then the much-anticipated decision came this summer: Would you start wearing the hijab? Would you wear it to your first day of high school? I was almost certain you wouldn’t—you didn’t seem confident enough in your own skin, you were always concerned about other’s impressions of you, the whole family was not sure if you performed your daily prayers or if you were lying about it. But you did it. How? Why?

Aalleyah, wearing the hijab takes a level of tenacity you won’t fully understand until after you put it on, until you’ve worn it for years. Until you have to tell your white college roommates that they have to inform you before they have guys over. Until walking home at campus past midnight feels indescribably frightening, and you have your index finger quivering over the “send” button with 9-1-1 dialed in. Until you’re sure no man will fall in love with you because of this hijab—this bandage to hide the wounds of your bleeding ego. Putting it on the first day will feel like you’ve conquered something. And the second and third day will feel like that, too. And maybe the first two years. But the initial conquest will wear off and you’re left with America, and private beauty, and God. Sometimes it feels like it’s not enough. It’ll take years before you discover these are the only things that matter.

I wonder if you wore it because of me. Of course this pains me—a choice for that reason would be too grave for flattery. I don’t want you to feel like you should have to because I did it. You’re desperate to impress Amma, even though you don’t act like it. I feel like sometimes I’ve played up the part of being the idealized, highly accomplished older sister a bit too dramatically, and left you to look like the shallow girl who likes K-POP and spends two hours deliberating before posting a picture on Instagram. There’s a mystery and complexity to you that no one in our family seems to understand. You’re a storm no one knows how to tame. I see the wedge between you and Amma and I can’t help but feel as though I’m driving you two apart.

Wearing the hijab is discovering and nurturing a relationship with yourself. There is nothing in the world like it. It is hard, and gruesome, and there are tears. In the beginning, it is all romance and excitement, but it soons devolves into reality: you question your beauty, you question if people want to be friends with you, you question, what is so wrong with wanting to look beautiful? There is nothing sinful about being beautiful, or wanting to be so. But you are a great deal more than that, too.

You are powerful and independent and God has placed himself inside of you. A divine light. A celestial spark, with or without the hijab. The hijab is simply a tool for you to fan your flames, to rise to greatness, to be the best version of yourself. It is the jihad of the heart that makes it so sweet; if you can overcome social convention and defy the expectations of an entire society, then surely you can follow all your dreams.

I love you so, so much Aalleyah. I want to be your best friend. I want everything in the world for you. But sometimes I need to remember that you’ll discover the world yourself, and not through anyone else’s eyes, and especially not through mine. I won’t send this letter to you because you’ll learn it all yourself (does that mean I don’t have to talk to you anymore? God, I hope so. Insert your infamous eye-roll here).

Paradise lies beneath your feet. Hold your head, and hijab, up high, Ally.

Your Akka,

Fareah