The first name was announced.
One finger folded down and the second followed a few moments later and my nails dug into my palm deeply.
I was anxious yet ecstatic. I stood in the crowd beneath the assembly shed at Karachi Grammar School, one of Pakistan’s most reputable schools. Barely listening to the applause that followed each announcement. Four girls including myself had been shortlisted for the school’s highest student leading role, “The HeadGirl Monitor”, and for weeks we had all been asked to keep it confidential. Every morning, I went to class carrying a secret that felt far heavier than my existence.
When the third shortlisted girl’s name was called for another position, my last finger also folded down and for a split second, everything around me went quiet. Before I could process what had happened, I heard my own name echo across the assembly. I walked towards the stage in a blur, aware of hundreds of students watching but unable to think beyond one impossible sentence:
“How did I get here?”
The New Girl
When I joined Karachi Grammar School in Seventh Grade at just eleven years old, becoming Head Girl was not something I had dreamed about because it never felt like a dream I was ‘allowed’ to have. KGS was not just another school. It was an institution built on generations of legacy, excellence, and expectation. I was the new girl trying to find her place in a community where everyone seemed exceptionally talented. I loved speaking in class, throwing my hand up before anyone else, and involving myself in everything I could, but I never thought of myself as the obvious choice.
I was not the student who defined herself by perfect grades. I simply loved learning, leading, and showing up wherever I could make a difference. Standing on that stage, I thought becoming Head Girl meant I had finally earned the right to call myself someone who leads. However, looking down at who I am today made me realise that leading has very little to do with the sash you wear on top of your crisp uniform.
For thirteen-year-old Zoya, in that moment she had achieved it all. Little did she know that it was just the beginning.
The Weight of The Sash
Leading comes with its own charm, but there were days when wearing the Head Girl sash felt less like an honour and more like carrying tiny shards of glass against my shoulders. Every decision invited scrutiny. Students questioned my judgement, challenged my competence and, at times, made me wonder whether I truly belonged in the role I had worked so hard to earn.
At fifteen, I took those moments personally. Today, I see them differently. I was not simply representing myself; I was representing an office that generations of students before me had shaped.
Karachi Grammar School carries more than 175 years of history. It is a place where tradition is woven into everyday life, and where generations have grown up believing that excellence is not the exception; it is the expectation. The standards placed upon me were never just mine to carry. They came with the privilege of leading an institution whose legacy mattered deeply to the people within it.
Looking back now, I would not trade that experience for an easier one. It taught me that leading is rarely comfortable. It asks you to stand in front of people who would not always agree with you, to make decisions that would not always be popular, and to continue showing up anyway.
What once felt like relentless pressure became the very thing that taught me resilience, humility, and the quiet confidence to lead with conviction rather than with the need for approval.
At fifteen, I thought the sash was a symbol of achievement. Looking back, I realise it was an invitation to grow.
Measuring Myself Against Everyone
Growing up at KGS meant learning to exist alongside extraordinary people. Whether it was academics, debating, sport, music or student leading roles, excellence was everywhere. It was inspiring, but it also made comparison feel inevitable. I measured myself against classmates who were just as driven, just as capable and just as deserving. Looking back, I realise that environment pushed me to grow but it also taught me to confuse achievement with identity.
And so as most say, ‘Irony is a cruel mistress’.
The Year My Name Wasn’t Called
By my final year, I found myself standing on the opposite side of the same anticipation. I was shortlisted once again for the same student leading position in the College Section. This time, my name was not called.
For a while, I wondered if I had somehow become less capable than the fifteen-year-old who had once walked onto that stage as Head Girl. It took time to realise that leading is not something bestowed by a title. The years between those two announcements had already shaped me into someone who leads; in classrooms, in conversations, and in the quiet ways you show up for people when no one is watching.
The irony was not lost on me. The role that had first taught me how to lead also taught me that leading does not disappear when someone else is chosen or if you get selected for another position. If anything, it becomes more authentic. It lives in the conversations you initiate, the people you encourage, the opportunities you create for others and the values you carry long after the badge is returned.
About the Author:
Zoya Hermani is an aspiring lawyer in her third year, pursuing Political Science with a minor in Urban Studies, she is driven by ambition and intent. A bold dream chaser, she is building ZoMi & Co., a jewellery brand that challenges convention and redefines everyday expression. With a keen interest in climate change, she actively engages with its complexities, determined to understand and unpack its far-reaching global impact. Zoya is currently an Explorer on the Expedition for Students in Higher Education.
