A Journey of Becoming

The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
— Rumi

I was born into a culture where everyone has an opinion about everyone else (and everything else). Minds are flowing in a way that suffocate the spirit —nobody is truly free, and everyone feels entitled to mind life experiences of others. This is the weight of a toxic patriarchy, where judgments echo louder than dreams. In this suffocating environment, I struggled to navigate the path of self-discovery. Each time I raised my voice or expressed my truth, I was judged, silenced, made to feel odd. Rejected —again and again. 

Simply because, capitalism diminishes diversity through patriarchy, as it struggles to thrive in strong communities; instead, it gains its power from uniform, homogeneous, inauthentic masses. This critique is evident across various frameworks, including postcolonial theory, social capital theory, Marxism, and resistance movements.

But in movement, I found freedom. To me, moving is an act of exploring life's rhythms without bondage, reclaiming truths, and stepping into the unknown. It also means being ready to confront whatever arises, embracing the universal law of impermanence. I'm here on this earth to claim my life as my own. 

The first time I went away from home, I was only eleven. It was an entire summer holiday spent with my aunt and her family. During my time there, I attended a summer camp with my 8-months-older cousin and dozens of other children —there I learned the exhilaration of freedom. I discovered the joy of connecting with others, playful activities, early mornings in nature. Since then, the road never frightened me. 

Home isn’t always a sanctuary. With Balkanise roots, my parents were secular. They struggled under the weight of an Islamic capitalist regime that neither understood nor served them. They were both disabled, and with the economic crash of the early 2000s, poverty came knocking hard on their door. Before then, my father would tell me, “We’re middle class,” but by then, I realised how fragile such labels could be. 

The transition from private to public school was jarring but ultimately empowering. It was there that I first saw the contradictions of authority and became rebellious against power. Thanks to my father's belief in mathematics, with his support, I excelled in numbers, formulas, geometry, and logic. But the more I mastered these subjects, the less I respected the system that tried to contain me. Authority was something I instinctively resisted. I gathered more discipline records than anyone around me —an outlaw of sorts within the confines of structured national schooling. 

Still, there were cracks in my defiance. As a teen, I felt a deep disconnect from the chaotic world around me. But I knew, somehow, that life could be better —I’d seen it my earlier childhood, during summer vacations with extended family. There was a freedom in those days, something beyond struggles. My parents often emphasised the university degree as the door to that better world. I worked tirelessly, solving hundreds of math problems daily, determined to create brighter future for myself. 

But then came a "failure." On the eve of my university entrance exams, a family incident left me deeply shaken and ashamed. My focus shattered. My mind scattered. For years, I carried the weight of that day and it took thirteen years to forgive my mother. While I had once dreamed of attending Turkey's top ranked universities, which are American Écoles, I ended up at Istanbul University's Faculty of Political Science. And yet, what felt like "failure" became something else entirely. My years at Istanbul University intellectually equipped me for my inner and outer exploration, and sowed the seeds within me that is still guiding in my journey of becoming. 

The faculty was a microcosm of Turkey —diversity of people, ideologies, conflicts, and resistance. For the first time, I felt the true power of intellectual freedom. I easily engaged with anyone with a voice, anyone with something to say because I wasn't imposed any specific ideology or religion by my parents. I became deeply connected to thought itself. My heart and mind thrived in this environment with the ideas of great scholars and philosophers. I dreamt of one day using my voice to shake the belief systems.

My poor English back then barred me from opportunities like Erasmus, but again, the universe redirected me. I found myself in China for an exchange program —another unexpected turn that led to profound discoveries. Later, I was awarded a Fulbright scholarship, only to have it slip through my fingers because of my low TOEFL score. Another "failure." It devastated me. Yet "failure" led me again to something better —Asia for a longer period this time. 

Backpacking across Asia and exploring the way of thinking felt like a return to my roots, a return to home in the deepest sense. I traveled through places that resonated with my ancestral past, observing, learning, and weaving together the threads of Eastern philosophy and culture. It was there I began to forge my own belief system —a mix of wisdom from Laozi, the introspective paths of Kierkegaard, and the deep questions of identity and self that I had always carried with me. 

Yet even then, "failure" continued to shape my path. I was offered a spot at the UChicago, but with only a 40% scholarship. I let it go this time with ease, trusting the universe would guide me toward where I truly needed to be. The path led me to New Zealand this time. 

Now, as I face yet another transition, shifting from one research field to another, I no longer fear the unknown. I embraced my "failures," my shadows, and my Turkish identity. Through Kierkegaard’s lens, I see that anxiety is not something to escape, but a pathway to transformation —a force that propels us toward becoming who we are meant to be. Taoism has thought me that what appears to be weakness, when embraced, becomes strength. 

My Turkish womanity, which I once saw as fragile, is now my power. Now, it is time to speak —not just for myself but for every woman who carries the same burdens and the same strength.