Friday Feature: 10/17/25 - Mariam M. Nur

It is a form of radical acceptance to understand that people have limitations — limitations that sometimes arise from issues far greater than oneself.

I have always known this. I have always known that these limitations meant I would never receive validation, acceptance, or approval from her. But knowing is one thing; speaking it aloud is another. And speaking it aloud in front of others — feeling the weight of the words as they leave your mouth — is another still.

Living in denial is an easy thing to do. It is easier to suppress your feelings, to bury them so deeply that your subconscious can only scream in the language known as anxiety.

That scream is a cue, a cue to take action, to begin speaking the truth, because your mind will not let you live inside the lie forever. It might allow it for a time, for a few years, perhaps even decades, but not forever. Time is limited. Time always runs out.

We tell ourselves this isn't true. We tell ourselves it's only thoughts, a way to quiet the tsunamis that will inevitably, reach the shores of our minds.

It is the calm before the disaster — the kind of calm that convinces you, I'm fine, there's nothing wrong. But then the waves come, six feet high, crashing down and flooding everything you've built. They do not discriminate. They will bulldoze your work, tear down your friendships, dismantle your relationships, and even push you into acting out of character towards strangers — the very people we are supposed to remain neutral towards.

Still, I like denial.

It is not a destination. It is my humble abode. The home I inherited. The home I should never have had. Its walls rise with high ceilings, warm and cosy, with a fitted alarm system — one designed to keep intruders out, yet equally capable of protecting me from myself.

These walls keep me grounded. They keep me safe.

Once, the ceilings were not so high. They were not elegant in the way old Victorian houses are considered to be. But as the years passed, renovations became inevitable, and tall ceilings, after all, create space; they illuminate rooms, and I think I'd rather stay here than move.

From the Press:

There is a quiet ache that runs through My Humble Abode—the kind that comes from a lifetime of trying to prove your worth to others who cannot meet them where you need them to. Mariam writes of the absence of validation and how it becomes an inheritance, a shaping force. The prose feels like a reckoning with that legacy; the recognition that the constant calculation of when it's safe to speak and the self-protection that becomes its own kind of home.

Denial, here, is not weakness. It's a survival mechanism—the architecture of someone who has had to make peace with instability. Mariam's imagery of ceilings and walls reveals that truth gently: the way comfort and confinement can coexist, how safety can sometimes mean silence.

By writing this piece, she dismantles the very thing she describes. This isn't denial, it's its undoing. In naming what was once unspeakable, she turns inherited quiet into strength. My Humble Abode stands as —an act of reclamation, of using voice where silence once ruled without challenge. It's a reminder that speaking our truth, even softly, even with trembling legs—is itself a form of freedom, and in doing so, she inspires others to find the courage to do the same through her words.

About the Author:

Mariam M. Nur explores themes of identity, reflection, and culture. She first turned to writing as a private practice, a way to make sense of her experiences. Over time, it has become a space for healing, clarity, and voice.

Where to Find:

At the moment, she does not share her work on socials, but she more than happy for her readers to get in touch with her at mariam.m.nurwrites@gmail.com