I guess I always knew I was different. Not like a superhero, exceptional or glow-in-the-dark special. Just… off.
I like quiet things. Tiny things -watching raindrops race each other on glass, or pretending I’m invisible in noisy rooms. But my brain? My brain is in chaos.
By author and mum Maryam Hussain
I Have Tourette’s
I have something called Tourette’s Syndrome. It’s like the wires got crossed in my brain. They send out weird electric messages that make me blink, jerk, yelp, and say stuff I don’t mean to. People think I do it on purpose, but I don’t.
The worst part is that they stop and stare, and some of them laugh.
When I was younger, it didn’t bother me much. I’d make rattling noises in the women’s prayer area at the local mosque, and the aunties would smile kindly and say to my mom, “Meskeena, poor thing, she’s just tired.”
Despite all this, I felt safe anyway, just a normal little girl in a big, warm world. But in fifth grade, everything shifted.
At School In Jeddah
At my school in Jeddah—one of those private international schools with white buildings, clunky metal desks, and a busy courtyard—things are calm and proper.
You have to raise your hand before you speak. You bring your lunch from home. You offer the midday Dhuhr prayer in the multi-purpose room. There’s structure, rhythm.
And I didn’t fit into that rhythm. I often jerked out of it.
Some of the girls called me a weirdo, cuckoo bird, Aleesha or Siren Girl. One kid even started mimicking me, like it was a game. Sometimes, I’d get so nervous, they´d end up triggering my tics, and I´d go wild.
The tics caused me to hide in the bathroom, with a tissue stuffed in my mouth so no one would hear. I thought maybe if I could remain still, quiet enough, the zaps would stop.
They didn’t.
I’d press my palms into my knees and count backwards from 100. I thought maybe if I could be still, I’d be safe. No luck!
So, I started writing.
Writing – a Cure
Not just writing like… “Dear Diary, today was bad.” I mean writing like escaping.
I’d open my purple journal – the one my Dad gave me for my tenth birthday. It had soft leather, with golden Arabic letters embossed on the cover:
‘Wa in ta’uddu ni‘mat Allahi la tuhsooha.’
‘If you tried to count all of Allah’s blessings, you couldn’t.‘
I remember thinking, ´even this weird brain of mine must be one of them.´ And then, I’d disappear into the page.
In there, I was someone else. I made up stories where girls like me had dragon wings. I felt invisible, like a friend who didn’t laugh when they made weird noises.
I wrote poems too, stories, asked God questions, made little supplications and in the du’a would implore Allah SWT to answer my prayers.
On those pages, I wasn’t twitching or squeaking or being stared at. It was my secret. My safe zone, no snickers and no name-calling. Just ink!
Until one day… my Tourette´s wasn’t so secret anymore.
It was Thursday. I remember because the sun was too bright and the class had just come back from PE. I was sitting alone, scribbling into my journal. Trying to stay small. Trying not to tic as everyone else buzzed around.
The Secret’s Out
That’s when ‘Has Been’ Yasmin bumped into my desk, hard. ´Oops,´ she smirked, pretending like it was an accident. My elbow jerked again in a flap, and my journal flew.´Oh, no!´ I tried to catch it, but it was already too late. The thick book hit the floor hard, and before I could reach it, another girl, ‘Sickly Girl’ Sana, picked it up.
She opened it and started reading.
‘I am not a storm though I tremble and twist—’ she sang, in that mean, high-pitched voice kids use when they’re pretending to be you in a not-not-nice way.
I twitched. My throat squeaked. My arm flicked up as if a puppet string had been yanked. The whole class turned and laughed.
And then… she stopped reading. Her eyes changed. She looked at the page again, then read it slower, softer. Then she just kept reading.
Storm & Ink
I am not a storm, though I tremble and twist,
A girl made of thunder, not meant to be missed.
You see only sparks when I’m fighting my pain,
But deep in my silence, I dance in the rain.You call me names, throw laughter like knives,
Not knowing the battles I fight in my mind.
Yet still I write dreams in invisible ink,
Of places I soar while you’re too scared to think.Each tic is a war cry, a scream to be free,
But I’ve built a kingdom where no one can see.
A world with no bullies, no stares, no fear,
Where I shine so brightly, my pain disappears.So laugh if you want, but just know this truth:
My strength isn’t loud—it’s written in proof.
My ink is a prayer, my pain is a test,
And Allah knows always what’s truly the best.
I am a warrior of words, I rise and I write—
And with Him beside me, I walk through the night.After she had finished reading the poem, no one laughed. Not even ‘Has Been’ Yasmin. A girl from the back asked if I had written it. I nodded quietly. I wanted to shrink under the desk.
Ms. Nadia Reads The Purple Journal
Just then, Ms. Nadia walked into the classroom. ´What’s going on?´ she asked inquisitively. Everyone froze. ‘Sickly Girl ‘ Sana handed Ms. Nadia my journal.
I thought my body would split open. I could feel my eyes blinking out of sync. My arms jerked. I could barely breathe. I stood there, stuck between running and disappearing.
But Ms. Nadia just read quietly, her eyes getting bigger. She read a few lines. Then she whispered a line out loud:
´My ink is a prayer, my pain is a test.´
Then she looked at me with awe and commented, ´Aleesha, this is… incredible. May Allah bless your courage. Ameen!´
I didn’t know what to say. I’d never heard the word incredible next to my name before.
Transformation
A few days later, she asked me if I would be willing to read my poem during the school’s creative arts week. At first, I said no. Then, after she asked me a second time. I said no again. But later, something inside me, tiny but real, forced me to say maybe. So, in the end, I agreed.
On the day of the reading, my hands were shaking so badly that I almost dropped the microphone. I couldn’t stop twitching. My throat made a strange squeak halfway through the first verse.
I paused as the page fluttered in my hand, wanting to escape. I looked around, expecting giggles, whispers, the usual sting.
But they didn’t come.
The room was silent and still, just a sea of faces watching me with expectant eyes. My eyes found Ms. Nadia. She smiled at me through glistening eyes and slowly raised a thumbs-up.
When I finished, they clapped. Not the kind of clap people give when they’re just being polite. It felt real.
I think this was the first time I saw myself differently—not as the girl who was broken, but the girl who kept showing up anyway.
A few days later, one of the older girls pulled me aside. She said quietly,
´You know, Aleesha, sometimes I get panic attacks… and I’ve never told anyone. But your poem… I felt that.´
Her words stuck with me.
Storm & Ink – Student Support Group
That same week, I asked Ms. Nadia if I could start a small group for students who felt like they didn’t fit in – those kids with anxiety and bad nerves, perhaps ADHD or just stuff they didn’t have names for yet.
She replied, ‘Why not?’
Soon after, we girls met once a week in the library. Sometimes we wrote and other times we sat and listened. Often times no one spoke at all. But it helped.
We called the meeting group Storm & Ink—after the poem.
Over time, more kids joined. And slowly, the name-calling faded. The girls asked questions. Teachers started talking more openly about different conditions. One even said, ‘Storm and Ink‘ has changed the mood of the whole school.’
I don’t know about that, but I know it changed me.
Until today, I have Tourette’s. I still get jerks and tics, and there are days when I cry in the bathroom if no one’s looking. But I don’t stuff tissues in my mouth anymore.
One night, when I felt really low, my mum reminded me of a verse, an ayah from the Qur’an:
‘Indeed, with hardship comes ease.’
I always carry those words in my heart.
Sometimes, the things that make us different are the very things Allah SWT provides to light up someone else’s darkness.
Today, I carry my journal in my bag like a sword at my side.
I don’t know if one day I’ll become a famous writer or anything. But I do know one thing for sure. My brain isn’t broken. It just speaks thunderously. And when I write, it becomes something beautiful.
These days, being different isn’t something I need to hide. It’s something I’ve started to understand. And maybe, just maybe, it’s something the world will get to comprehend, too.