I was born in December 1997 to young parents. At that time, my father was building his career in hospitality in Bahrain, and my mother (already a doctor) had just finished her house job and went on maternity leave when she had me. 

So my earliest years begin in the Middle East, in a home shaped by ambition, responsibility, and two parents figuring life out early.

I spent the first five years of my life in Bahrain. In 1999, my sister was born, and for a while, our world felt steady: school beginnings, family routines, and the simple rhythm of childhood. That chapter ended in 2002, when we returned to Islamabad after my paternal grandmother passed away. 

My father made a decision that would define the next phase of our lives: he stayed in Pakistan to support my paternal grandfather, and we never truly went out of the country again in the way we had before. In 2006, my paternal grandfather also passed away, which further cemented the idea; early in my life, that family duty sometimes outweighs personal plans.

My schooling started in Bahrain, but my real formative schooling took place in Islamabad at St. Mary’s Academy. It was a prestigious institution, spread across a large campus (55 Acres to be precise), run by Christian missionaries, and it attracted teachers from Commonwealth countries, especially Australia and the UK. The environment was structured and demanding in the best way: it rewarded discipline, performance, and consistency.

Outside the school gates, the atmosphere of the country was heavy. Pakistan was going through a severe terrorism crisis during those years. Bomb blasts were not rare headlines, they were a reality people lived around. As a child, that meant restrictions: staying indoors, limited freedom, and a sense that safety could never be taken for granted. 

At one point, even our school was attacked because it was a Christian institution. That fear sat in the background of my childhood, even while my day-to-day life was focused on school and achievement.

From the beginning, I was active and athletic. Sports came naturally to me. Academically, I was also a high performer early on. In Grade 3, I won the Kangaroo Math competition..first in Pakistan and, as I remember it, second in Asia. I took part in a spelling bee and came first in my school. For most years before Grade 7, I was the class monitor or prefect. I consistently scored above 90 percent, and being “the top student” became part of how I was seen… at home, at school, and within myself.

My family background carried its own kind of pressure and identity. On my father’s side, the military ran deep: my paternal grandfather retired as a Colonel in the Pakistan Army; my great-grandfather served in the British Army and then transitioned into the Pakistan Army after 1947; and my great-great-grandfather was an officer in British Railways. My father’s brothers remained in the army. 

On my mother’s side, my maternal grandfather was an electrical engineer in the EME Corps of Pakistan Army. In that context, my father stood out—he chose a different path, going to the UK in the 1980s to study hospitality instead of following the army lifestyle.

By the time I was ten, a few themes were already set: a childhood split between Bahrain and Pakistan, an early understanding of loss and duty, a country shaped by fear and instability, and a personal identity built on performance—academics, sports, leadership roles in class, and the quiet expectation that I would keep excelling.

From around age ten, the world I knew in Islamabad started to feel sharper—more demanding, more serious, and more tied to identity. By then, I wasn’t just a “good student.” I was the student people expected to perform. I had already built a reputation for being disciplined, competitive, and consistent. 

Sports still mattered to me, but school achievement and leadership roles had become part of who I was. I stayed involved, stayed visible, and kept trying to stay at the top.

At the same time, the environment around me wasn’t calm. Pakistan was still living through the terrorism crisis, and that shaped how childhood felt. There were restrictions on movement, an underlying tension in daily life, and a sense that safety could shift without warning. Even if most of my time was spent in school routines, the fear sat in the background—something you absorbed without fully understanding, but it still shaped you.

By the time I reached Grade 7, a bigger plan was placed in front of me—one that was less about what I wanted and more about what my family believed was the right direction. Coming from a family where military service was the norm, my parents wanted me to follow the same path. The idea wasn’t casual. It was structured and strategic: prepare for cadet colleges, pass the entry tests, and enter an institution that would set me up for the armed forces from an early age.

So I joined an academy that specifically trained students for cadet college exams. In Pakistan, those colleges are seen as elite pipelines—recruiting and shaping future officers from a young age. I understood what my parents wanted, but I didn’t feel emotionally connected to becoming a soldier at first. The part that truly lit me up was aviation.

I didn’t just like the idea of being a pilot—I wanted it badly. That dream became the center of gravity for that phase of my life. What began as a general fascination with flying evolved into a specific target: becoming a fighter pilot—what I referred to as a GD pilot in the Pakistan Air Force. It wasn’t a vague dream anymore. It became a plan.

I prepared for a full year for the PAF college route. These are not ordinary tests for a seventh grader. The competition is intense, the standards are high, and the pathway is designed to filter people early. I pushed hard. I cleared the written exams for both PAF College Sargodha and PAF College Lower Topa—two of the toughest institutions to get into at that age. That win mattered. It felt like proof: that my dream wasn’t unrealistic, that I could actually earn my way into a world most kids only fantasize about.

After the exams came the screening stages. I cleared the preliminary medical. I cleared the interview. Each step felt like moving deeper into the dream, like the door was opening inch by inch. Eventually, I was called for the final stage: the Combined Medical Board (CMB)—a rigorous and thorough medical assessment meant to confirm whether you meet the physical criteria for the Air Force.

The numbers alone tell you what kind of pressure that carries. Out of roughly 10,000 applicants, only 210 of us reached that stage. It was a narrow funnel. To even be there felt like standing at the edge of a life that could change everything.

But there was a problem I had known about all along. 

I was flat-footed. 

My father had warned me from the beginning: for pilots, the criteria is unforgiving. He told me I likely wouldn’t make it as a pilot because of that condition—that the Air Force is strict and doesn’t bend on physical requirements. He believed the soldier route could still be a possibility, but not a GD pilot route.

I ignored that warning. Not because I thought he was wrong, but because I wanted the dream badly enough to gamble. I went through the final CMB anyway.

When the merit list came out, only 160 names were on it. Mine wasn’t.

That rejection landed like a collapse, not a setback. 

At that age, your dream isn’t something you “manage”—it’s something you merge your identity with. I had spent a year preparing, passed multiple filters, and reached the final stage. So when I didn’t make it, it didn’t feel like “I didn’t qualify.” It felt like something was taken away. It was my first real heartbreak. I couldn’t face my school friends. The first time I felt a future I could almost touch disappear overnight.

After that, the direction of my ambition shifted. If the pilot dream was closed, I needed another target. I moved toward medicine—specifically cardiology. It was still a high-status, high-respect path, and it fit the kind of excellence my environment rewarded. I took biology in my O Levels with that intention.

But by the time I completed O Levels, something had changed. The desire wasn’t there anymore. The identity of “doctor” didn’t hold me the way aviation did. 

So the first serious pivot I made after O Levels was toward chartered accountancy.

I took Accounting, Business Studies, and Economics in my AS. On paper, it looked like a smart move. In reality, it exposed a mismatch fast. I struggled heavily. The results were blunt: I failed my AS—two U’s in Economics and Maths, and I barely passed Accounting with an E.

That wasn’t just an academic setback. It was the first time I had to accept that some tracks don’t respond to effort the way you want them to. It also showed me clearly that accounting-heavy, numbers-driven work wasn’t my lane.

After wasting a year and seeing my fellow classmates progress, it felt like a major failure.

I pivoted again—this time into engineering.

I switched to Maths, Physics, and Chemistry, committed myself to the track, and cleared my A Levels. Took me 3 years two complete high school. 

From the outside, it looked like I was “back on track.”

But internally, something had changed. Even after clearing A Levels, I wasn’t convinced that the traditional professional routes—doctor, engineer, accountant—were actually meant for me. I wasn’t chasing a title anymore. I was trying to find the kind of life that fit how I naturally thought and operated.

Around that time, a belief started forming and it didn’t go away: the people who seemed to truly excel—who became successful in a way that looked like freedom—were usually building something.

Business owners.
Startup founders.
People with ownership, not just employment.

That insight stuck. It became a spark that stayed alive and kept shaping the choices I made next.

So after A Levels, I chose business.

I took admission into a federal university and enrolled in a Bachelor’s in Business Administration, majoring in Communications and Marketing. That wasn’t just a subject change. It felt like an identity shift toward something that matched me—strategy, messaging, execution, people, and growth.