In the rigid hierarchy of the world, we are often taught that greatness is a mountain climbed through accolades, academic credentials, and the slow accumulation of prestigious titles. We are conditioned to look for it in the corner offices of skyscrapers or behind the lecterns of ivy-covered universities. However, my own understanding of greatness was dismantled and rebuilt not in a classroom, but within the cramped, sun-streaked walls of a two-bedroom apartment, shaped by a young woman who possessed no degree, but an infinite capacity for sacrifice.

I was only twelve years old when the tectonic plates of my world shifted, leaving behind a vacuum that felt both hollow and impossibly heavy. The day our mother passed away is etched into my mind with a clarity that time has failed to dull. I can still recall the sterile, biting smell of antiseptic that clung to the hospital corridors—a scent that became the olfactory marker for the end of my childhood. In that clinical silence, the future felt like a vast, terrifying expanse of grey. Yet, at the funeral, as the community gathered to offer whispered condolences and perform the rites of grief, I watched my sister.