It’s the night before the last day of your MUN. You open your phone, expecting nothing more than the usual notifications, and suddenly, there’s a new gossip page.
And, for reasons you still cannot comprehend, their latest post is about you.
What do you do?
Whine about being called out by a bunch of jobless imbeciles? Spend the entire night trying to figure out who runs the page? Let it get under your skin?
Or do you just say, fuck it, and focus on the MUN?
well, gladly, I chose the latter.
Here’s how that happened.
This was only my second MUN.
And, despite having attended exactly one conference before this, I had already become that MUN girl. I was telling people which portfolios to take, explaining how to research, giving unsolicited advice to everyone around me.
only The confidence was impressive, considering I barely knew what I was doing myself.
I remember sitting through my 11th grade Physics lectures. I couldn't stop thinking about which portfolio I should take. Noting countries and stances instead of diagrams and formulas.
I was particularly fixated on the UN committees because, for some reason, I didn't think highly enough of IP.
I texted strong delegates from my previous MUN asking what I should pick, how I should research, what portfolios would give me a good shot at an award. I had spreadsheets in my head. Opinions from five different people. Far too much analysis for something that, in hindsight, really did not need it that much.
Overboard? Definitely.
Then, two nights before the MUN, I changed my mind.
Maybe I should take IP.
I clearly didn't have enough time to research properly for anything else. but that somehow made it feel like the safer option.
And I made myself a promise.
I HAD to come back with an award.
Not because I wanted another trophy on my shelf.
Because the real award was being able to prove to my parents that journalism wasn't stupid.
That this wasn't some random little interest I'd eventually grow out of.
That maybe, just maybe, there was something worth pursuing here.
Perchance, I did prove them wrong.
The first day went by in the usual blur.
Clicking pictures. Shooting videos. Taking notes. Meeting people. Making friends. Attending socials. Running around trying to document everything and somehow still process it.
Basically, all the usual MUN chaos.
But the real story began after I got home.
I was just about to sit down and lock in when I found out about the gossip page.
I checked my dms.
And there it was.
A post about me.
I was taken aback.
It wasn't the first time someone had spread rumours about me. The first time, I was travelling, completely unprepared for what it felt like to suddenly see strangers talking about you as though they knew you.
It was defamatory. It was cruel. And, at the time, it was genuinely gut wrenching.
So when I saw those screenshots, I knew exactly where this could go.
I could let myself spiral over it again.
i could drag myself through all that dirt again.
Or I could refuse to give it that much of me.
I had two choices.
Sit there and cry about it.
Or say, fuck it, and get back to work.
I chose the latter.
Not because it didn't hurt.
It did. a lot.
But I knew myself well enough to know that if I let myself sit with it for too long, it would consume the rest of my night. And then the rest of the conference. And then somehow the chance of winning.
So I glued my eyes to my laptop.
Articles, newsletters, Edits, Submissions, Anything I could finish, I finished.
I pulled an all-nighter.
And the entire night, Arziyan was playing in the background.
There was something about that song that very night. Something about the constant prayer in it, the desperate surrender, that made me want to keep going.
So I did.
I worked. I prayed. I worked even more. And eventually, morning came.
Day 2 was probably the most mentally exhausting day of the conference.
Not because of the MUN itself.
but Because I had to spend the entire day pretending I couldn't hear those voices in my head.
The screenshots kept replaying themselves.
The words kept coming back.
Every now and then, I'd remember the post and feel that same sinking feeling all over again.
But I had work to do.
So, I did.
More articles. More submissions. More photographs. More notes. More running around.
I stayed locked in.
I think I spent most of that day trying to prove to myself that someone else's words could exist without controlling my actions.
That was the first real thing I won that weekend.
Not the trophy.
My attention.
My ability to decide what deserved it.
By the time the conference ended, I was exhausted.
And then came an announcement that made everything considerably more terrifying.
There would be only one Best Delegate.
Not one for Photography.
Not one for Journalism.
Just one.
Everyone was competing for the same award.
Suddenly, every person who seemed more experienced than me became very noticeable.
some people had been doing this for years. People who were objectively better than me at certain things. People who probably deserved it just as much, if not more.
Before i knew it, it was time for the prize distribution.
Abruptly, I wasn't feeling so confident anymore.
My legs were shaking.
My lips were repeating the same two words over and over.
God, please.
Again.
Again.
and Again.
At some point, I started convincing myself that I'd lost.
Maybe it was easier that way. Maybe I wouldn't know how to handle winning. Maybe I wasn't ready for it. Maybe there was some greater reason I had to walk away without an award.
Everyone around me kept insisting I had a chance. My friends kept trying to convince me otherwise.
I didn't believe them.
And then my name was called.
Best Delegate, IP.
For a second, I genuinely didn't understand what had happened.
Then everyone around me started cheering and clapping.
And I realised.
I had won.
My first MUN award.
I remember holding that trophy and thinking about the girl who had been sitting in Physics lectures, obsessing over portfolios, texting people for advice, and desperately trying to convince herself that she belonged here.
It was surreal.
I'd never held a trophy that big.
and then came the applause. I'd never heard applause that loud. Never for me.
To this day, i go back only to listen to the acclaim. anytime i'm low, anytime i feel like giving up, it's those 20 seconds of praise that pull me back to reality.
In all honesty, i don't ever wanna move on from that feeling.
Then followed my speech.
Journalism had always been this strange, quiet aspiration of mine. Something I'd wanted for a long time but had never really known how to admit.
perhaps, wanting it felt impractical. because, I'd started believing that the things I genuinely cared about needed to be justified before I was allowed to pursue them.
So standing there, holding that trophy, I finally said it out loud.
I spoke about how much it meant to me that opportunities like these were becoming more accessible. About how grateful I was to have a platform where I could actually pursue something I cared about.
And, more importantly, I spoke about my parents.
About how badly I wanted to show them that journalism wasn't just foolish daydreaming.
That I wasn't wasting my time. That this wasn't another one of my phases.
I might've shed a tear.
More like a few.
Apparently, the speech stayed with people. Even now, my friends tell me they remember it.
Word for word.
And I think that's what made it mean so much more than just an award.
It wasn't proof that I was the best journalist in the room.
It wasn't some objective declaration that I was good enough.
It was proof that I had finally taken something I was afraid to admit I wanted, and given it a fair shot.
I had made myself a promise before that MUN. And despite everything that happened in between, I kept it.
Today, none of that gossip matters.
I've moved on from those comments.
I don't go back to those screenshots.
The MUN ended.
The trophy simply sits on my shelf.
That page is no more on the internet. The posts don't exist anymore, maybe just in that imbecile's phone. Maybe someone still remembers what was said. that doesn't even matter because,
I don't.
And I'm oddly grateful for that.
When I think about that MUN now, the gossip page isn't the first thing that comes to mind.
I remember Arziyan playing at 4 in the morning. I remember sitting there with a ridiculous amount of work in front of me, refusing to close my laptop. I remember chanting 'god, please.' I remember my legs shaking. I remember hearing my name. I remember that trophy. I remember the speech.
And, more than anything, I remember the applause after finally saying out loud that journalism mattered to me.
That's the funny thing about moments like these.
You go into them thinking you're trying to win something. An award. A title. A trophy.
but then you realise you were actually trying to prove something to yourself. That you can take your own aspirations seriously. That you don't have to abandon something just because other people don't understand it. That you can be hurt by something and still refuse to let it derail you.
I could've spent that night figuring out who made the page. I could've spent it defending myself. I could've let someone else's words become the defining memory of that weekend.
Instead, I wrote, I reported, I worked, I prayed.
And eventually, I walked home with a trophy. and the ovation.
So, ironically, the night before I won my first MUN award, someone tried to mock a story out of me.
I think I'm much happier with the story I ended up writing.
That's definitely why I haven't moved on from the applause of winning my first MUN award.