Leyla: The Architect of Her Own Path
Basking in the afternoon sun that radiated across the fields, the waterways and hanging trees at Jubilee Park at Rozelle Bay, Leyla flashes a knowing smile — it’s the first time she’s sat down with our principal David in a long time. But where her last sit down with us was as a student back in 2021, today she sits proud as an alumnus and now an adult who shares hopes, dreams and concerns of a generation who’s seen all too much during the first stretches of her adult life. Slightly exasperated, however, she’s reminiscent as she recalls the pivotal moment she found herself in the small rooms of Foci Education’s previous office — a tiny classroom, suddenly stripped of her usual academic prowess. “It was the scariest thing I’d ever done,” she admits, a hint of the past anxiety still present in her voice. “I was so used to knowing where I sat in a classroom (in school). I went into that classroom, I was like, ‘I’m good,’ and that wasn’t a bad thing.” But at Foci Education, she felt at the “bottom of that barrel” or somewhere between the humbling and the profoundly formative. Nonetheless, she merged a youthful courage and unyielding ambition that has shaped a burgeoning legal career which marries community impact with a simmering, almost defiant, intensity for young ambition.
"I've always had a big mouth," she admits of her younger self, a statement that now seems less about youthful exuberance and more about a quiet, determined rebellion against predetermined paths. Growing up in the heart of Western Sydney, navigating a low socioeconomic high school, Leyla faced a world that, on paper, might have dismissed her. "I'm trying so hard to fight against that," she states, her drive palpable. Her ATAR wasn't just a score; it was a testament to pushing against "60,000 students" and coming out on top, "irrespective of the fact that I didn't have that silver spoon."
This innate fight fuels her "overly optimistic and borderline delusional" outlook. "My delusion comes from a place of keeping me sane and keeping making myself believe that I can do it," she explains, acknowledging the paradox of a generation often seen as entrepreneurial but hesitant to act. Leyla, however, is a doer. Her choice to pursue a Bachelor of Law and Bachelor of Business at Western Sydney University, over more traditionally prestigious universities like UNSW (a university which offered her early entry), was deliberate. "My end goal is to end up in the community," she asserts. For Leyla, it’s a vision that prioritises impact over corporate prestige. She sees herself as a solicitor in personal injury, not for the money, but because it's a platform "to come from a power of strength and a place of strength." — equally acknowledging that the money is not far off decent, and a bit.
“My main objective —according to societal expectation— is to be settling down and having kids. And so it's sort of an act of rebellion that I'm not doing that.”
This path, however, places her on a "provocative cliff edge" between cultural expectation and personal aspiration. As a 21-year-old Lebanese woman, she navigates the constant, unspoken pressure to marry and have children. "By the standards of people like me, I'm old and I haven't been married," she quips, the wry humour masking an underlying angst. Her focus on career is, in her own words, "sort of an act of rebellion." She feels the double-edged sword: admiration for her ambition, but implicit questioning of her unmarried status and even more so of the societally imposed expectations she and many young women feel today, even in a country like Australia. Yet, she's grateful her parents understand, even if they're "scared" for her unconventional choices.
Leyla's journey is a testament to self-permission, a concept she believes many young people shy away from nowadays. She's learned to "sit with your thoughts" and embrace solitude, a stark contrast to the "hustle culture" and constant external validation she once sought and finds pervasive online. Even the idea of work-life balance, a foreign concept in the demanding legal profession, is something she allows herself to consider, albeit with a laugh. Her recent experience with family loss underscored the fragility of life and the ultimate "for what?" of endless checklists. For Leyla, the answer is clear: her mission is to empower others, particularly girls in her community, to see beyond stereotypes and realise their own potential, whether that's becoming a solicitor, a baker, or a ballet dancer. Nearly half a decade on, Leyla remains an architect of her own path, building a future not just for herself but for those who will follow.
