We often think we need to become someone important in order to leave our mark on humanity, to be remembered for something meaningful we’ve done. That’s why we chase recognition, try to make a name for ourselves, and aim to become “big” enough to matter. We strive to become the best politician a city, a state, or even a country has ever known. We dream of winning gold medals or achieving greatness in our professions.

But how often do we pause to ask: What does it really mean to be the best? How do we measure “the best,” or even “goodness”? And do we ever take the time to ask what kind of impact we truly want to leave behind?

I came to Ann Arbor in August 2024 as a Knight-Wallace Fellow at the University of Michigan. Of course, getting the fellowship was itself a kind of recognition. It’s a prestigious and highly competitive international journalism program, one that many journalists around the world dream of joining. So being accepted was, in a way, an affirmation that I was doing something important.

After all, I’m a woman journalist from Afghanistan, working in exile to challenge the Taliban’s oppression. I founded a newsroom outside of Afghanistan to document the Taliban’s human rights violations and to create opportunities for Afghan women journalists to continue their work often in secret so that the world can understand what life is like under a regime built on gender apartheid. This work has given me a certain public profile. It has opened doors for speaking engagements and helped me raise awareness about what is arguably the most severe women’s rights crisis of our time.

I came into the fellowship with a clear goal: to learn leadership skills and to find a sustainable business model for my nonprofit newsroom. That mission was and still is a priority in my life. But the fellowship came with a gift: the chance to bring my family to Ann Arbor and live here for a year. That experience changed me in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

I have a son who is proudly dyslexic. When we arrived, I worried about him. I wasn’t sure how he would adjust to a new environment, or how he would keep up in school given his challenges with reading and writing. Like many immigrant parents in the U.S., I was unsure whether we’d have access to the support and resources he needed to succeed.

Thanks to Wallace House, we were able to enroll him at Ann Arbor Open School, and from day one, the entire school community welcomed us with open arms. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced before even though my son had previously started school in Canada at the age of four.

When I told the school staff that my son had been diagnosed with dyslexia, they immediately arranged a meeting. Four people attended: his classroom teacher, the special education teacher, a school psychologist, and an occupational therapist. Even the principal joined us later and apologized for missing the first part of the meeting. I was in awe of the attention and care they gave to my immigrant son, a child who wasn’t even an American citizen. He had been born in Kabul, Afghanistan of all places, but he was fortunate to be a Canadian citizen.

In my entire life, I had never seen that kind of support extended to me or my family. And the care didn’t stop after that first meeting, it continued throughout the entire school year.

In just one year, my son was transformed. He got to play a part in a school theater production organized entirely by his incredible teachers, Ms. Kayleigh Robb and Ms. Johnny Thompson. He went on multiple field trips, attended his first-ever overnight camp, performed in two school concerts, and even became a published author, sharing his poems alongside his classmates. Magically, his reading improved, despite the fact that he never brought homework home.

I was astonished, both shocked and in awe of how much one school, in one year, could transform not only a child, but an entire family.

LaShawn O’Banner and Navid Rastgar, Zahra Nader’s son.

But the most important lesson I learned came later, as my son was writing thank-you letters at the end of the school year. He was thinking about who he wanted to thank and who deserved a special shout-out. Two names surprised me: his lunch lady, Ms. Gwen, and his bus driver, LaShawn O’Banner.

When I read his letter and listened to his stories about them, I realized something profound: You don’t have to be a “big” or “important” person to leave a lasting impact on someone’s life.

You can be a lunch lady who gives mint candy to every child. You can be a bus driver who listens, truly listens, to a child who can’t wait to share what he learned that day at school. You can make a difference just by being kind in your everyday interactions. And often, you have no idea how deeply those moments matter to someone else.

Today, Gwen and LaShawn are two of my son’s best friends not because of their job titles, but because of the way they treated him, listened to him, and made him feel seen. As a parent, I will never forget the impression they left on me. The entire community of Ann Arbor Open and the broader Ann Arbor community embraced us in a way I could not have imagined.

This year has taught me something no fellowship, degree, or title ever could: You don’t need to be powerful to be impactful. You just need to care.