Year 13 English

By Muhammad Ebrahim | Posted: Thursday October 30, 2025

A Life Less Ordinary

I and my fellow Year 13s stand at the edge of something vast. One foot still planted in adolescence, the other stepping into adulthood. And the question we face is simple: will we live an ordinary life or will we dare to live like extraordinary people?

Over the past five years, I’ve faced moments that tested me, shaped me, and ultimately taught me what it means to live a life less ordinary. I want to share three of those moments with you, and not because they were easy, but because they changed my perspective on life and transformed me.

I’ve been doing karate for eight years. That’s over half my life spent in a dojo — bowing in, bowing out, repeating the same movements until they became muscle memory. But it wasn’t always graceful. I would sometimes just forget what to do. I would freeze in front of my class when I was called out to show an example of a certain Kata. I remember being the kid who was weak and wanted to quit. But I didn’t. I practised every day. I gathered the courage to ask for help if I needed it. Then when I was actually doing better than ever, my sensei was impressed and always told me to never give up on my dreams and goals even when I felt lost. Those words gave me the courage to work harder so I can achieve what I wanted in life. Karate taught me that mastery isn’t about perfecting something, it’s about staying consistent and perceiving it. It’s about showing up, even when you’re tired, even when you’re scared, even when you’ve failed. It taught me to respect others, to control my emotions, and to push through pain with purpose. A life less ordinary isn’t built in moments of glory. It’s built in the quiet grind, the hours no one sees, the effort no one applauds. Karate gave me that grit, and I carry it with me now as an International Black Belt.

In 2020, COVID came into South Africa. Six to seven months of lockdown. Days blurred into nights. The world shrank to the size of our homes. And suddenly, the things we took for granted. The freedom, connection, movement, all gone. At first, I felt trapped. Not knowing what to do. Having the fear of losing my life or loved ones. But over time, I found new rhythms. I read more. I trained alone. I called friends just to hear their voices. Some nights I would just stare out the window, missing the smallest of things – a simple handshake, crowded classrooms, the sound of laughter in the hallways, hanging out with your mates during lunch.

I did not realise that the smallest and most normal things that occurred during my time in school before Covid actually had a genuine impact on my social life, things like going out of our homes visiting family and friends. Being stuck in lockdown for a long period of time made me realise that resilience isn’t loud — it’s quiet. It’s the ability to endure, to adapt, to find meaning even when the world feels paused. A life less ordinary isn’t about constant motion. Sometimes, it’s about stillness. About reflection. About choosing hope when everything feels uncertain.

Then the biggest event occurred in my life. Moving from South Africa all the way across to  New Zealand and I had to leave behind everything familiar: my friends, my school, my family. I stepped into a world where everything felt foreign.  I remember my first day at school here. I didn’t know anyone. I felt like I was watching life from the outside, trying to decode it – the different school systems they use here, the different school times used here. It was difficult, but slowly, I adapted. I learned the rhythm of this place. I found my voice again. I made new friends. And in doing so, I discovered something deeper — that identity isn’t fixed. It’s fluid. It’s something you build, piece by piece, every time you choose to grow instead of retreat. A life less ordinary means embracing change, even when it’s uncomfortable. It means choosing courage over comfort. Migration taught me that.

So what does it mean to live a life less ordinary?

It means showing up when it’s hard. It means embracing change when it’s scary. It means finding strength in silence, and purpose in challenge. Karate taught me discipline. Migration taught me courage. Lockdown taught me resilience. And now, as we step into adulthood, I carry those lessons with me.

My challenge to you is this: don’t drift into the future half-asleep. Don’t settle for safety. Take risks. Speak up. Chase the dreams that scare you. Because one day, when we look back, the only regret we’ll have is the life we didn’t dare to live.