My passion for baking started at a 

very young age. I can’t tell you about 
the very first time I ever baked because 
I quite honestly don’t remember, but I 
do remember what became a weekly 
ritual at my house starting when I was 
about five years old. Every Sunday, 
my dad and I spent our afternoons in 
the kitchen whipping up some sort 
of dessert. As he and I sped through 
our tiny kitchen, my sisters blasted 
Nancy Ajram (only one of the most 
iconic Arabic singers) in the living 
room while my brothers played video 
games and my mother tried to remain 
ahead of of the disaster the kitchen 
would soon become. It was beautiful 
chaos. We measured, whipped, mixed, 
frosted and sprinkled our way through 
our Sunday. But do not be fooled. After 
all our efforts, we were always left 
with nothing more than a prepared 
Betty Crocker vanilla cake mix that 
was topped with heaping amounts of 
pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles. 
But, in my five-year-old eyes, it was 

worth more than the entire world. 
My affinity for baking grew with me 
throughout the years, and I often 
think back to those Sunday afternoons 
with feelings of nostalgia as I consider 
what initially set my love for baking 
into motion. 

After informally taking orders 

from customers all over Ann Arbor 
for years, I launched my independent 
baking business, Confections by Reem, 
during the summer before my senior 
year of high school. I was motivated 
by a mixture of boredom and finally 
pulled the trigger on something I 
had wanted to do professionally for 
years — but it was no smooth-sailing 
journey. As any small-business owner 
would, I experienced great highs but 
also very low lows. There were times 
when I absolutely thrived and reached 
heights I never thought I could, and 
there were times I failed. Over time, 
I watched my order counts double, 
triple and even lead me to book out 
full weekends. Simultaneously, I 
watched my social media presence 
grow and gain more traction within 
my community and beyond. These, as 
well as countless other achievements, 

were highs. However, things like 
the occasional failed cake or various 
attempts to navigate the complexity of 
Instagram marketing with its forever-
changing algorithm seemed to drown 
out all previous joy and pride. 

Running my small business spurred 

and intensified notions about myself 
that I never knew I had. Through all 
the roses and thorns, one persisted: 
I never felt qualified or worthy to 
be in my position. I didn’t feel like I 
deserved the title of “entrepreneur” 
or “small-business owner” and quite 
honestly felt like my achievements 
were more of a product of luck 
rather than my own hard work. I 
allowed my minor failures to define 
my capabilities and refrained from 
talking about my business to strangers 
and even friends and family. But at 
the same time, I also could not help 
but question the paradox in my own 
struggle: How could I be hyperaware 
of the fact that I was doing so well with 
my business yet still approach it with 
so much self-doubt? Out of frustration, 
I connected with other small-business 
owners on Instagram, particularly 
those who carried similar identities 

as me and were in the same field as 
me. By interacting with these like-
minded women of color and hearing 
their experiences, I discovered that 
my feelings were purely a result 
of imposter syndrome. People of 
color, some of who carry multiple 
marginalized identities, are prone to 
experiencing an increased sense of 
imposter syndrome. Connecting with 
these small-business owners helped 
me understand these insecurities 
but also motivated me to fight back 
against them. I actively sought to 
minimize the extent to which I allow 
my imposter syndrome to stunt the 
growth and potential of my business. 
Easier said than done? Most definitely. 
I would be lying if I said that my 
impostorism has disappeared entirely 
because every day is a constant battle. 
I began by implementing small goals 
in my everyday actions and thoughts. 
While I initially found it challenging 
to refer someone to my page, I now 
shamelessly plug my business in any 
social setting and rant about the work 
I do to any person who is willing 
to listen. And although I initially 
struggled with delegating and asking 

for help when I needed it, I now take 
full advantage of any resource that I 
cross paths with. 

I take immense pride in the fact 

that I am an entrepreneur of color. 
By recognizing my self-worth and 
my business’ potential, I regained 
excitement to do what I do, and it has 
even managed to spill over into other 
spheres of my life. 

6

Thursday, May 13, 2021
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

When I arrived in Ann Arbor 

in January, I embarked on a quest 
to survive my second semester of 
college. Along my epic journey, I 
faced powerful foes such as Calculus 
2 and second year-level Japanese. 
Night after night, I crossed swords 
with Taylor polynomials and kanji 
characters. Despite several defeats 
over the course of the semester, I 
vanquished my last final exams 
and claimed the ultimate treasure, 

an ancient relic I had long since 
forgotten: free time. Immediately 
after my Calc 2 final, I swiftly exited 
Gradescope and navigated over to 
Steam; it was time I enjoyed myself 
with a good video game after months 
of non-stop work. Combing through 
my backlog of games, I stumbled 
across “Omori,” a psychological 
horror game set in a deceptively 
bright and colorful, nostalgic, 8-bit 
fantasy 
world 
brimming 
with 

amusing characters and heartfelt 
moments.

I bought Omori just a few days 

after its release after seeing a video 

showing the game’s cute art style 
on Tiktok. I had anticipated the 
game’s horror elements from its 
description on Steam; nevertheless 
I was still a little shocked when 
my player character began in a 
sparse, eerie white room called 
Whitespace. After poking around 
the area and obtaining a knife as a 
weapon, a door became accessible 
and let me venture through the 
world with other friendly characters 
I met. The pastel world design 
and charming characters were so 
adorable that I pretty much forgot 
that this was a horror game. And 
because I was familiar with the 
fairly simple combat system found 
in other turn-based role-playing 
games like “Pokémon,” I was 
immediately 
comfortable 
with 

Omori. As a result, I never wondered 
why there was an inaccessible menu 
option labelled “???” on the top-left 
corner of my screen (Since I was still 
in the tutorial, I figured this would 
be a normal tool that would open up 
to me later). And when my character 
learned a combat skill bluntly 
labelled “stab,” I never viewed it as 
anything more than a basic element 

One Friday morning, as I exited 

my anatomy class, a tall brunette 
with a black backpack nudged me 
and asked, “Wait, you listen to The 
Moth?” I was taken aback because 
I was in fact listening to an episode 
of “The Moth Radio Hour” podcast. 
“The Moth” was founded in 1997 by 
novelist George Dawes Green, “who 
wanted to recreate in New York the 
feeling of sultry summer evenings 
in his native Georgia, when moths 
were attracted to the light on the 
porch where he and his friends 
would gather to spin spellbinding 
tales.” “The Moth” holds a variety 
of events from “StorySLAMs,” 
an open-mic setting where any 
attendees can tell a story in front of 
a small audience, to the “Mainstage,” 
where tellers spend time with 
producers from “The Moth” to 
develop their stories and curate them 
for a large audience. The podcast 
features selected stories recorded at 
those events with commentary from 
the hosts as well as behind-the-scenes 
details. 

That day, The Moth’s logo was 

visible on my phone — sparking 
a conversation between us about 
“The Moth,” our love for stories and 
why storytelling is so important 
to us. We spoke about our favorite 
episodes and shared more podcast 
recommendations with each other. 
She loved the Ed Gavagan episodes, 
where he speaks about a horrific 
stabbing accident he went through 
and its aftermath. I recommended to 
her my favorites: Moran Cerf’s story 
in “The Call” and Janna Levin’s 
“Life on a Möbius Strip.” After that, 
I would go on to attend different 
StorySLAMs, become a Hall Of 
Flame member, even pitch my own 
story to “The Moth” and continue 
listening till this day. 

I have always been interested 

in 
people’s 
stories 
and 
lived 

experiences. To deal with my culture 
shock after moving here from 
Syria, my first steps of acclimating 
consisted of observing people’s 
behavior around me and writing 
about things that seemed different, 
new and strange to me. I remember 
one of the first things that puzzled 
me is how students behaved in the 
classroom. 

The Ominous Red Button
The Power of Storytelling

From Boxed Cakes to Confections 

REEM HASSAN 

MiC Columnist

ANDY NAKAMURA

MiC Columnist

LEENA SHARBA

MiC Columnist

Read more at michigandaily.com

Read more at michigandaily.com
Read more at michigandaily.com

Courtesy of Reem Hassan

Courtesy of Andrew Nakamura

MICHIGAN IN COLOR