The First Time I Walked Into the UN
5–7 short stories about nerves, badges, and becoming visible
1. “I Was Shaking Going Through Security”
I almost dropped my passport at the entrance.
The security line moved slowly, but my heartbeat didn’t. Metal detectors, trays for laptops, officers checking badges—nothing unusual, but that day it all felt like an exam I hadn’t revised for. Behind me, someone spoke French. In front of me, someone was on the phone in Arabic confirming a meeting with “Excellency.” I suddenly felt like the only amateur in a building full of professionals.
When they finally printed my first-ever UN badge and slid it under the glass, I stared at my own photo like it belonged to someone else. United Nations Headquarters – Temporary Pass. That little piece of plastic felt heavier than it looked.
I clipped it on with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
Not because of the scanners.
Because from that moment, I wasn’t just a student on a trip.
I was responsible for how I would use that access.
Lesson: Sometimes your body knows you’re stepping into a new chapter before your mind does. The shaking is not a sign you don’t belong—it's evidence that you understand the weight of the door you just walked through.
2. “I Called My Mom From the Hallway”
The first thing I did after picking up my badge wasn’t to run to a session.
I stepped into a quiet corner of the hallway, leaned against a wall covered in UN posters, and called my mom.
She answered on the third ring, still half-asleep because of the time difference. I turned the camera around and showed her the long corridor, the flags, the sign that said “Conference Rooms.” She didn’t know much about the UN, but she knew this: her daughter, who once froze during school presentations, was now speaking at an event with people from five continents.
She got emotional in exactly 0.5 seconds.
“Just remember,” she said, voice breaking, “you are not there by mistake. You worked for this. Don’t let anyone make you feel small. And eat something.”
I laughed, wiped my eyes, promised I would eat, and hung up. I walked into the conference room with puffy eyes— not from fear, but from feeling rooted. I wasn’t just “a youth delegate.” I was someone’s daughter, carrying an entire family’s hopes into a room that had never heard our last name before.
Lesson: Before you speak to the world, speak to someone who remembers who you were before any of this. It keeps you grounded when the building feels bigger than you.
3. “I Felt Invisible… Until I Started Listening”
My first UN meeting, I sat in the back row.
Technically, I had the right to sit at the table, but I didn’t want to fight for a seat next to people who looked like they had been doing this since before I was born. So I slid into a chair at the back, opened my notebook, and prepared to feel useless.
For the first 20 minutes, I barely understood what was happening. Acronyms flew like confetti: ECOSOC, SDG4, GA, HLPF. People referred to documents by numbers only. “As outlined in A/72/684…” It sounded like a code I didn’t have the key for.
Then I stopped trying to impress myself with understanding, and I just listened.
Slowly, patterns appeared. The same three countries blocked stronger language. The same civil society rep kept bringing the conversation back to implementation, not just promises. A youth delegate in the corner kept scribbling notes every time “youth” was mentioned in a vague way.
By the end of the session, I knew who the real drivers were in that room—and who was just reading prepared statements.
I walked out still quiet, still unknown. But not invisible.
I had seen the room clearly. And now I knew how to prepare for the next time.
Lesson: Visibility is not just about who’s speaking. It starts with who’s really paying attention. Before you rush to be heard, learn to read the room. That’s where your power begins.
4. “My English Felt Too Small for the Building”
I grew up speaking three languages, but somehow, all of them abandoned me in front of the UN building.
On paper, my English was “advanced.” I had the certificates, the test scores, the grades. But walking past the row of flags, hearing diplomats switch effortlessly between English, Spanish, and Russian, my vocabulary shrank to about five words: Hi. Sorry. Yes. No. Thank you.
During one side event, the moderator opened the floor and asked, “Any youth perspectives?” I had something to say. I could think it perfectly in my own language. But inside my head, the sentences kept crashing into each other on the way to English.
Someone else raised their hand first.
Then another.
Then the moderator closed the discussion.
I beat myself up for the rest of the day.
That night, instead of going to the informal reception, I stayed in the hostel and wrote out what I wanted to say if I’d had the courage and fluency in that moment. Then I translated it carefully, checked with a friend online, and turned it into a short intervention.
The next day, when another opportunity came, I was ready. I didn’t improvise. I read from my notes, slowly but steadily. No one laughed at my accent. No one complained about my pace. They just… listened.
Lesson: Your accent is not the problem. Improvising in a high-pressure second language is. Prepare your words on paper first. Courage and preparation beat “perfect English” every single time.
5. “I Thought I Had to Speak For All Youth”
I walked into the UN carrying a weight I had put on my own shoulders.
In my head, I wasn’t just “Fatima from X country.” I was “The Youth.” Capital T, capital Y. I felt like every sentence had to represent millions of people, every opinion had to be perfect, every word balanced enough to survive Twitter screenshots and policy reviews.
That pressure almost crushed me.
In one meeting, a senior official turned to me and said, “So what do youth think about this?” My brain froze. Which youth? From where? With what background?
I gave a generic answer, the kind that sounds nice but says nothing. It bothered me for days.
Later, over coffee, another delegate (a little older, maybe 28) told me something that changed everything:
“You can’t speak for all youth. That’s impossible and dangerous. You speak from where you stand—for the communities you know, the work you’ve done, the conversations you’ve had. That’s already valuable. Just be honest about your perspective.”
The next time someone said, “What do youth think?”, I answered:
“I can’t speak for all youth. But from my work with students in rural areas back home, here’s what we’re seeing…”
It was cleaner, more truthful, and strangely—more powerful.
Lesson: The UN doesn’t need you to be “the voice of a generation.” It needs you to be a clear, honest voice from where you actually stand.
6. “The Most Important Conversation Happened in the Cafeteria”
My official schedule said “Side event on youth inclusion” at 15:00.
But the moment that changed my path didn’t happen in a panel. It happened in the UN cafeteria over a plate of food that was too expensive and not very good.
I was sitting alone, scrolling through my phone, pretending to be busy so I wouldn’t feel awkward. A woman I recognized from a side event—someone who had asked a sharp question about climate financing—asked if she could join my table.
We talked about the session, then about our work, then about how lost we both sometimes felt in these buildings. At some point, I told her about a small project I was running back home with young people and local councils.
She listened carefully and said, “Have you ever thought of turning that into a policy brief? I’m part of a network that might be interested.”
I almost dropped my fork.
That one cafeteria conversation led to an invitation to speak at a regional forum, which led to a collaboration with an organization I had been following online for years. None of it was on my official agenda. All of it happened because I was open enough to say yes to sharing a table.
Lesson: Don’t underestimate informal spaces. Sometimes the hallway and the cafeteria are where the real doors open. Say hi. Ask questions. Sit with strangers. Your next chapter might be sitting across from you with a tray.
7. “Leaving the Building Was Harder Than Entering”
Everyone talks about the first step into the UN. No one prepares you for the steps out.
On my last day, I walked down the staircase slowly, badge still around my neck, taking mental pictures of everything: the mural on the wall, the buzz in the lobby, the flags outside. It felt like waking up from a very intense dream.
Part of me didn’t want to leave. Another part was terrified of going back to “normal life” where nobody cared that I had been in this building. No one was waiting at home with a camera crew. Campus looked the same. My city’s traffic didn’t move any faster because I had spoken near the Security Council chamber.
For a few days, I felt a strange emptiness:
Was that it? A trip, a few meetings, some photos, and back to reality?
Then I realized the real test wasn’t whether I entered the UN.
It was whether I would do anything differently now that I had left.
I joined a local coalition on my issue. I started writing about what I’d seen, explaining it in plain language. I mentored younger students on application processes. I treated every community meeting at home with the same seriousness as the UN side events.
Slowly, the building became less of a peak experience and more of a reference point. Not “the moment I was important,” but “the moment I understood how much work still had to be done outside those walls.”
Lesson: Walking into the UN can change your perspective. What you do after you walk out is what changes the world around you.
These first-time stories aren’t about perfection. They’re about being 20-something, overwhelmed, under-slept, over-dreaming—and still choosing to show up.
One badge at a time. One shaky hand at a time. One lesson at a time.