Hard work is essential for success, but it’s not the only factor. Access, privilege, and sheer luck also play pivotal roles—whether we choose to acknowledge them or not.
The other day, a woman in my writing group told me, "It’s not hard for me to get a book deal. As a journalist, publishers just come to me."
"Amazing! You’re so lucky," I said, intending it as a compliment. But she quickly took offense.
"Luck had nothing to do with it. It’s years of hard work. I worked hard and earned my PhD, so of course they want to publish me."
Her response lingered in my mind—not because I doubted her effort, but because it revealed a refusal to recognize the chance that made her success possible. She is from Germany, where earning a PhD is free of charge, and the government even provides stipends for living expenses. Could she have earned her PhD if she had been born in Afghanistan, where women aren’t allowed to speak, let alone read or write?
Even in the United States—often seen as a land of opportunity—a PhD is financially out of reach for most. First comes the cost of an undergraduate degree, then a master’s, and finally a PhD—an investment that totals around half a million dollars in a country where the average American makes only $50,000 a year. For those from working-class families, pursuing a PhD in fields like philosophy or literature is not only rarely possible, it is viewed as selfish.
In Iran, where I was born, these barriers are not just financial—they’re entrenched in the law. A woman’s testimony in court is worth half that of a man’s. In publishing, agents don’t rush to you because you’ve spent twenty years writing or earned a PhD. They come to you first if you’re a man, then if you’re connected to a government official, and finally because you’re willing to write propaganda that supports the regime’s agenda.
This is what so many fail to see: privilege and luck don’t negate effort—they create the conditions where effort can pay off. Germany has one of the highest PhD rates in the world—2% of the population holds a doctorate. Of course, hard work matters, but so do opportunity and access. The road to success isn’t solely paved by your hard work; it is also shaped by access, resources, and systemic structures.
I have no problem admitting just how lucky I have been in life. I was raised by a grandmother who, despite being forbidden to attend school herself, hid books all over the house, risking imprisonment and torture to give me the privilege of reading them.
Despite losing my country, my family, and everything I knew in the blink of an eye, I was able to immigrate to the U.S. and earn an academic scholarship. It covered tuition, but I still relied on a federal grant to buy books and worked four jobs to pay for food and room and board. Every night, while my classmates slept, I worked the graveyard shift at IHOP, from midnight to 6 a.m.
But 4 a.m. was when I felt most lucky. That was when the women working as escorts would roll in—their high-heeled boots and fishnet tights, their faces haggard. As I poured hot chocolate into their cups, loading them with extra whipped cream, they’d ask me about my studies. They’d share stories of the men who had mistreated them—beaten, acted rough, or even just behaved strangely. When they gave me more tips than any successful businessman ever did and said, "You go on, honey. Study hard and don’t become anything like us," I knew just how lucky I was.
Now I’m raising two daughters—one Black and one white. The other day, a friend said to me, "Oh, your Black daughter will have no problem getting into Oxford or Cambridge—not only because she’s a girl, but because she’s Black."
What this friend doesn’t understand—aside from the obvious biases in university admissions—is the reality my daughter faces every day. When we walk into a store, she is watched closely, her every move scrutinized. In an average boutique, she is reminded by three different sales clerks not to touch anything. Meanwhile, my white daughter enters the same store and is greeted with smiles and encouraged to browse.
Two years ago, in the Netherlands, my daughters and I were attacked by a group of neo-Nazis. They spat on my younger Black child, called her racial slurs, and beat her. They moved on to me when I tried to defend her. They didn’t touch my older white daughter, who stood there screaming in utter horror. My heart shattered that night when I had to sit my daughters down and explain why it happened.
Yes, there are programs aimed at balancing the scales of opportunity for my Black daughter, but do they truly compensate for the fear she carries every day? For the moments when she’s doubted, overlooked, or devalued? For the reality that, to some, her very existence is offensive?
This is why I find the dismantling of diversity programs so infuriating. With Google and Accenture among the latest to scrap these initiatives, I wonder if we aren’t once again moving backward in history. These programs didn’t create unfair advantages—they attempted to correct centuries of imbalance. Acknowledging privilege doesn’t require guilt; it requires understanding. It requires recognizing that our achievements—however hard-earned—were made possible by doors others were simply never allowed to enter.
The current administration in the U.S. claims that efforts to address systemic inequalities are "reverse discrimination." They call diversity and inclusion programs "un-American," arguing they promote "race and sex stereotyping." Recently, they declared, "We will restore merit-based education," while simultaneously stripping away policies designed to ensure merit can be recognized across racial and economic divides.
When our fellow writer insists her achievements are purely the result of hard work—like Trump, who believes he built his wealth empire through effort alone while ignoring the fortune and connections he inherited—what are they really saying? That those who struggle simply didn’t work hard enough? That they deserve their oppression?
Luck doesn’t mean you didn’t work hard. It means you had opportunities others didn’t. Those of us who’ve had that luck—whether it’s freedom of speech, access to education, or the ability to walk into a room and be accepted—have worked hard. But we were also lucky.
And I will never stop using that privilege to fight for those who haven’t been as lucky. Because privilege doesn’t diminish our achievements—it demands that we do more with it.
So I ask you: Are you ready to admit your luck? And more importantly, are you willing to rise to the responsibility that comes with it?
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