She names the problem exactly as Abai does, bureaucratic indifference, shallow “consultations,” and a culture that nudges the vulnerable toward dependency, and then rebuilds different conditions: planning, transparency, and capability. Abai asks, “Who is strong enough to uproot this evil?” Aizada’s answer is practical rather than rhetorical: build capability, teach others, and create lawful opportunities so people can “earn what they lack” without collusion. Her dream is to take financial literacy and business-planning workshops to rural districts, and even to pioneer intimate coaching for women with disabilities. Aizada lives in the moral economy Abai longed for: one where conscience guides action, work is honest, learning is continuous, and the ordinary person has a clean, dignified way to thrive.
When Aizada Yerbolkyzy speaks, her words flow with quiet fire, not the rage of bitterness, but the power of survival that has burned through pain, loss, and rebirth. Born and raised in Almaty, she grew up with a love for learning and numbers. She graduated from the Physics and Mathematics Faculty of Abai Kazakh National Pedagogical University in 2015 with a degree in Information Systems, a proud moment for her and her family. Life seemed steady and hopeful. She was married, had a young daughter, and carried the aspirations of an ordinary Qazaq woman building a modest but meaningful life. Then, in late 2017, everything changed. A car accident left her spine shattered. “I broke my back,” she said, “and after that, I couldn’t feel my body below the waist.” The diagnosis came with the weight of finality, first-degree disability. She spent nearly three years bedridden, dependent on others even for the smallest movement. She remembers lying in bed, feeding through a tube, watching her little daughter take her first steps. “I was lying there,” she recalled softly, “and my daughter was walking, learning, growing. I was learning to crawl again.”
Her husband could not bear the weight of her condition. One day, he left. “He abandoned me,” she said. “After that, I moved back to my parents’ home.” The days blurred into years, pain, treatments, rejection. Even the doctors stopped taking her case seriously, dismissing her despite her willingness to pay for care. Yet one moment changed everything: her imagination of her daughter’s voice, not as a child, but as a grown woman filled with hurt. “In my mind,” she said, “I saw my daughter telling me: ‘Mom, you sat there your whole life. Dad left us. I never saw anything, never went anywhere, never wore what I wanted.’” That imagined future pierced her heart. “That vision gave me ruh (from Qazaq ‘spirit’),” she said. “It gave me strength. I realized I could not stay like this. My daughter was growing, and I had to act.” That day, Aizada decided to stand, not on her feet, but in her will. Standing meant accepting her condition, facing the world, and returning to society. In 2021, she moved to the city, renting a small apartment in Almaty. She tried finding jobs, but her health made office work impossible. “I couldn’t sit long,” she said. “The pain would become unbearable, and the salary wasn’t even enough to cover transport.” So she turned to the online world, searching for something that could bring both dignity and income.
Her journey into entrepreneurship began, as she puts it, “out of pride and necessity.” “I had higher education, I had a daughter, I had been married,” she said. “I didn’t want to do low-paid work just to survive. I wanted something I could be proud of.” Beneath her determination burned an inner contest, at first, an eregec, a defiance born of pain. “Outwardly, it looked like I was trying to prove something to my ex-husband,” she said, “but in truth, I was proving it to myself.” That fire carried her toward her first major leap, applying for a government grant for socially vulnerable groups. In 2021, she heard about the 400 MRP grant and decided to apply. “It was meant to help people like us … to give us a start instead of just waiting for help,” she said. But the grant was small, and she knew she had to go further. Around that time, scrolling through social media, she came across a business coach from Astana offering a course to train participants to write business plans and apply for a 5,000,000 tenge grant. The course cost 125,000 tenge, an enormous amount for her. “My father had only 10,000 saved for me,” she recalled. “I sent them 5,000 as a prepayment and my disability certificate. I told them I would pay the rest in installments. That’s how I took the leap. I trusted Allah first … then myself.” That decision transformed her life. She not only completed the course but became one of the top students, and soon after, the assistant to her mentor. “Because it was online, no one knew I was disabled,” she said proudly. “I was the first in the team to be hired, and I became the teacher’s right hand.” Her hard work and intellect brought her recognition, and in November 2021, she won the 5,000,000 tenge grant, becoming one of Qazaqstan’s first entrepreneurs to open a sock manufacturing workshop, as a person with a first-degree disability.
Today, Aizada manages three organizations under her name, an individual entrepreneur, a limited liability company, and a public foundation. She also works as an expert-trainer at the Ten Qogam center in Almaty, teaching people with disabilities how to start businesses and apply for grants. “For three years, I’ve been giving consultations,” she said. “When my clients go to apply, their documents are always perfect from the first time.” Her pride lies not only in her business success but in her contribution to others’ empowerment. “I teach because I love to teach,” she smiled. “When I explain something, I don’t feel tired. It gives me energy.” Yet her days are not easy. She manages both online and offline teams, balancing strategy, client meetings, and mentorship. “If one thing moves, everything moves,” she laughed. “So I plan my week strictly.” But beneath her cheerful tone lies the reality of physical strain. “I walk with crutches,” she said. “They told me to use a wheelchair, but I refused. If I sit, I’ll get used to comfort. So I walk … even if it’s hard.” Her resilience radiates in her philosophy of balance. “When I’m tired,” she said, “I rest fully. I don’t feel guilty. I can sleep the whole day if I need to.” She also shares her emotions openly with her followers, speaking on live streams about challenges, health, and mental strength. “I don’t hold it in,” she said. “If I need to cry, I cry. Then I move on.”
The barriers she faces are not only physical but social. “Once, in Burabay, people saw me walking with crutches and whispered, ‘She’s so young, why is she walking like that?’” she said. “They don’t understand. But I still dress beautifully, wear makeup, and go out. I’m not ashamed.” For her, self-presentation is an act of defiance, a declaration that disability is not invisibility. What angers her most, though, is bureaucracy and indifference. “The people who are supposed to help don’t give proper consultations,” she said. “They get paid whether they help or not.” So she took it upon herself to learn every regulation, every law, and every funding rule. “That’s why I became an expert,” she explained. “Because I studied everything by myself. My clients succeed because I understand how the system works.” Aizada often reflects on who she was before the accident, a quiet, soft-spoken woman with low self-esteem. “Before, I never spoke up,” she said. “I was shy, silent, always saying yes. But this accident made me strong.” The pain, the abandonment, the struggle, they all forged her into a new person. “I used to imagine myself speaking in front of millions,” she said. “Now I do. I appear on TV, I speak at forums.” Her confidence, once buried, has become her signature. One of her most vivid memories is the day her old laptop broke, twice, just as she began studying. “I cried so hard,” she said. “I thought I’d lost everything … my lessons, my notes, all my information.” But later she remembered a saying that she now lives by: ‘When you decide to change, Allah will test you with difficulties. The strong ones keep going.’ Her repairman stayed up all night to save her files, a small miracle that she still recalls with gratitude.
When asked if she regrets anything, she smiles. “Not at all,” she said. “If this hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I even thank my ex-husband for leaving me. If he’d stayed, I would have lived in comfort and never changed.” She believes that life gives hints, small, gentle warnings, before it sends a blow strong enough to awaken us. “People who’ve experienced trauma rise faster,” she said. “Because they have nothing left to fear.” Her message to others with disabilities is sharp and loving: “Don’t be victims. Stop crying. Crying won’t help.” She believes too many people stay in comfort zones, waiting for life to change. “Some say, ‘I’ll walk first, then I’ll work,’ but what if that day never comes?” she asked. “You have to move. Crawl if you must, but move.” For Aizada, faith and purpose are intertwined. “Everything belongs to Allah,” she said. “We won’t take anything with us. So live. Work. Learn.” Her motivation is clear, her daughter. “I want to give her education, a home, a car. That’s why I keep going,” she said. In the future, she dreams of creating a new kind of business, intimate coaching for women with disabilities, helping them talk openly about relationships, self-image, and family life. “They often ask me to become an intimate trainer,” she laughed. “No one talks about these things, but they need to be said. Maybe I’ll be the first.” She also plans to bring financial literacy workshops to rural regions, where she hopes to teach others how to apply for grants and start businesses of their own. “It’s all about learning and communication,” she said. At the end of our conversation, Aizada leaned back and said, almost like a confession:
“The biggest lesson I’ve learned? Never live by someone else’s opinion. Don’t wait for approval.”
Her narrative embodies mind, heart, and will, the full harmony of Abai’s Tolyq Adam. The intellect to learn and adapt, the heart to forgive and love again, and the will to rise when life seems impossible. Through every tear and triumph, Aizada shows what it means not just to live, but to live fully, fiercely, and without fear.