here i am — just trying, calling softly to the voices out there who understand this kind of quiet pain.
the kind born from endless expectation, from being the one who must hold it all together — the steady voice when others break, the bridge when love grows distant
the ache of the eldest daughter — when you speak of hurt, they silence you with patience, ask you to let go, to understand.
as if your pain were a mark of ingratitude, as if your tiredness was just in your head,
as if a lifetime of holding the world together was never enough to make you tired.
how much more pain? how much more patience? how many more things must i let go of before i lose myself completely?
the ache of the eldest — we are expected to be the calm, to swallow the fire and call it love. yet nobody believes even we can break.
today, i did. and maybe i will again. i’ve learned that breaking doesn’t make a sound– when no one believes your pain.
as if every feeling i named was wrong, as if pain could only belong to someone else. so i learned to swallow my voice, to call silence understanding, to call exhaustion love.
this is what love has taught me: that it is endless, that it is the quiet endurance of hard days, that it asks, and asks again, until you no longer know where love ends even when there’s nothing left to give.
I used to think my life was important. Interesting. Almost glamorous in a way — not because of what I had outside of work, but because of the pressure I lived inside of it.
My previous job was stressful, high stakes, and full of challenges. And I loved it. Every task I owned, every roadmap I built felt like it carried weight in the organization. People noticed. And honestly? I won’t lie — I felt important
I was surrounded by high-performing people, people with incredible intellect. I was also very lucky with my bosses and mentors. They were smart, sharp. Each of them had their own strengths that I admired — even though, yeah, some of them didn’t exactly have the best people skills (~oops). They were so good at what they did that nobody dared to challenge them. I looked up to them. I learned from them. Being in that circle made me feel like I belonged to something bigger.
And my team? They were everything. I couldn’t have done it without them.
We worked hard, we laughed, we carried each other through the chaos. I honestly thought we’d be together for a long time. We were very passionate people, really love doing what we do. And then, just like that, it was over. When the announcement was made — just like that, the rhythm we built together ended.
I remember staring at that reality and thinking: What now?
Do I still want this job if I don’t have these people with me?
Was it the work I loved — or was it them? The comfort of them that gave me confidence?
I didn’t have the answers. I still don’t, really. But I do know that moment cracked something open in me.
What I do know is that everything changed after that. Eventually, I decided to move into a completely different role — one that tests me in new ways: my discipline, my patience, my ability to stand without the same support system I once leaned on. I don’t have a team now. I run the show mostly alone, with only the support from my manager. We don’t own the roadmap — we only influence it. And to this day, I still struggle with that.
Technically, I’m part of a team. But in practice, I’m alone. My teammates all do completely different scopes, different worlds. Which means in practice, it’s a lonely world. And that loneliness is its own kind of challenge.
It’s a whole new game, and it doesn’t feel good. Not comforting at all.
But through all this, one thing has become clear: I didn’t know who I was when it was taken away from me. For 6 years, I woke up and fell asleep with my mind running through tasks, projects, and accomplishments. My worth was measured by how much I got done, how many slack fires I put out, how important I seemed in the eyes of others.
And then suddenly, it was quiet. Too quiet. Who was I without all the noise?
So I let myself dwell in this feelings and thoughts for 3 months, I gave myself 3 months before I decide what I want to do about it. And somewhere in between, I started blaming myself. For caring too much. For being too passionate. For letting work mean so much to me.
But is that really wrong?
To give a part of myself to something I loved doing?
To care enough that it hurts when it’s gone?
Because the truth is, that same passion — the one I thought broke me — is the very thing that will carry me forward.
And I’m glad I gave my all into everything I did. Even if it cost me pieces of myself along the way, at least I can look back now and know I didn’t hold back. I showed up fully. I cared deeply. I poured myself into my work — and that is something to be proud of. The achievements, the challenges I overcame, the people I worked alongside — they’re all part of me now. They shaped me, and no one can take that away.
But then I thought — what is so interesting about that, if in the process I lost the sense of living?
I let work define me so much that I forgot what it meant to actually live. For years, I measured my days by tasks completed, rollouts done, roadmaps delivered, OKRs achieved. My life was a checklist. My worth was tied to output. And somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing the quieter moments — the ones that weren’t about deadlines, but about simply living.
That realization was hard. Because while I’m proud of what I built, I also see the parts of myself I neglected. The pauses I skipped. The fun I never allowed myself to sit with. The life I put on hold because I thought the work was more important?
And the truth is, I don’t know how to undo that yet. I don’t know how to separate myself from the need to achieve something, or how to measure a day without a to-do-list. All I know is that I lost something along the way.
If someone asked you who you are outside of work… what would be your answer?
#Disclaimer -This picture was taken years ago — back when I still drank coffee. These days, not even Nescafe.
this is going to be a really short post, it is more like a morning thought that I felt like sharing here.
I grew up having a lot of friends — some from school, some from the internet. The ones I used to spend nights with on Skype or Yahoo Messenger are now just people I follow from afar on Instagram. Sometimes even from the tuition or extra classes I took outside of school. I remember inviting 30-40 people every year for my Eid open house.
Now, it’s funny — how someone who once defined how you spend your evening becomes just a familiar name on your feed. You scroll past their instagram posts, wedding announcements, becoming parents and a part of you remembers the younger version of them — the one who stayed up till 3 a.m. chatting about nonsense, love and breakups. (~cringing)
Over time, I realized that only the friendships that truly matter — the ones that continue to feel relevant — manage to stay. And that list is much smaller than it used to be. But how or when did that happen?
The truth is, friendships take effort. Real effort. They demand your time, your mental space, your emotional energy. Some days, my friends annoy me so much that I want to just curse at them — but I don’t. Because I know they’ve done the same for me: chosen patience on days when I wasn’t exactly easy to deal with.
That’s what friendship often comes down to — the quiet choice to hold back, to be kind, to let the little things slide. It’s less about “being the bigger person” and more about choosing peace, choosing the relationship over being right. And maybe that’s why the list of people who stay gets smaller with time: not everyone is willing, or able, to keep making that choice.
But — what happens when that choice isn’t made on both sides?
Have you ever had your heart broken by a friendship? It’s not the kind of heartbreak people talk about, but it cuts just as deep.
And trust me, you don’t want that — and I’ll tell you why.
I lost a significant friend, and even now, it still lingers in my heart. We never fought. We just… drifted apart. If you asked me “What happened?” — I don’t have a definite answer for you. Nothing really happened. I can’t point to a single event that caused it. And yet — it happened. Nothing in life ever prepared me for this, for someone who is so significant to simply….be gone.
Who would have thought that we could missed each other’s big day? Now she’s married and has a baby I once dreamed of carrying in my arms. It is so strange how my life just continues, but yet some memories of her stay so clear in my mind. Every year, my birthday reminds me of her — the last time I saw her was on that day, eight years ago. But if you ask me:
Am I angry? yes
Do I hate her? yes
Did I unfollowed her on instagram? embarrassingly, yes (shame on me for this immature behavior).
Do I quietly stalk her still? you’ve gone too far — stop asking, but yes
I often wonder if she ever thinks of me as much as I think of her. A lot has changed in my life, but she is still there — significant, in her absence. It’s a quiet kind of ache, knowing that someone who once meant so much can now feel so far away. Even to this day, it still feels heavy on my heart. And maybe that’s what friendship really is: not just the people who stay, but also the ones who leave and still leave a mark on you, years later. (~if its true, then it sucks, I want to be a cow, mooooo).
But in all seriousness — do I still hope that someday she comes back? BIG YES
and….if she ever decide to come back, I’d want her to know that I’d welcome her wholeheartedly — probably with dramatic tears falling. But then….if she really did come back,
where would we even start?
Pick up where we left off, or continue with our lives, only this time, better with each other?
turns out it wasn’t really a short post… somebody call the police, she’s a liar
I thought long and hard about the kind of person I want to be in this temporary and chaotic world. Life often feels like a constant rush — achievements, expectations, and quiet comparisons crossing my mind (especially when I stay on internet for too long – I cant help it).
In the quiet moments, I found myself asking: Am I doing enough? Am I becoming the person I was meant to be?
I keep questioning myself endlessly in my mind. I am married, so should my next step be motherhood? Is that the natural path I am expected to take, or is it something my heart truly wants? Then comes the part of me tied to my work. My career feels a little stagnant lately, and I can’t help but wonder: is this just a passing phase, or a sign that I should pivot my focus entirely? Should I take this time as a chance to dream differently, to walk a new road I hadn’t considered before?
And yet, with every question I ask myself, the answers always feel incomplete. The truth is, no matter how much I analyze and plan, I will never be able to fully predict where each path will take me. That realization brings me back to the core of my faith: What is Allah trying to tell me through these uncertainties?
Maybe the stillness in my career is a nudge to slow down and reflect.
Maybe the lingering thought of motherhood is a reminder of the gift of nurturing that lies within me.
Or maybe, — it’s neither.
Maybe it’s simply Allah’s way of teaching me patience, trust, and surrender — lessons I wouldn’t learn if life was always straightforward.
In the end, the real question isn’t just about who I want to be, but who Allah is shaping me to become.
I have always been the kind of person who knows what I want and where I’m going. Most of the time, I set a goal and work hard until I get there. But this year feels different. For the first time, the path isn’t so clear. I find myself pausing, questioning, and most of the time feeling a little lost.
This season of uncertainty has taught me something new. It’s reminding me that life isn’t always about control or planning every step. Instead, it’s about trusting Allah’s plan, even when I can’t see the full picture.
in those quiet moments 