Lost A

Author: lost A

  • Fake it till you make it

    Fake it till you make it

    Some days “fake it till you make it” feels less like a strategy and more like survival. I hype myself up the way people do before stepping on stage, except my stage is just… life. I tell myself I can do this, even when my voice shakes and my brain whispers that I’m pretending. Confidence still feels like a language I’m learning one awkward sentence at a time. So I borrow the posture, the smile, the steady tone,hoping one day they’ll feel like mine instead of something I’m renting.

    But then there’s impostor syndrome, that annoying little narrator in the background insisting I’m only here by accident. It shows up even when I’m doing well, even when I’ve earned my place. It tells me I’m faking it wrong, that everyone else has the manual and I’m improvising. And yet, I keep going. I show up in rooms that make my stomach twist. I try things that scare me. I pretend to be brave until the pretending becomes a habit. It’s exhausting, waiting for your confidence to catch up with your effort like it’s stuck in traffic but promised it’s coming.

    And slowly, almost secretly, something shifts. You realize you’re not faking it anymore you’re just doing it. The impostor voice gets quieter. You speak without rehearsing. You walk without shrinking. You trust yourself a little more. Confidence doesn’t arrive in a dramatic moment; it grows in tiny pieces you barely notice. And one day, you look at yourself and think: maybe I wasn’t an impostor after all. Maybe I was becoming this version of me the whole time.

  • A Million Dreams – Chapter Three: Old and wrinkly

    A Million Dreams – Chapter Three: Old and wrinkly

    I’ve been thinking about kids since I was barely old enough to understand what wanting something for the future even meant. Back then, the idea was simple: one child, maybe two, three if life pushed me into a corner. I liked the thought of a small family I could hold close, where no one felt lost in the noise. It felt like the responsible choice, the calm choice. And honestly, it felt like the only version of motherhood I could imagine without overwhelming myself.

    Then someone told me that five is the perfect number. I remember brushing it off, but the sentence stayed with me longer than it should have. It didn’t demand anything, it just lingered, warming a part of me I didn’t know was cold. And then, I saw a video of a couple with nineteen kids living on a farmhouse that looked like it had its own weather. Their children are grown now, scattered into their own lives, some with five kids, one with six on the way. More than forty grandkids filling the place with the kind of noise that doesn’t feel chaotic, just alive. Watching them gather, each person carrying a dish, kids running everywhere, stories being passed around like bread… I felt something shift in me. A small ache, but a warm one.

    I don’t want nineteen. I don’t even want to pretend I could survive nineteen. But if I’m being honest, really honest, I don’t think I’d want fewer than five. Something about that video cracked open a door I didn’t know existed. I keep picturing myself old and wrinkly, holding the hand of the man I love, surrounded by our kids and their kids, eating good food, laughing at stories we’ve told so many times they barely belong to us anymore. A full table, a loud house, a life that spills over its edges. That’s the dream I didn’t know I had, and now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee it.

    “In my dreams you’re mine, in reality, you’re my dream” – Nizar Qabbani.

  • Mishomisho

    Mishomisho

    My niece is deep in her Disney princess phase, the kind that takes over her whole tiny world. Every day she walks around clutching her princess toys like they’re her closest friends. Tonight we watched The Little Mermaid, the old 90s one, and she stared at Ariel with this wide-eyed seriousness that made me laugh quietly. She knows their names, but she insists on calling all of them mishomisho. One name for every princess. Somehow it fits. Somehow it feels like the kind of logic only a one-and-a-half-year-old can invent.

    There’s something so sweet about watching her fall in love with characters before she even understands stories. She doesn’t follow the plot, she follows colors, music, movement. Ariel swims, she claps. Belle twirls, she twirls. She hugs her toys like she’s part of their world. Next week I’m taking her to the Disney shop to buy her a princess dress. I already know she’ll choose it with the seriousness of a queen picking her gown. I’ll pretend I’m not melting, but I will be.

    She has her own language for everything. Grapes are appelo. Princesses are mishomisho. Half the time I don’t know what she’s saying, but I love that she’s building her own dictionary, her own tiny universe. She’s only one and a half, but she already names things with this confidence that makes me want to write everything down before she grows out of it. These small, made-up words feel like the softest part of her childhood, the part I want to remember.

  • A Million Dreams – Chapter Two: The Road That Carried Us Home

    A Million Dreams – Chapter Two: The Road That Carried Us Home

    Late January in Kuwait feels like a quiet beginning. The air is cool, the sky pale and gentle. We pack the RV with tiny backpacks, our perfect playlist the one we spent a whole month curating and just enough essentials to feel free. He makes the coffee; I open the map.
    We walk through the early morning streets before leaving, taking photos together, laughing at how excited we look. It feels like the start of a story we’ll tell for years.

    This trip began with a simple purpose to taste the best coffee shops and bakeries across the GCC, fifteen days to follow the scent of fresh bread and warm coffee from one country to the next. It felt like a sweet excuse to escape, to wander, to breathe.

    Crossing into Saudi Arabia, the air grew colder, the desert stretching wide and golden. The road followed the Arabian Gulf, quiet and calm beside us.
    We stopped at a tiny bakery on the way warm bread, a little sweetness, and the soft hum of the desert wind.
    The day felt slow and gentle, like the world was giving us time.

    Bahrain greets us with soft sea air and warm light. We walk through Manama Souq, exploring pearl shops that shimmer like tiny constellations.
    He surprises me with the loveliest tiny pearl earrings delicate, perfect. I put them on immediately, knowing I’ll never take them off.
    We spend the evening near the water, taking photos, sharing dessert, making memories that feel like warm light.

    Back through Saudi, the Gulf stayed close to us, shimmering quietly.
    Qatar felt warm and bright, in Doha, Souq Waqif wraps us in color and rhythm. At the Museum of Islamic Art, we walk slowly, hand in hand, taking photos in the soft light.
    A quiet café by the water becomes our evening coffee, dessert, and the city glowing across the sea.

    The UAE feels like a celebration. In Abu Dhabi, we wander through Louvre Abu Dhabi, letting the filtered light paint patterns on our faces. We spend a day at Warner Bros. World, laughing until our cheeks ache.
    In Dubai, we walk through Dubai Mall, doing a little shopping, taking photos in pretty corners, and sharing coffee as the world rushes around us.

    Crossing back through Saudi and into Oman, the weather cooled and the mountains rose around us like old guardians. We explored old Forts, wander through the souq, and stop by seaside cafés for Omani halwa and strong Omani coffee.
    We walk through old streets, taking photos, collecting tiny moments that feel like treasures.

    We take the western road along the Red Sea, passing Jeddah Corniche. The water glows turquoise under the sun.
    Small museums, bakeries, and quiet cafés become gentle pauses along the way.
    The nights were quiet, we park near the shore, just us, the lantern, the stars, and the sound of the waves tapping the rocks like they were telling us secrets.

    Driving north toward Kuwait feels like returning from a dream. The RV carries everything, our laughter, our photos, our tiny backpacks, the pearl earrings, the scent of coffee, and the warmth of every place we loved.
    By the time we reach home, the road feels like a friend we’ll always return to, a story stitched into our hearts, a million dreams lived in fifteen days.

  • Flavors

    Flavors

    Sometimes the same bite of food carries a different soul depending on where you meet it. Salted caramel ice cream, for example, can taste bold and golden on one day, and strangely muted on another, as if the sweetness is responding to the air around you. It’s never just flavor. It’s the moment, the lighting, the quiet or the noise, the way your heart is sitting inside your chest. Even familiar ice cream becomes a new experience when your mood shifts, tasting the way you feel.

    And then there’s the magic of who you’re eating with. Salted caramel eaten alone can feel indulgent but simple, a small comfort. But the same spoonful shared with someone you love becomes softer, sweeter, almost warmer. It turns into a tiny celebration, a conversation, a memory. It’s almost funny how a bite can taste different just because someone is sitting beside you, laughing, listening, or simply being there.

    That’s why taste is never just taste. A scoop of salted caramel can be a hug, a reminder, a quiet companion, or a bridge between two people. Food grows with us, shifts with us, and becomes part of the story we’re living, one bite, one moment, one shared spoon at a time.

  • Keep Walking Through the Fire

    Keep Walking Through the Fire

    There’s a moment when you realize you’ve been walking through the same storm for too long not waiting anymore, but surviving. You stop counting the days, stop asking when it will end. You just keep moving, because stopping feels heavier than the pain itself.

    People say, “If you’re going through hell, keep going. Why would you stop in hell?”
    And maybe that’s the quiet truth of endurance you don’t walk because you’re brave, you walk because you’ve learned that standing still burns worse.

    Hell isn’t always flames.
    Sometimes it’s silence.
    Sometimes it’s the weight of promises that never came true.
    Sometimes it’s the echo of your own strength when no one else shows up.

    You keep going through the fire because you’ve already been scorched by disappointment. You’ve already carried too much. You’ve already learned that hope isn’t soft, it’s stubborn. It’s the part of you that refuses to die even when everything else feels tired.

    And somewhere along the road, the air changes.
    The light shifts.
    The pain doesn’t vanish, but it loses its power.
    You realize you’ve been walking toward something not away from it.

    Hell was never meant to be home.
    It was meant to be a passage.
    A test.
    A tunnel that teaches you how to keep your own flame alive.

    So keep going not because you owe anyone strength, but because you owe yourself the chance to see what waits beyond the smoke.
    Maybe it’s peace.
    Maybe it’s a dream finally taking shape.
    Maybe it’s just the quiet relief of knowing you made it through.

  • My Confession

    My Confession

    I have a confession: I’m addicted to collecting cups and mugs. All shapes, all sizes, all colors, from all places. A tiny ceramic cup from a market, a heavy mug from a café, a pastel one that simply looked too pretty to leave behind. I don’t buy them because I need them, I buy them because they feel like little pieces of life I can hold. Each one carries a story, a moment, a mood. My shelves are full, my kitchen is full, and still… I find myself reaching for another. It’s a harmless addiction, but a real one a soft obsession with vessels that feel like memories.

    Collecting is a quiet human instinct. We gather things even when we already have many versions of them, even when they’re expensive, even when they don’t make sense financially. We collect because it brings joy, a spark, a thrill, a sense of identity. Collections make us feel anchored. They turn objects into comfort, into ritual, into meaning. A collection is a way of saying: this is who I am, this is what I love, this is what I choose to keep close. Whether it’s cups, stamps, perfumes, books, or tiny trinkets, collecting is a form of storytelling. It’s a way of building a little world that feels safe and ours.

    Sometimes I think collecting is a way of holding on to time. Each cup feels like a pause, a memory caught mid‑sip. When I look at them lined up mismatched, colorful, imperfect I see chapters of my life stacked quietly together. The thrill of finding a new one never fades; it feels like discovering a new piece of myself. Maybe that’s why we collect not to own more, but to remember more. To keep proof that joy can be found in small, ordinary things, again and again.

  • The Fear of the Unknown

    The Fear of the Unknown

    There’s a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from waiting not the simple kind, but the heavy, aching kind that settles in your chest when you’ve been hoping for something for so long that even hope starts to feel like a burden.

    It’s the fear of the unknown.
    The fear of what if it never happens.
    The fear of what if it happens again the way it did before with disappointment, with broken promises, with people who say one thing and do another.

    You start to lose trust in words.
    In timelines.
    In “soon” and “I promise” and “don’t worry.”

    Because you’ve been tricked before.
    You’ve been let down before.
    And your mind, tired of being optimistic, begins wandering into darker corners the ones where you replay every moment someone failed you, every time you carried more than you should, every time you were the strong one because everyone else leaned on you.

    Being relied on sounds noble until it becomes a weight.
    Until you’re the one holding everything together while quietly falling apart.
    Until you’re tired of being the dependable one, the responsible one, the one who shows up even when she’s running on empty.

    And in the quiet moments the ones late at night, or early in the morning before the world wakes you wonder if it will ever get better.
    If your dreams will ever stop being dreams and become something real.
    If life will give you even a small piece of what you’ve been waiting for.

    You don’t want everything.
    Just something.
    A sign.
    A shift.
    A moment that tells you you’re not foolish for hoping.

    But here’s the truth buried beneath all the exhaustion:
    The fact that you’re still hoping even after everything says something about you.
    It says you haven’t given up on yourself.
    It says your heart, despite the bruises, still believes in the possibility of better days.
    It says your dreams matter enough to keep alive, even when the world feels heavy.

    Maybe the unknown is frightening because it holds both the worst and the best.
    And maybe just maybe part of your story is learning to walk toward it anyway.

    Not because you trust people.
    Not because promises have been kept.
    But because somewhere inside you, there’s a quiet, stubborn part that still believes your life can shift.
    That something good can happen.
    That even if it doesn’t come all at once, a small piece of your dream might find its way to you.

    And when it does, you’ll know it was worth surviving the dark places to reach the light.

  • Lonely day

    Lonely day

    There are days when the world feels unbearably full of voices overlapping, conversations rising and falling like waves yet somehow you feel untouched by all of it. You sit among people you know, people who care, people who laugh easily, and still there’s a quiet distance inside you that no one seems to cross. It’s strange how loneliness can bloom in the middle of a crowded room, how it can wrap itself around your heart even as someone sits right beside you.

    Sometimes you catch yourself drifting, watching the way sunlight falls across a table or how someone gestures while they speak, and you realize you’re not really with them. You’re somewhere deeper, somewhere quieter. It’s not that you don’t love them or that they’ve done anything wrong it’s just that your inner world feels dimmer than the one around you. You feel like a silhouette against a warm sunset: present, visible, but somehow unreachable.

    Loneliness like this isn’t loud. It doesn’t cry or demand attention. It settles softly, like dust on a windowsill, gathering in the corners of your thoughts. You can be surrounded by warmth and still feel cold inside. You can be held in conversation and still feel unheard. You can be part of a moment and still feel apart from it.

    Some days are simply lonely, even when every seat around you is full. A song keeps coming to mind It’s by system of a down called lonely day.

    Such a lonely day, and it’s mine
    The most loneliest day of my life
    Such a lonely day should be banned
    It’s a day that I can’t stand

    The most loneliest day of my life
    The most loneliest day of my life

    Such a lonely day shouldn’t exist
    It’s a day that I’ll never miss
    Such a lonely day, and it’s mine
    The most loneliest day of my life

  • The Quiet Collapse

    The Quiet Collapse

    There are stretches of life that feel like walking through a dim hallway with no doors just one long path where the weight on your shoulders keeps growing, quietly, insistently.

    Work becomes a place where everything is urgent. Every task is time‑sensitive. Every hour feels like it’s already late. You carry so much that your body forgets what lightness feels like. Then night comes, not as rest, but as another responsibility classes, readings, preparing. You move through your evenings like someone trying to outrun the clock. Sleep becomes a negotiation. Eating becomes something you squeeze into the margins. Even showering feels like a luxury you have to earn.

    And beneath all of this, grief hums. Losing your best friend doesn’t happen once it happens every day, in small ways. In the silence. In the moments you reach for someone who isn’t there. It feels like half of your soul slipped out of your life, leaving you to navigate everything with a missing piece.

    Then your body begins to falter. The exhaustion becomes physical. The aches become louder. You start to wonder how much more weight a single person can carry before something gives.

    And still you keep going.

    Not loudly. Not heroically. Just steadily, in the quiet way people do when life doesn’t give them a choice. You move through the heaviness with a kind of fragile strength, the kind that doesn’t look impressive from the outside but is made of pure endurance.

    Some seasons don’t just get worse they get heavier. But even in the heaviness, even in the ache, even in the exhaustion that feels like it’s settling into your bones, you are still here. Still trying. Still holding on to the hope that one day, the weight will lift, even a little.

    Just keep swimming…