Category: a million dreams

A Million Dreams – Chapter Six: The Train I Saved For Love

Some dreams stay quiet for years. They sit in the background of your life, waiting for the right chapter. The Eastern and Oriental Express was one of mine. I used to look at photos of the green and gold carriages and imagine myself inside them, moving through Malaysia like a slow and gentle film.

I never knew who would be sitting next to me. Sometimes I pictured a friend. Sometimes I pictured someone I loved. Life eventually answered the question in its own soft way. One day the right person simply became part of my story. Someone who already understood my jokes, my moods, my rituals, my quiet parts, my loud ones, and I understood his Someone who felt like home long before I ever said the word, and I felt like his.

So the dream changed shape. It became a honeymoon dream. The kind that feels earned. The kind that feels like a reward for every year of waiting.

On the first day, we would board in Singapore. The staff would welcome us with something refreshing to drink. I can already imagine the way we would look at each other, half laughing, half emotional, because we finally made it. Dinner would be our first dinner on a moving train. The chef would send out something beautiful and we would pretend to understand the menu while secretly just enjoying the moment.

The second day would take us to Perlis. I love the idea of waking up to the gentle rocking of the train and seeing someone there who feels familiar in the best way. We would explore art and culture together, probably take too many photos, probably buy something we do not need. The celebrations at night would feel warm and joyful. A little chaotic in a sweet way.

Morning on the train would feel like waking up inside a moving dream. The world outside would slide by in soft green and gold. The cabin would smell faintly of coffee and warm pastries. A tray would be waiting on the bed with croissants, jam, butter and a cup of coffee still steaming. The window would be open to the scenery. We would eat slowly, half watching the trees, half watching the reflection of someone beside me. The train would hum beneath us, steady and calm, and everything would feel suspended in time. It would be the kind of morning that makes you forget the world exists beyond this cabin. The kind that makes you think this is what peace looks like.

Day three would be the heart of the trip. Penang. Peranakan cooking. Georgetown’s murals. The smell of spices. I imagine us walking through the streets like two characters in a soft movie. He would hold my hand. I would pretend I am not emotional. Back on the train, Music. Laughter. Fireworks blooming beyond the Petronas Towers. A sky celebrating us. A sky saying finally.

The last morning would be the softest. Breakfast in the cabin. Johor passing by like watercolor. The train rocking as if it wants to keep us a little longer. I imagine looking at them and feeling that quiet gratitude. The kind that sits in your chest and stays there. The kind that says this is the life I waited for.

Soon after, the train would cross into Singapore. The dream would end. But the story we built together would keep going.

And maybe that is the real dream.

08/09/2026
A Million Dreams – Chapter Five: The Quiet Life I Haven’t Chosen Yet

There’s a dream I keep tucked in the quiet corners of my mind, the kind that drifts in during slow evenings or early mornings. It never arrives loudly. It just slips in, like a soft thought I didn’t invite but don’t want to let go of. In that dream, I live somewhere far, beautifully far, in a place like New Zealand. A midsized town, calm and scenic, where the roads curve gently and the mornings feel like they were designed just for me.

I live alone there. Not in the way people fear, but in the way that feels like choosing myself instead of waiting for someone else to choose me, I’m not waiting to be picked, not hoping to be someone’s priority, not shrinking to fit into someone else’s life. In this dream, I am enough for my own company. I am the person I come home to. I am the one I choose.

The town is quiet, almost protective. It feels like a place built for healing, the kind of healing that doesn’t demand explanations or apologies. A place where I can leave the noise of the world behind, the expectations, the disappointments, the ache of waiting for doors that never opened. Here, I build a life with my own hands.

I run the sweetest little coffee shop–deli–bakery you can imagine. The ground floor smells like fresh bread and roasted beans, and upstairs is my loft, my small, warm world, where I keep my books, my blankets, my mismatched mugs, and the cinnamon I sometimes forget to restock. The loft is messy in the charming way, lived‑in without apology, a space shaped entirely by me.

I wake up before sunrise, stepping into the soft blue of dawn. I start the coffee machines, listening to their familiar hum, the kind of sound that becomes a companion over time. Then I bake the dough I shaped the night before, watching it rise in the warm glow of the oven. Those early hours feel magical, quiet, steady, full of small rituals that remind me I can create beauty without anyone else standing beside me.

By 6:30 or seven, I open the doors for the morning crowd. The familiar faces, the sleepy smiles, the regulars who communicate entirely through eyebrow raises until their first cup of coffee. They become part of my rhythm, part of the heartbeat of my days. I learn their orders, their moods, their silence. They learn mine. And yet, I remain whole on my own, connected, but not dependent.

I take my lunch break outside, always. I sit with whatever new sandwich I invented that week, some brilliant, some questionable, and I eat slowly, watching the town move around me. I close before sunset because in this dream, I respect the sun more than the clock. I walk through the town as the sky melts into gold, watching the light stretch across the road like it’s blessing everything it touches.

At night, I head back to my loft. The fireplace crackles softly, warming the room in that way only real fire can. I drink something hot, talk to myself about nothing and everything, and eventually drift to sleep with a book half‑open beside me. The world feels small, but not in a limiting way, small like a held breath, small like a secret, small like peace.

And the next day, I do it all again. The same routine, the same joy, the same simple life that somehow feels extraordinary. A life built from small rituals, quiet work, and gentle love for my own company. A life where choosing myself isn’t a consolation prize, it’s the beginning of healing. A life that makes me believe that dreams don’t have to be loud to be beautiful.

31/08/2026
A Million Dreams – Chapter Four: Grow As We Go

Sometimes I imagine an alternative life for myself, one that feels both impossible and completely within reach. A life on a farm, not the distant, one‑hour‑away farms we have here in Kuwait, but a dream version only fifteen minutes from the city. In that dream, the land is wide and generous, stretching out like a soft promise. There’s a main house with a swimming pool to survive the summer heat, and a few small huts scattered around for family who want to stay over. It’s a place built for slow mornings, warm evenings, and a kind of peace that feels like it belongs to another world.

In this dream life, we grow everything ourselves. Fruits, vegetables, citruses glowing in the greenhouse, and a lake filled with fish that shimmer under the sun. Ducks glide across the water like tiny boats, and somewhere far from the main house, for allergy reasons, sits a quiet beehive humming with life. We’d have goats, three cows, sheep, and chickens, each one part of the rhythm of the farm. And of course, the tenants who never pay rent: the cats. They’d wander around like tiny guardians, keeping the place clean of pests and pretending they own the land. A short‑haired German Shepherd would watch over everything, loyal and calm.

The heart of the home would be the outdoor kitchen. When the weather turns gentle, we’d cook outside, letting the breeze carry the smell of spices and fresh herbs. I imagine a wood‑burning oven built with love, where I bake warm breads and sweet treats for my family. The kids would run freely across the property, stopping to pick fruits and vegetables straight from the trees and soil, their tiny hands helping us prepare meals that taste like sunshine and effort. They’d grow up knowing the magic of real food, the feel of earth, and the joy of being part of the process.

And in the quiet moments, when the sun begins to set and the sky softens, my husband and I would walk together around the farm. Just the two of us, moving slowly through the life we built with our hands and our hearts. A simple, quiet life. A life full of love, nature, and the kind of calm that feels like a blessing. A lovely place to raise a family and a dream I carry gently, knowing that even if it never becomes real, it will always live beautifully in my imagination.

Always…

30/08/2026
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.

29/08/2026
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.

28/08/2026
A Million Dreams – Chapter One: The Glass Waterslide in Hangzhou

A Note About the Video: The video in this post is from Instagram it’s not mine.

There’s a new series I’ve been wanting to start on this blog a quiet collection of things I wish I could do, places I wish I could go, and little dreams that live in the corners of my imagination. I’m calling it A Million Dreams, because that’s exactly what it feels like: a soft list of wishes, saved gently for someday.

And the first dream on that list is a waterslide tucked inside the mountains of Hangzhou, China, the longest glass waterslide in the world.

The slide runs like a clear ribbon through the green hills, built entirely from thick glass so you can see the world beneath you as you glide. Bamboo forests, stones, the curve of the mountain everything becomes part of the ride. It’s fast, but not wild; thrilling, but not reckless. A kind of flying that keeps you close to the earth.

If I ever get the chance to try it, I already know one thing: I’m sitting in the back of the raft.

I’m absolutely too scared to be the person in front, the brave one who sees every turn coming. I want to be the person who holds on from behind, laughing, screaming, pretending I’m calm while the mountains carry me forward. It feels like the perfect balance between courage and comfort.

This waterslide is officially on my bucket list. And I don’t mind when it happens. Maybe one day soon. Maybe when I’m old and wrinkly and still collecting dreams. Maybe when life feels slow and I need something that reminds me I’m still made of motion. Whenever it happens, I want it to be a moment I look back on and smile a small, sparkling adventure tucked inside the mountains.

24/08/2026