Lost A

Tag: family

  • Mishomisho Part Two: The Day She Became a Princess

    Mishomisho Part Two: The Day She Became a Princess

    Ever since my niece watched The Little Mermaid, something shifted in her tiny world. She’s been twirling around the house, trying singing Ariel’s songs with full confidence, as if she’s part of the movie. And when she looks at me and says “mishomisho,” I know exactly what she means now, princess. It’s her own little word for everything magical and royal.

    So we decided to make her princess dreams a little more real. We went to the mall, and our first stop was the small petting zoo inside. She loved looking at the animals, but touching them was a big no. She kept her hands tucked close to her body, watching them with wide eyes, half curious, half cautious. Still, she enjoyed every minute of it, as long as nobody asked her to pet anything.

    Then came the highlight of the day: the Disney shop. The moment we stepped inside, her eyes lit up. Rows of glittering dresses, tiny shoes, and sparkly accessories, it was like walking straight into her imagination. She chose two costumes: the shimmering turquoise Little Mermaid outfit and the soft pink‑lavender Rapunzel gown.

    In the fitting room, she tried them on one by one. When she saw herself in the mirror, she whispered “mishomisho” with this proud little smile, like she finally saw the princess she’s been pretending to be. She twirled, admired herself, and I swear the whole room felt brighter.

    After that, we went for lunch and dessert, because every princess outing needs something sweet. She sat there in her tiny dress, eating ice cream like it was part of the royal routine.

    When we got home, she ran straight to her mother to show off her new dresses. Her mom’s reaction was pure joy, and the way my niece stood there waiting for approval was the cutest thing. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day, full of laughter, tiny memories, and the soft magic of childhood.

  • The Weight of What We Give Up

    The Weight of What We Give Up

    Sacrifice is such a quiet word. It doesn’t shout, it doesn’t announce itself, it doesn’t ask for applause. It just sits there, tucked inside the choices we make, the ones nobody sees, the ones we don’t talk about, the ones that change the shape of our lives.

    Parents know this better than anyone. They give up sleep, time, dreams they once held tightly. They trade parts of their future so their children can have one. They let go of careers, opportunities, versions of themselves they never got to meet. And they do it with a strange mix of love and grief, because loving someone that deeply means accepting that you will lose pieces of yourself along the way.

    Loved ones do it too. People sacrifice for each other in ways that don’t always make sense on paper. A job in another country. A chance to study abroad. The possibility of building a family. The comfort of staying in a familiar life. Sometimes even the love itself, letting go of someone because holding on would hurt them, or hurt you, or hurt the future neither of you is ready for.

    There’s a particular kind of heartbreak in sacrificing your safe space, the place where you feel understood, protected, seen. Giving that up for someone else feels like peeling off your own skin. And yet people do it, because love makes us believe that maybe, just maybe, the discomfort will be temporary, and the reward will be worth it.

    But here’s the part we don’t admit out loud:
    Sometimes sacrifice feels noble.
    Sometimes it feels necessary.
    And sometimes it feels like a mistake.

    People sacrifice because they hope. Because they fear losing someone. Because they want to be good. Because they believe love requires effort. Because they think they’re strong enough to carry the cost. Because they imagine a future where everything they gave up will come back to them in a different, better form.

    But after the sacrifice, when the dust settles, the feelings are complicated.

    Sometimes there’s pride, the quiet kind that comes from knowing you chose love over comfort.

    Sometimes there’s peace, the kind that whispers, I did the right thing.

    And sometimes there’s resentment, a slow-burning ache that grows when the sacrifice isn’t acknowledged, or appreciated, or reciprocated.

    Sometimes there’s regret, the kind that wakes you up at night wondering who you could have been if you hadn’t given so much.

    And sometimes there’s nothing at all, just a numb acceptance that life moved forward, and you moved with it, even if you didn’t want to.

    So is sacrifice worth it?

    The truth is painfully human:
    It’s worth it only when the love grows from it.
    Only when the person you sacrificed for meets you halfway.
    Only when the loss becomes part of a bigger gain.
    Only when you don’t disappear in the process.

    But when it’s not worth it, the hurt is sharp. It makes you question your judgment, your heart, your loyalty. It makes you wonder why you gave so much to someone who didn’t know how to hold it. It makes you rebuild yourself from pieces you didn’t expect to lose.

    Still, people keep sacrificing.
    Because love, in all its messy, irrational, human glory, asks us to.
    And because hope, even when it betrays us, is a stubborn thing.

  • 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.

  • A mother’s love

    A mother’s love

    A mother’s love doesn’t always arrive from the woman who raised us. Sometimes, life places that love in unexpected hands in a mother‑in‑law whose kindness feels gentler than anything we’ve known, whose affection grows slowly, quietly, almost shyly, until one day we realize it has become a steady part of our life.

    We may not talk often. We may not share the same interests or hobbies. Our conversations might be short, polite, even a little awkward. But love doesn’t need perfect symmetry. Sometimes it lives in the small, intentional gestures the ones that speak louder than words.

    She shows her love through food, the oldest language of care. She remembers your favorite dishes, cooks them especially for you, and sends them to your home with a kind of proud tenderness. She praises you to others, speaks of you fondly, and her face tightens with hurt when someone disrespects you. Her love is quiet but loyal, soft but protective. It stands up for you even when you’re not there to hear it.

    And then there is the father‑in‑law the unexpected warmth. He calls you “my beloved” حبيبتي shares funny videos and interesting things he finds online, as if saving them just for you. He offers you his favorite chocolates and fruits, and when he sees you enjoy them, he buys more and sends them your way. His affection is simple, honest, and full of intention.

    He trusts you with the parts of himself he may hide from others. His deepest thoughts, his quiet worries and his tender emotions. He cries in front of you, not out of weakness, but out of comfort. That’s simply different, a space where he can be vulnerable without words.

    Together, they’ve become something I never expected: a second set of parents. Not by blood, not by tradition, but by love, the kind that chooses you, protects you, and stays.