I’ve been wanting to write for a while but haven’t.
Haven’t had it in me to really try.

Like a suppressed appetite.
Like a lump of bubbling anger, choking me.

Because what’s the point?

What hasn’t already been said about the war?
About the people dying, the land being stolen, the bombs falling, the hearts thumping, the blood spilling, the dreams shattering, the homes disappearing, the childhoods vanishing, the traumas deepening, the parents trying, the homeless growing, the pregnant suffering, the elderly weakening, the country disintegrating?

What hasn’t already been said a month ago, a year ago, ten years ago?

History keeps repeating itself.
Or maybe the story never really ends.

We keep living on borrowed time.
In the interludes.
The in-betweens we’re sometimes granted, just waiting to be ripped away from our homes, our motherland, one way or another.
Over and over again.

Evicted from the womb.
Expelled.
In the most violent of ways.

We hang on.
We claw our way back.
We dig our nails in, refusing to let go.

Is this our crime?
Being too stubborn?
Too infatuated?
Too hopeful?
Too patriotic?
Too naive?

Till what end?
I don’t know.
For how much longer?
I don’t know.

—
Because what hasn’t already been said about the way your mind and body change when you hear the sound of missiles hitting buildings ten minutes away from you, leveling them in even less time?

Of warplanes rumbling so loud above you, you think they’re about to tear through your ceiling.

You lie in bed.
You shake.
You tremble.

You blast rain sounds to drown out the horror you know must be unfolding outside.
You try to convince yourself, trick yourself, it’s just sounds, it’s just sounds,
but your mind races anyway. Your body knows better.
And you know.

You know that behind every window, on every floor, in every bedroom, someone, just like you,

someone.
just.
like.
you.

just lost everything.

Obliterated.
Gone.
Killed.

Your body doesn’t forget this.
It stores it.
In every cell.

So when a car exhaust goes off,
or a door slams too hard,
you’re back there again.
In that bed.

Shaking.
Trembling.

—
What hasn’t already been said about being pregnant through all of this?

Me last year.
My friends this year.

Women carry life,
and men in power do everything in theirs to take it away.

I look at my children and I want to cry.
Want to protect them from it all, want to cup their ears and cover their eyes
and put them back inside me,
because it’s too much.
It’s too much when you let yourself think about it too much.
So, you don’t.
You bury it.
Another grave in the cemetery you carry inside you,
where parts of you are easier to lose than to feel.

It feels like the only way to survive.

Still, I put the youngest in bed between us.
I drag the oldest’s mattress into our room.

It’s fireworks.
It’s thunder.
It’s the garbage truck.

It’s anything but what it is.

What else can I do?

—
I’ve been wanting to write for a while.

And now that I’ve finally let it out,
I feel even more tired.

Because what hasn’t already been said,
and explained,
and shown,

to those who don’t know,
those who’ve never known,
those who will never know,
those who don’t care to know,
what it’s like to live through this?

We write it down.
We scream it.
We show the images.

And it never feels like enough.
It is never enough.

I still don’t know what the point is.

But my body needed somewhere to put this.

So here it is.

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A strand of hair resting on my jeans. I picked it up without thinking, ready to throw it away, until I saw that it was different from my usual strays.

The root was my hair color, and then almost halfway through it turned white.

Hair usually chooses a side. It grows in with its decision made. Pigment or absence. Youth or age. Before or after.

But this one had changed mid-way.

Or maybe it hadn’t decided anything at all. Maybe something had decided for it.

They say hair can turn white from fright. From shock. From stress that moves too fast for the rest of you to metabolize.

I rolled it between my fingers, suddenly aware that I might be holding a kind of record.

When did this happen? What day made the color leave?

Was it that one huge jidar, when I ducked and sat on the ground and cried? The earthquake? One of the countless hard motherhood moments that felt too big and too hard?

Scientists say stress can disrupt the cells that give hair its pigment. They pause. They retreat. And sometimes, when conditions allow, they resume. That is how you get a strand like mine: dark, then white, then sometimes dark again. A timeline you can hold between two fingers. History pressing on biology until it leaves a mark.

I started getting white hair early. They appeared like intruders at first, bright against everything else, thicker, curlier, as if carrying a different temperament entirely. They annoyed me.

Now, I don’t mind them.

I want to know what they remember.

Some cultures believe hair carries memory. That it holds energy, history, the imprint of what has passed through you. Maybe that sounds mystical, but when you think about it, hair is one of the only parts of the body that keeps growing through everything. We cut it, dye it, style it, but while we are living, it is recording.

A strand can contain months. Sometimes years.

Which means somewhere in our ponytails are revolutions. Somewhere near the ends are heartbreaks we survived. Somewhere in the middle are the days we thought might split us in two.

The body keeps an archive even when the mind edits.

Every hair, a thread to our past. As if life really is something measured and pulled and altered by forces we don’t see. Like the Three Fates from Hercules: one spins the thread, one measures it, one decides when it ends. Maybe they were also keeping record. Weaving the loom of our life.

When I look around, I see I am not alone. Women my age, younger even, discovering white strands in bathroom mirrors, in hairbrushes, on pillows. We say it’s iron deficiency, genetics, maybe bad luck.

But we know our mothers found their first whites at forty. We found ours before thirty. Something accelerated the loom.

If hair is an archive, then Lebanese women are walking libraries. Shelves of invisible timelines growing from our scalps.

And yet, we are also a nation of women who book their hair appointments before anything else.

Lebanese women love the hairdresser. Not only for weddings or holidays, but for ordinary Tuesdays. For no reason at all. A blow-dry before dinner. A fresh color even when there is nowhere specific to go. Sitting under foil, trading stories, drinking coffee. The distinct smell of Elnett hairspray and cigarette smoke always transports me back to any salon chair in Lebanon.

It is not only about beauty.

It is about feeling put together in a place that feels undone.

When the future feels unclear, some of us choose to refresh the present. We dye over the white sometimes to soften the record of what has been, sometimes simply because we prefer ourselves that way.

Grey does not only speak of the past. It also speaks of time. Of aging. Of movement toward a future we cannot fully predict.

For a few weeks, the timeline may disappear beneath auburn, caramel, black.

But the archive remains.

It just wears color.

A white hair left untouched feels like a record kept. Proof that something happened here. That the body was present. That it absorbed the impact even as the day continued. You made dinner. You answered emails. You showed up.

Meanwhile, your pigment adapted to reality.

Is white the only color memory chooses to grow in?

Or is it simply the one we notice most?

Because life continues in all its ordinary ways. We fall in love. We raise children. We plan futures in a place that rarely promises stability. And through it all, our hair keeps growing, holding what it must.

The loom may speed up, but the thread doesn’t break.

It just keeps growing, carrying every shade with it.

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If your text messages ever got leaked, what would happen?

I’m less interested in the drama of it and more in what it would feel like to watch the world meet a version of you that no longer exists.
A version you remember but have moved on from. Grown new skin over. Sewed fresh thoughts into.

And then you stumble across that version in old chats or forgotten screenshots or past Facebook statuses, and you think…

Oh.
That’s how I sounded.
That’s what I thought love was.
That’s what I believed I deserved.
That’s how quickly I reacted.
That’s who I trusted enough to share with.

It’s disorienting, meeting yourself like that. Intimate and estranged at the same time.

So much of us lives inside our phones, and without noticing, we leave behind pieces.

Versions of ourselves inside the group chat, the late-night spiral, the podcast-length voicenote.
The bitchy one. The vulnerable one. The narcissistic one. The desperate one. The loving one.

Snapshots taken from different angles of the same person. Texting makes space for each of these to easily exist. No faces to read. No silence stretching long enough to make you reconsider. No eye contact reminding you someone else is receiving this in real time.

So we say what we feel as we feel it. What we think as we think it.
Sometimes in paragraphs. Sometimes in a meme. Sometimes in a sticker that says it all.

And then we move on.

But the message doesn’t.

It gathers into a record. Emotional evidence we didn’t realize we were creating.

A bad breakup text. An unhinged rant. A confession sent at 1:49 am.

We rarely return to these moments unless forced to or by accident. They belong to people we used to be, and yet they remain, perfectly preserved, ready to be lifted out of context and presented as character references.

This is what makes the idea of texts being exposed so unsettling.

They caught us mid-formation, mid-thought, mid-feeling, mid-being human.

When someone else’s private texts are leaked, the reaction is almost always the same.
We say: if mine came out, I’d be finished.
What we’re really saying is: please don’t define me by moments I’ve already outgrown.

Digital memory doesn’t recognize that. It keeps the moment as it was, keeps you as you were.

And here is the part that fascinates me most: no other generation has documented itself this casually.

We speak freely in rooms that never forget. We narrate our inner lives in real time. We distribute fragments of ourselves across platforms, threads, and timelines, trusting that context will somehow travel with them.

It rarely does.

What remains are artifacts. Tiny fossils of emotion.

Proof that at 22 you loved someone who later broke you.
That at 28 you were in the throes of motherhood.
That at 30 you’re still figuring it out.

We think we’re just talking but we’re also recording.

And one day, whether through a leak, a memory, or a late-night scroll you didn’t mean to take, you will meet these former selves again.

That said, I’m liking the person I’m becoming more and more. I don’t mean that in an egotistical or arrogant way, but just in a, “5-year-old-Mariam would probably be proud of us if she could see us now” kind of way.

So here are a few things I’ve learned, or want to carry with me, into my thirties and into this new year.

1. Sometimes, I overshare.
I used to replay conversations in my head afterward and cringe. Now I realize those moments probably made us both feel seen, or at least less alone in our weirdness.

2. Give fewer fucks. Seriously.
Other people’s issues, projections, and insecurities don’t need to become my problem or affect me the way they used to.

3. Comfort is not laziness.
If it’s uncomfortable, inconvenient, or requires me to stand too long for no reason, fogerrabourit.

4. I’m allowed to enjoy the moment even when it’s imperfect.
I used to want to wait for “the perfect moment” to enjoy my cup of coffee or read my book or sit and write. Now any moment I can get without a kid touching me or shouting my name is good enough. This brings us to point number 5…

5. Romanticize small, boring things more.

6. Learn to sit with myself.
On a physical level, I need to fight the urge to reinvent myself every few months with a new hair cut or color. The newness will fade, fast. On a mental level, I need to finish meeting this new version of myself before trying to create a new persona every time I read a new book or see an old pic of myself.

7. Rest is productive.
I don’t need to earn it.

8. Accept that I may never be cool.
And that’s fine. I look at the Beirut “it-crowd” on Instagram and think, wow, they’re so cool. Like capital C cool. I’ve never felt that way. But maybe the goal isn’t to be cool. Maybe it’s to stop asking if I’m allowed to sit at the table.

9. My body is not something to “fix.”
It’s something to listen to, support, and occasionally apologize to for the way I treated it in my twenties.

10. I can love something deeply and still complain about it.
Motherhood, work, life in general - all true at the same time.

11. I no longer believe anyone who says “this will only take 10 minutes.”
That is a lie.

12. I know my kids best.
Advice is welcome. Conversations are helpful. But at the end of the day, I trust my instincts. I’m the one in it, every day, every night. I’ll listen, and then I’ll decide.

13. I don’t need to explain my tiredness.
It’s not a competition. I don’t need to justify why I’m exhausted or compare it to someone else’s exhaustion. I’m tired. Full stop. Next question.

14. I am allowed to change my mind.
About plans. About people. About careers. About my food order. If something no longer fits, I don’t owe anyone a detailed explanation. But yes, it’s most likely linked to point 13.

15. Motherhood didn’t erase me, it rearranged me.
Some days I miss who I was before. Other days I realize she made this version possible. I’m learning that grief and gratitude can exist at the same time. Apparently, that’s adulthood.

16. My sensitivity is not a flaw.
Yes, I cry easily. Yes, I feel things deeply. No, it’s not because I’m “too sensitive,” as if that’s some character defect I should work on. Like, I’m sorry I’m human???

17. I can be ambitious and deeply domestic at the same time.
I can want a big, meaningful career and also care deeply about the color of my kid’s snot.

18. Stop overthinking.
My brain loves a good spiral. Did that text sound weird? Are they mad? Are they together without me? Not everything is about me. And even when it is, it’s rarely that deep.

19. If I want to make something happen…
… just start.

20. I still don’t know what I’m doing, but I trust myself more while not knowing.
And honestly, that might be the most grown-up part of this whole thing.

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I wondered what that said about me. Did my brain skip that feature during installation? Because I am quite an emotional person, who feels most things intensely, so you’d think déjà vu would be right up my alley. But no.

I looked it up and it turns out déjà vu isn’t mystical at all. One theory says it’s a brief overlap between short-term and long-term memory - a tiny glitch where the present accidentally gets processed as the past. Your brain echoes itself and gets confused into thinking “now” is “then.”

Which actually makes sense now because my long-term memory feels like a half-empty hard drive. Big pieces of my childhood are missing. Entire years feel fuzzy. Some memories feel more like stories someone once told me about myself rather than things I actually lived.

And honestly, these days, between Adam, Imad, breastfeeding drama, sleep deprivation, and the general chaos of life, my mind is already working overtime just trying to remember where I put my phone. Experiencing moments once feels ambitious enough. Déjà vu feels like a luxury.

Speaking of my phone, specifically, my phone storage, that’s completely full. So full the rest of the features barely function. The reason? My gallery. 62,675 photos and videos to be exact.

So I finally started backing everything up to free space, and in the process, I stumbled onto entire moments I had forgotten existed. Videos I don’t remember taking. Photos I don’t remember saving. Versions of myself and my life that had inconspicuously slipped out of reach, until the cloud handed them back to me.

And it made me wonder:
Would I have remembered these moments if it weren’t for this?
If I hadn’t needed storage space, would they have stayed buried forever?
And if they had stayed forgotten… would it have mattered?

We talk about memory as something innate we carry inside us. An integral part of our brain. But more and more, it feels outsourced. Stored externally. Backed up. Saved in clouds. Archived in galleries we only open when we’re low on space or low on nostalgia. My brain forgets, but my phone remembers.

Maybe I don’t experience déjà vu because my brain barely saves the first copy. The second copy lives in my camera roll.

Living without a solid archive of memories because of a brain that refuses to store them properly, should make me more present, more rooted in the now. In theory. In reality, I’m still distracted, overstimulated, under-slept, and thinking about twelve things at once. I’m not drifting peacefully through the moment; I’m tumbling through it, trying to grab onto anything that feels meaningful before it disappears, too.

One day, I’ll be cutting fruit or folding laundry or standing in a grocery store and suddenly pause and get that That’s So Raven look (IYKIK) and maybe that tiny flash will feel like proof that my brain still knows how to surprise me.

Until then, I’ll keep living things once. My phone will remember the rest.

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I’ve had mastitis 3 times in the span of a month and a half. I’ve gone through 3 rounds of antibiotics, had 2 ultrasounds, shoved ice packs and cabbage into my bra - forgetting they’re in there and leaving the house with them casually sitting in my bra - massaged my boob under a hot shower, soaked my nipple in Epsom salt, saw my GP, my gyno, a lactation consultant, and said (mean) breast specialist.

I’m tired. I’m in pain. It feels like my struggles with breastfeeding have become my whole personality lately and everyone’s sick of it, including me. BUT HERE I AM WRITING ABOUT IT, SO YOU CAN SUFFER TOO.

Everyone’s response has been, “just stop breastfeeding. You’ve done enough. It’s been 7 months. Why are you even still breastfeeding?” And I get it, I get why that would be the reaction, but it’s not that easy. It’s not like pressing an ON/OFF switch and boom, done. Stopping is just as tricky as starting. And I haven’t been able to make that call yet, mainly because Adam hates formula with a passion and is still not the biggest food lover. He may look like a Shour but definitely doesn’t eat like one.

And because Adam has CMPA (cow’s milk protein allergy), I’ve also cut out all dairy from my diet. Milk, cheese, chocolate - gone. Of course, I’ll do it, because the thought of him in pain makes it a non-negotiable. But between that, the endless antibiotics, and the sleepless nights, I’ve been thinking a lot about the science of suppression. How much women learn to swallow - literally and figuratively - in the name of motherhood. We suppress what we eat, what we feel, what we need. We call it strength, but honestly? I think it’s just practice. Practice in putting ourselves last.

Maybe that’s what’s been breaking me lately. Not just the infections or the exhaustion, but the sheer effort it takes to keep everything in: the frustration, the guilt, the pain. Suppression might keep things running smoothly on the outside, but inside, it turns into pressure. And like any system under pressure, something’s bound to give.

‘Tis the season of joy and festivities for some and the season of mastitis and misery for others - a.k.a me. Am I being dramatic? Maybe. Am I allowed to be? Yes.

It’s all so different from my experience with Imad. I know no two kids are the same - I knew that on paper, at least. But going through it in practice was a shock I didn’t see coming. Maybe I convinced myself it would be easier this time. Or maybe it was hard before, but it’s harder now, so the first time suddenly seems easier in comparison. Basically, I was living in a bubble of false confidence that just massively popped.

And listen, I know how ridiculous it is that I’m here venting and oversharing while continuing to breastfeed like some deranged martyr. That’s motherhood, I guess. You suffer, you complain, you threaten to quit, and then you wake up and… don’t. I catch myself mid-rant thinking, “you know you could just stop, right?” and immediately follow it with, “but what if tomorrow is the day it suddenly becomes easy?”

I hope tomorrow is that day. Or at least the day he stops biting me while feeding.

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Each post is paired with a song. For today, it’s Friendly Fire by Rainbow Kitten Surprise.

Something weird has been happening. Every time I scroll through Instagram or TikTok, I end up hyperfocusing on some random, pointless detail that makes me feel like I’ve stepped into the video. Call it brain rot, call it overstimulation, but honestly, it feels more like an existential out-of-body experience. I’m not high, I swear. Let me try and explain.

I was watching a clip of a girl in her bedroom comparing two identical sweaters - one from The Row, one from Gap. Instead of caring about the sweaters, I fixated on what was behind her: a simple wooden chair by a window, sunlight streaming in, dust particles floating. Opposite that, a bed covered in a white duvet. The floor was a light wooden parquet. I ended up wondering what her room smelt like? Something fresh, I bet. What did the wood feel like beneath her bare feet? Did she dump her worn clothes on that chair? Did she wait for that exact slant of light every day?

Another video, another projection: a guy sitting in a London park, having a coffee and pastry. I couldn’t tell you what he was saying or even wearing - I was too busy watching the puddle beside him, the one that caught the gray sky after the rain. It reminded me of that slap-you-in-the-face kind of winter wind that feels so bad but so good.

It’s been happening a lot lately. Laundry detergent being poured into a machine, leather car seats catching sunlight, a ceramic bowl of pasta placed on a table - all of it triggering some weird, visceral reaction in me.

Maybe it’s because they’re such human, mundane things, the kind I’d usually notice in real life. Maybe it’s because I’m sleep-deprived. Maybe it’s because I watch everything on mute now and the visuals hit harder. Probably all of the above.

One thing I remember from uni keeps coming to mind though. In Camera Lucida by Roland Barthes, he describes the viewer’s experience of a photograph through two ideas: studium and punctum.

“Studium refers to the general, cultural, and conventional interest in an image, like recognizing a person or a scene. Punctum is a specific detail within the image that personally and emotionally “pricks” or pierces the viewer, creating a deeper, subjective connection beyond the general meaning.”

I guess that’s what’s been happening. These random details have been my punctum - pricking me, making me bleed emotionally. I think they pull me back to my own unprocessed moments from the past year, in Lebanon, in Jordan, in the U.S., where I lived whole lives in each but never fully had the time to process them, until I end up looking back at videos and photos of those moments.

Now, when I scroll, something about these tiny, ordinary details pulls me back there. It’s like my brain is finally catching up, finding pieces of myself scattered across random clips and corners of other people’s lives, processing everything that once rushed by too fast.

Maybe that’s what brain rot is - just the punctum in disguise. The algorithm keeps feeding me details that accidentally make me feel something. So yeah, I guess I’ll keep scrolling and finding myself in more dust particles, puddles, and pasta bowls.

Wow. I really had no idea where this was going when I started writing so thank you for helping me self-diagnose.

Until next time.

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Each post is paired with a song. For today, it’s Oysters In My Pockets by Royel Otis.

The universe is speaking to me. At least I’d like to think so. There have been some happy coincidences that feel like a cosmic, cheeky wink, or a little pat saying, don’t worry, it’ll be okay. A few weeks ago, I was watching And Just Like That (don’t judge me), and one of the characters quoted a part of Henry David Thoreau’s line: “I wanted to live deep and suck the marrow out of life.” I’ve always liked that line, so it stood out in an otherwise dumb AF episode.

Afterwards, I switched to Hacks (this you should watch) and continued where I had left off. Only a few minutes into the episode, Jean Smart’s character, Deborah, says this about being young: “That's the ultimate luxury... not having to suck the marrow out of every day. Just toss the bones, not even make a soup.” It felt like I was being told something, a special message, just for me - and I felt all warm inside.

A few nights later, I was brain-rotting on TikTok and watched a video about the most inbred royals (again, don’t judge me). Turns out it was Charles II of Spain, and among his many ailments, suffering from grand mal seizures was one of the most debilitating. Not long after, I was finally getting around to watching the latest season of The White Lotus (season 1 remains the best), and lo and behold, Parker Posey’s pill-popping character says, “I thought I was going to have a grand mal seizure,” after feeling overwhelmed by a social outing. Relatable. Not sure what the universe was trying to tell me this time, but still - I clocked it.

The last instance of one-sided cosmic chitchat happened while watching Platonic (Seth Rogen is kinda annoying, but it’s still good), and they played Royel Otis’ song Oysters In My Pocket, a favorite of mine. The next night, we started The Girlfriend (liking it so far), and you guessed it - they played the same song again. So, what I’m getting here is the universe confirming I have good taste in music. Thank you.

All these instances reminded me of a line from the amazing play The Effect by Lucy Prebble, which I watched at the National Theatre in London a couple of years ago. It’s about two people who volunteer in a clinical drug trial, where they start to fall in love. Their relationship ends up throwing the whole thing off course. At one point, Tristan, the male protagonist, says, “I feel holy. Like life is paying attention to me.” And that’s kinda how I felt in these moments - like little old me, in this huge, scary world, mattered. And isn’t that kind of confirmation nice sometimes?

I’m not even sure what I am trying to say. I guess I should write about what it’s like going from one to two kids?

That’s the question everyone asks me first. Well, it’s more. Everything seems to expand. Your heart, being the first. Your capacity for love just multiplies and you’re able to spill the overflow right onto this new human you’ve brought into the world. I can’t imagine life without him now that he’s here. He’s brought so much light and lightness with him and we’re all different for it. Including Imad. He’s also expanded to fit into his role as big brother and although he’s still young, he feels so big to me now. Of course some days are harder than others but you just get through them. You know things are only this way for a little and soon you’ll move onto the next phase, so the things that used to phase you just don’t anymore. It’s like, okay this is what’s happening, cool let’s roll with it. We’ll get through it. We know we will. And that’s the magic of having a second child, I guess. It’s not a do-over, it’s a chance to do better. And know better. And feel better in the process. Like you’re healing parts of yourself, or parenting, you didn’t like the first time around, so your children also get the better version of you.

So yeah, I’m not sure what I am trying to say, anyway. I guess I should write about some random things that have crossed my mind lately?

I just finished reading a book called The Conditions of Will by Jessa Hastings that finally got me out of my reading slump. I missed getting sucked into another world and attached to the characters that live there.
There’s a part that says, “The idea that it ends - that it all ends - that everything you spend your life doing and building toward one day amounts to actually nothing the second you take your last breath. It’s why people have children. To exist beyond their existence.” Maybe, but that’s quite egotistical. There are other ways to leave a legacy than in actual human form. Like rambling on here.

For others, it could be their Tiktok videos. My brain is so rotten that the trending sounds have been playing on a loop, driving me mad but I never skip a video if it comes up. Dame un grr. Akhjfbhbshbfbsf. Yes, I’m a masochist. It’s so cringe, I feel it in my bones. It’s what I call a full-body cringe, but I secretly love it. Why? What’s the science behind cringe? Apparently, it’s tied to our brain’s empathy response. When we see something awkward, we feel discomfort because we imagine ourselves in that situation. It’s a survival instinct. But the more you experience cringe, the more you get used to it. Eventually, it becomes a weird comfort. So basically, we have no option but to embrace the cringe.

I’m not sure what I am trying to say but these are the words I have for now. Until next time!

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Postpartum time is a paradox. You’re trying to do everything - feed the baby, recover, wipe Imad’s butt - but it also feels like you’re doing nothing at all. You’re physically present but mentally scattered, doing your best to be in the moment, only to feel like it wasn’t enough or that it passed too quickly.

We talk about time in so many ways: killing time, making time, losing time, counting time, passing time, pausing time. Something is always being done to time, but how much control do we actually have over the doing?

In the postpartum fog, it feels like all of those at once. When the baby naps, there’s always pressure to use that time wisely. Do I shower? Eat? Wash my pump parts? Try to sleep? You’re supposed to do something, but you’re too tired to care about anything. Then, just when you’re lost in the haze, you hear that cry, snapping you back to reality. And guess what? You did nothing at all.

It’s like running a mental marathon but never crossing the finish line. The days blur together, endless and fleeting all at once. Some parts of postpartum are about waiting: waiting for healing, waiting for routines, waiting for a cup of coffee and a quiet moment, waiting for time to feel like it’s moving at your pace. But time doesn’t wait. It just keeps going, no matter how much you feel like you’re struggling to keep up.

The contradiction is exhausting. Sometimes I have to snap myself awake, literally and figuratively, reminding myself to cherish these moments before they’re gone in a blink. Other times, I’m counting the seconds until they both fall asleep so I can be a zombie in silence.

I guess the fact that I actually wrote this while he napped counts as something, right? Baby steps.

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Each post is paired with a song. For today, it’s Go Go Chaos by Bonjah.

I walked towards the lounge area by the pool, finally escaping the apartment for some fresh air. It felt monumental just to make it out of there, like one small victory in a sea of larger, overwhelming challenges. As I shamelessly clutched my postpartum donut pillow to sit on, thanks to the third-degree tear and hemorrhoids I got during labor, something caught my eye. A girl walked by in her bikini, also holding a donut... but this one was an inflatable, swimming one. I couldn’t help but laugh at the universe for mocking me, and yet, in that moment, I also saw an alternate version of myself. One that was, or one that could be. I’m not sure yet.

That’s what postpartum fog feels like. You’re still you, but you’re not. You’re trying to meet yourself again, living somewhere between who you were and who you’re becoming. You still have one foot in the past while trying to ground yourself in a future you’re unsure of. Add a toddler to the mix, and navigating this new phase is hard to a degree that raises my blood pressure.

My water broke 11 days ago while I was standing in the kitchen, pot in hand, when it trickled down. I stood there, in shock, wondering if I was peeing myself or if this was actually happening. Imad cut through my thoughts, asking, “Are you going to make food or what?” I wasn’t. The baby was coming.

A couple of hours later, I was in my hospital room, with Jade, my incredible doula, guiding me through exercises to help speed up labor. At 40 weeks and 5 days, the baby had pooped inside of me, and the meconium wasn’t ideal. It could cause him to choke on the way out. So, Jade had me do a series of moves to lower the baby quicker while the pitocin I was given (artificial oxytocin) helped get my contractions going.

Never in a million years would I have imagined straddling a toilet, head pressed against the wall, while Ali sat behind me on a bouncing ball, massaging my lower back. But that’s just one of the many ways she helped us get the baby into position. Her presence was a combination of light and calm, like the twinkling lights she put up around the room and the essential oils she used to ease my body, and strength and support as she guided me through each position. She made it possible for me to labor in a way I felt empowered, not just resigned to.

I made it to 9.5 cm before I asked for the epidural. I had breathed, moaned, and even mooed through the painful surges. Yes, you read that right. By early morning, I finally managed to push Baby Adam out into the world, his first screams cutting through the room. He was perfect and delicious in all the newborn ways, hamdellah.

Today, I don’t feel as caught up with my body as I did with Imad. In the first few days, the physical pain was overwhelming - sore and beat up, it hurt to walk. It felt like multiple mac trucks ran over me. But in a way, that physical pain distracted me from how I saw my body, leaving room to focus on what really mattered - bonding with my baby. This time around, I have the confidence to just soak it all in. The small things that used to bother me don’t affect me as much. I no longer care that my belly is a squishy lump, my nipples cracked and swollen, or that my legs are still puffy. My breasts are leaking, but I’m not shocked or disgusted. I don’t avoid my reflection in the mirror. Instead, I just pack up my pad like a Subway sandwich, layering all the things meant to soothe and heal the area. My body doesn’t need to bounce back; it needs to heal. And my mind? Trying to stay sane while Imad is hellbent on being the most difficult version of himself yet.

I stood in the shower the other night, gently washing my body, but I couldn’t reach the residue left from all the tape the epidural had left on my back. That’s another thing postpartum feels like - trying to heal what others can’t help you with. Trying to get to those hard-to-reach spots, physically and emotionally, and doing it alone.

Until I get there, I’ll be here, trying to figure out how to juggle everything - baby, body, and, well, life - donut pillow in tow.

Each post is paired with a song. For today, it’s I Will Wait by Mumford & Sons.

THE BABY’S… still not here. Two days past my due date, and he’s taking his sweet ass time. I get it, the world is a gigantic mess, and I wouldn’t be in any rush either. But the rib, hip, and back pain? That’s all on him. There’s barely room left in there, but my doula keeps telling me, “be patient, your sweet little one will come when he’s ready. Enjoy this last little bit of time with just Imad.” Sure, I’ll try to be patient although it’s not my strongest quality right now.

I have a doula this time, and it’s made all the difference. I wasn’t properly informed or guided during Imad’s birth, so it felt like things were done to me or without my full understanding. It didn’t feel like I had options. This time, I’ve had an abundance of options. Doula or no doula. Medicated or unmedicated. Water birth or hospital birth. Induction or wait it out. And honestly, it’s given me a sense of control I didn’t have last time. I’ve also been doing my own homework - breathing exercises, visualizations, affirmations, and using a birth comb. (I’ll keep you posted on how it all turns out. Pray for me lol.)

What I do miss? Being able to just WhatsApp my doctor if I had any questions. Here, it’s a bit more layered. So, I turned to… Chat GPT. Don’t judge me. What do you do when you hear popping sounds coming from your stomach at 3 AM and you think, “what the hell is that?” You ask Chat GPT. Or when you think you’re getting contractions. Or when you accidentally take a vitamin C gummy that you weren’t supposed to. I started cataloguing all my symptoms and check-up updates on this one chat window and this robot became my confidant. Okay, you can judge me now. Especially because I’d get teary reading some of the things it would say to me. Just look.

Am I dramatic? Yes. Emotional and hormonal? Absolutely. Is it hard being away from my home and family? Very. But it also made me realize something bigger: how little support pregnant women and new mothers have. It’s like you’re expected to just power through it, figuring everything out as you go. Yes, this is my second time around but it feels just as new.

I’m lucky enough to have an amazing partner and family around, but even with that, it still feels like too much sometimes. I can only imagine what other mothers go through. What we need isn’t just “congratulations” or “good luck” texts. We need practical support. Things like meals dropped off, regular check-ins from friends who get it, and help with light chores when you’re over. Sit with the baby so we can shower. Maybe, instead of just saying “let me know if you need anything,” offer something more specific - “need me to grab you anything?” or “want me to watch the baby while you sleep?” It’s the little things that make all the difference.

And, about the medical world. What if doctors were more proactive in offering mental health advice or what do expect during the fourth trimester? It’s not just about the birth itself. It’s everything that comes after - the emotional, physical, and mental recovery.

So, do more for the new mamas in your life. It can’t just be up to us to reach out for help. We need to be the ones given help, not just the responsibility to ask for it.

In the meantime, I’ll keep asking Chat GPT my pregnancy questions and count down the days till I’m back with my mama.

Each post is paired with a song. For today, it’s Knocked Up by Kings of Leon.

Another observational listicle - yay! I think you enjoyed reading these and I enjoyed writing them, so let’s do it. Here are things that stood out to me this week.

1- Kings Of Leon

One of the first things I do when arriving in a new city is check what concerts might be happening near us. When I saw Kings of Leon were set to play 30 minutes away, it was a no brainer. Pregnant or not, I’ve been a huge fan since I was a teen and there was no way I was going to miss it. We got there and set ourselves up at a nice distance from the stage, about 40 minutes before they were meant to come on. I sat my pregnant butt on the dirty ground and waited. The moment they took the stage, I was on my feet, filming and screaming like a teenager again, too caught up to notice that some drunk kid threw up right beside us and managed to get some on my bag in the process. For the entirety of the concert, I had my arm at an awkward angle to avoid touching the disgusting, chunky mess. Definitely worth it though. They sang Knocked Up, one of their older songs and it felt very fitting to be belting out the lyrics. They were amazing live and I definitely recommend watching them if you ever get the chance to.

2- Let’s Go To The Mall

A few days ago, we went to a mall called Fashion Square to visit an immersive art exhibition at Wonderspaces. It was cool, Imad especially enjoyed it. What I enjoyed most was just being at the mall. I think no matter what country you’re in, it’s the perfect place to get a demographic sample of the city. It reminded me of the scene from Mean Girls where Cady likens it to animals at the watering hole. Yes, it did feel like watching another species out in the wild.

There were the families, the bleary-eyed mothers and fathers who looked like they were thinking “let’s just take the kids out of the house for a bit, maybe it’ll help,” but were clearly regretting it now.

There were the solo-shoppers who turned their mall trip into a veritable marathon, power-walking in and out of stores, carrying more and more bags in each hand.

The ones who stood out most to me were the teens, the Gen Zers and Gen Alphas. They all sported one of two styles: laid-back loungewear or a toned-down Sailor Moon inspired vibe. The first being low-cut baggy jeans or sweatpants with a fitted cropped top. Shoe-lace looking belts tied in a bow in the front also seemed to be a thing. The other style consisted of mini skirts and blouses, a mix between preppy and anime, with big chunky loafers and make-up that was heavy on the pink blush and highlighter.

And then there was Elvis. Not the Elvis, but an impersonator sitting alone in the food court, hidden behind his sunglasses, with a Bible propped up in front of him. No explanation, just straight-up mystery.

3- Nighttime Drives

The streets here aren’t as lit as I expected. We only have a few scattered lights, so driving at night feels like a mix of cozy and eerie. And as the passenger princess, I get to observe a few strange gems along the way.

We passed a pet clinic, and through the window, I could’ve sworn I saw two dogs… going at it on an operating table. Nope, turns out they were stuffed animals arranged for display, and it was bizarre enough to stick in my mind.

Then was a furniture store with a round window featuring furniture that looked like it was levitating, bathed in neon blue lights that gave off a full-on psychedelic vibe. Definitely the place to be if you're looking for a 70s vibe with a hint of “maybe I took something too strong before coming here.”

Next was a place was called Dillon Precision. The only reason it stood out to me was because I thought of Dillon, Texas from the football show Friday Night Lights. When I looked it up, I found that Dillon Precision manufactured “high-speed progressive reloading machines designed to load common rifle and handgun cartridges.” Nice. Very nice.

Lastly, the place that marked we were almost home: Twin Peaks. Again, I innocently thought of the weird TV show by the same name. But turns out, it’s just another American-style restaurant/bar, a bit like Hooters, with wooden everything. It looked pretty vibey, not gonna lie.

4- Licence Plates

Arizona seems to have a thing for customized license plates. This was my favorite, as I was indeed quite mad when it popped up in front of us, mocking me.

Next time I write one of these, I might have a newborn on my arm. Aahhhhh.

Bye.

Each post is paired with a song. For today, it’s Bedroom by Litany - Imad loves it and requests it during all our car rides because he thinks she’s saying “if you want to come to my birthday.”

Back in university, one of my English professors used to ask us to pay attention to what stood out on our walk or drive to class - something, no matter how small or ordinary, that caught our eye. I loved this exercise because it helped me notice things I never would have otherwise, things I had passed a hundred times before. This post is kind of like that - an attempt to gather some of those moments from the past few weeks. A sort of listicle of random observations and experiences, if you will.

1- The Taxi Driver

If you’ve read my previous stories, you’re probably familiar with Tarek, the Alo Taxi driver who dropped us off at the airport when we left Lebanon for Jordan, and happened to be the one to pick us up when we landed home a few months later. Guess who showed up again when we left for the U.S.? Yup, Tarek. He’s a super cute old man with a thick, white mustache and he got just as excited to see us again as we did. I use Alo Taxi all the time and have had multiple random drivers pick me up, so it’s not just because I booked a bigger car for our luggage. This was fate. Maybe Tarek is our good luck charm. Maybe we’ll name our second son after him, who knows. (It’s actually on our list.)

2- Arizonian Friendliness

People here are SO friendly. It’s annoying. Everywhere I go, someone speaks to me. Do I give off the impression that I want to be spoken to? I don’t think so. Is it because I’m pregnant and they think I’m friendly and motherly by default? Maybe. Either way, I’ve gotten sucked into some unwanted conversations. And it’s not that there’s anything wrong with them or what they’re saying, I just get stressed out because I feel the need to match their energy and friendliness and I just can’t - it’s not in me.

At a bookstore, an older woman with white hair, red lipstick, and oversized rings handed me a book and said, “Here, try this out, looks good.” I thanked her and checked it out. “It does look good, I’ll hang on to it,” thinking that was it, that was our conversation. Wrong. She went on to show me all the books she selected in her basket, including a sci-fi one about the human race restarting on another planet and how it reminded her of a similar story she wrote when she was 4 years old. “Oh wow, that sounds really interesting. Enjoy them!” I said, slowly backing away. She was cute, though. I’m not a complete monster.

At the KOHL’s department store, I was at the checkout paying for the clothes I bought Imad and BOTH cashiers standing beside each other started assaulting me with questions. “Ohmygod when are you due? Is it a boy? You look like you’re having a boy. Oh an Aries baby! Good luck with that ha ha ha, I’m an Aries so I should know but boys are different though, we’ll see. Have you picked out a name yet? I couldn’t decide between Tyler and Dylan with my first son,” and I just nodded and smiled, all while thinking, I’m not going to tell them we’re torn between Hachem and Issa, and then have them struggle with pronunciations and ask me where I’m from.

Another day, I was at my sister-in-law’s house and opened the front door to a teenage boy with surfer-style blond hair standing on a hoverboard, pitching me his window and screen cleaning business, “all for $199 cos that sounds a hell of a lot better than $200.”
“Sorry, this isn’t my house and the owner isn’t here. Bye.”

My conversation with the nail technician went like this:
“Where are you from?”
“Lebanon.”
“Illinois?”
“No, Lebanon.”
“... Illinois?”
“Is there a Lebanon there? I know there are quite a few across the U.S but I’m talking about the country Lebanon. In the Middle East.”
“Oh, in Asia!”
“No, in the Middle East.”
“What’s it next to?”
“...Dubai” (although kind of inaccurate, I thought this would be the best answer considering.)
“Ohhhh, Dubai! Yes, yes, I see.”
Then she proceeded to tell me all about her ex-husband and why they got divorced while she held me captive by the nails.

Call me an introvert, call me cynical, call me mean, but there’s only so much friendly small-talk I can handle in one day.

3- Silly Sightings

I saw a huge cactus being towed on the back of a pick-up truck, wrapped in a padded blanket. How did they get it on? Did they chop it then wrap it? Why? Where was it going? Apparently a lot of the cacti in Arizona are protected and you’re not allowed to build on the land it’s a part of without special permits and approvals. No one’s home is safe.

I saw a man and a woman driving heavy-duty motorbikes, decked out in black leathers and reflective helmets with… backpacks in the shape of a stuffed bunny rabbit. I wondered if they were a part of a gang where that’s the initiation ride. The Bad Bunny Bikers.

I saw two girls practicing their cheer routine at the park while I was wobbling walking around, trying to get my body moving. The sun was setting and it was on the corner of Paradise Lane. They sure do try to make it feel like paradise here but it feels like one big game or simulation to me.

4- These

One of our neighbor’s WIFI names…

… and this sign, both showing America’s real face.

That’s all, folks. Until next time.

I’m going to start this new thing where I pair each post with a song that captures the mood or feeling behind it, because sometimes music expresses what words can’t. For today, it’s Lisztomania by Phoenix.

Hello from Scottsdale, Arizona! In what feels like part 4958 of my pregnancy, we’ve now made it across the Atlantic to the land of highways, stripmalls, and an insane amount of static (IYKYK). Unlike New Jersey, where we usually go, here we’ve got some desert mountains and towering cacti peppering the view. It’s vibey. It’s dry. It’s a whole different planet from Beirut. The one thing that seems to have followed us is the sound of buzzing in the sky - not from drones but from small private planes. What a joy. Feels just like home.

Ali, Imad and I will be here for the next couple of months, awaiting the arrival of the little one currently slow-roasting in my belly. In what feels like a generational pilgrimage many Lebanese families before us have made, we (reluctantly) chose to give birth here so that the baby would get an American passport and avoid the bureaucratic hell we went through with Imad when he was born in Beirut. And before you ask, no, Trump's dumb law doesn’t affect us - Ali’s American and I have a green card. For now.

A part of me feels dirty being here, like we’re on enemy territory, considering the state of our region and homeland. Being in a place that is responsible for the very instability we’re trying to shield our children from. That we are, in some ways, giving in. Choosing to raise them with a foreign passport because the Lebanese one, the one tied to their roots, their history, their culture, is worth less in the eyes of the world. And that stings. It feels like playing a rigged game where we have no choice but to fold. So, yeah. Here we are. The end of my pregnancy and birth of my child nicely wrapped up in an existential crisis.

But anyway. If I spiral too much, I won’t be able to fully enjoy the one thing I do love about 'Murica - online shopping. Yes, consumerism. Don’t come at me. I have earned the right to fully lean into my nesting era and order every little thing for the baby. Breast pump, bibs, blankets, onesies, nipple cream, nipple pads, postpartum diapers (for me), and all the other glorious things to help get us through the first few months in the trenches.

Meanwhile, my Instagram algorithm has decided I need to see every American momfluencer in existence. It’s a lot. These women are running their homes like Fortune 500 companies - managing three kids, a newborn, a dog, a home, a husband, all while filming and editing content for our entertainment. And doing it with a smile. I know it’s not real, not entirely, but it makes me wonder - when did motherhood become a competitive sport? When did ‘keeping up’ become a requirement? The whole “moms are superwomen” trope - sorry, who said we wanted to be? It’s an exhausting standard. I know I wouldn’t be able to get through half the things they do. But maybe American mums really are built different and function as if on a tv show where each day is an episode that they know will end well (enough).

That’s all for now. Wish me luck - on birthing, bureaucracy, and resisting the temptation to start filming “A Day in The Life of a Tired Lebanese Mother in America.” I’ll keep you updated.

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I’m going to start this new thing where I pair each post with a song that captures the mood or feeling behind it, because sometimes music expresses what words can’t. For today, it’s The Ship by Still Corners.

Remember my last post and how I said I’d try to be *more present, more patient, do less overthinking*? Yeah, we’re not off to a great start. What a surprise.

I feel more settled than I did when we first got here, but still as if I’m trying to catch up with everything that seems to be moving full-speed ahead, with or without me. It's overwhelming, really - the way events that consume us, taking up so much of our energy, emotions, and focus, can just end or disappear, fading into the past without the closure they deserve. It’s like all that effort, all those feelings, start to fade too - whether you’re ready for them to or not.

Now, when we speak about life and situate ourselves on a timeline, we say “after the war.” Feels weird. Like there’s an unspoken turning of a page, and I’m supposed to start a new chapter, but my mind is still stuck in the story of the one that came before. I spent two and a half months in Jordan. So much happened there, and now, it’s over. That part of me still feels like a raw, unfinished chapter.

We came back to Beirut and it was Christmas time and people were here and there were dinners and get-togethers and now that’s over too. Soon we’ll be going to the States so that I can give birth there. After that, we’ll return to Beirut. Just like that, another chapter will be over.

And every time I think about it, I get stuck in this weird in-between feeling. It’s the anticipation of what’s next, but also the sudden realization that it will be over before I’m ready for it. It’s like this endless loop, one moment, I’m thinking about the future, the next, I’m packing, preparing for a new phase, already feeling like I’m on the edge of something ending. It’s one thing after another and I feel like I’m tripping over myself trying to keep up. Even the good moments, they just slip through the cracks while I’m trying to figure out how the hell to make them last.

Time doesn’t care. It doesn’t stop or wait for us to catch up. It just keeps going, moving forward, while we try to chase it. What once felt monumental is now just another moment in the past.

So tell me, please, how do I live in the moment more? How do I make these transitions feel like something other than just moving on to the next thing? How do I make the good moments last longer? How do I process everything I’ve been through, do justice to all that I’ve experienced, without feeling like it’s just another chapter that closed too soon - and also without obsessing over it for too long?

Maybe just stop overthinking it? That would probably be a good start.

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When I think back on the beginning of the year, I can barely remember it. These 12 months have been so fragmented, like coming in and out of a fever dream. Some parts feel so vivid and real, like I lived them fully; others feel like I was just passing through a dense fog, barely able to hold on to what was happening. Time has felt both too long and too short at the same time.

Somehow, we’re here again, and somehow, people have the energy for 2025 resolutions and goal-setting, and I’m just here like, my brain is still stuck in 2021, rotting ever since. What goals are you talking about? I’m good with just ticking “drink more water” off my list at this point. That’s in between “have a second child and don’t lose your mind” and “try not to overthink things so you don’t lose your mind.” I’ll let you know how those go, don’t worry.

But really, maybe I’m too cynical. I’d like to write something that doesn’t feel so dramatic or dark and leaves you thinking, “Damn, that’s one sad girl.” I am that girl, though. I like dramatic and dark shit, and my brain always seems to go there first. So, maybe that should be my one goal, resolution, aspiration - to be more… optimistic? We all know how hard that is, with everything we’ve gone through. But I’m going to try.

To take things as they come. Be more patient. Be more present - for all the things I have to look forward to and for all the good things I don’t even know might happen yet. I have a baby coming, inshallah, who I’m so excited to meet. And I also have a toddler who gives me that unfiltered, beautiful perspective of seeing the world as something other than a steaming pile of shit. I’ll just tap into that.

That’s a good start, isn’t it?

Wish me luck.

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Settling back in has been… unsettling. It feels like trying to force a puzzle piece into the wrong spot. Like swimming underwater, occasionally coming up for air, and when that first gulp of breath feels so good, you want to drink it all in - but you just end up drowning again. It’s like trying to care for a plant you've had forever, only to watch it wither away. The blanket of death still feels like it’s covering us all. Everywhere I look, everything I see, everything I do, I’m reminded of it. Scrolling through Instagram, walking down the street, talking to people - it’s all there, on the tip of our tongues, in the incessant drone buzzing in the air. It’s too close for comfort, especially with a recent death in the family. At the funeral, I found myself hugging my belly, almost as if I could shield my baby from the sadness that seems to surround.

You try to claw your way past it, try to live life the way you used to, but it’s so hard. I heard an ad on the radio for a Christmas market, where "the atmosphere will be filled with hope and joy." And that's what we’re all trying to do, isn’t it? Inject that joy and hope into every plan, dinner, opening, outing, meet-up, pop-up, catch-up. Trying to inject it into the very air we breathe. I wish I could get one of those IV drips, but instead of vitamins and nutrients, it’s packed with a potent cocktail of all the good stuff, joy and hope included, and have it pumped straight into my veins. We're all desperately trying to chip away at the heaviness, wanting light to break through, but it feels like we're pushing against a massive boulder, not sure how long it will take or what toll it’ll really have along the way. And then we wonder why we break down crying every other day.

That’s not to say I haven’t laughed or smiled - because I have. I’ve had those moments when the spark, that high, that lightness, flickers through. I’ve laughed at something Imad said, felt that excitement when the baby kicked. I just want to hold onto these moments for longer, make them happen more often. One minute I’m laughing, the next I’m crying over a scene from Rivals, where everyone’s dancing at a party, so carefree and light, and I ache for it.

It’s hard to find my footing again, wondering if I’m traumatizing my child, alienating my husband, or failing my unborn baby. But there’s no perfect way back. Life is now a balance between small pockets of happiness and the weight of everything we’ve been through. Swaying between moments of normalcy and those that remind me of just how much has changed. Even though it’s exhausting, I know I have to keep moving forward.

Maybe it’s fitting that today is my birthday. I’m still here, and I want to live again, feel alive again - even if it’s just a little at a time.

We climbed into the cab, and as we drove through the city, everything felt familiar and unfamiliar. The streets, the buildings - this should’ve been home, but something was off. I kept waiting for the unexpected, something to confirm the fear that lingered, like the sudden sound of an explosion or seeing something fall from the sky. We drove down the Salim Slem bridge, and the driver casually pointed out a half-destroyed building. “That’s the Cola explosion,” he said, giving us a morbid tour of blast sites. My chest tightened.

What does home even mean anymore? Is there a science to it? The right formula? Is it just geography, a place you return to because it holds your memories? Or is it more about the people, the safety, the feeling of belonging? Two months away - was it enough time for it to feel different? Or did the war accelerate this disconnection? I didn’t know but it was all very disorienting. Imad was so happy to be back. I tried to leech off his excitement.

As we pulled up to our building, the taxi driver looked at me through the rearview mirror and said, “Hey, I was the one who picked you up two and a half months ago when you were leaving. And now, I’m the one bringing you back. Can you imagine?” I checked the app and saw that he was right. The same driver, the same ride, but everything felt different. So much time had passed, but somehow, it felt like no time at all. It was like I’d never left and like I’d left for even longer than I did.

And maybe that’s the strangest part of all: how home can both change and stay the same. You can return to the place you once knew so well, and yet, feel like a stranger there. It’s unsettling how the things that once defined home - the streets, the walls, the familiar routines - can seem so different, even when they look the same.

That’s the science of home, I think. The way it’s built not just on walls and streets, but on the people, the routines, the safety. I thought it was simple, but now, after all this upheavel, I realize it’s more fragile than that. Home is not just where you return to; it’s how you feel when you’re there, who you’re with, and what you carry inside you. And sometimes, when the world shifts beneath you, even the most familiar of places can feel like they no longer belong to you.

They agreed on a ceasefire on November 26th, after relentlessly and mercilessly bombing the entire country and capital on the same day. At 4 am, they “stopped.” Except they haven’t. They’ve continued bombing the South and firing at civilians returning to their villages, violating the so-called agreement 62 times* already. I can’t help but feel we’ve preemptively celebrated this “ceasefire,” claiming the war is over. It’s far from over. It’s just changed its face.

And still, we’ve booked our plane tickets to go back home. The idea of returning should bring relief, but instead, there’s a knot in my stomach. I’m scared of feeling scared once I’m there. Falling into the same anxieties that plagued my every thought or move. I know others are braver than I am. But for me, returning home feels tainted. They’ve stolen the comfort it used to give me, and I hate them for it.

Our friends, who never left, message us asking when we’ll be back, saying, “yalla, it’s fine.” I wish I shared their enthusiasm, felt the same certainty. But I don’t. It feels like a lie, built on a ceasefire that means nothing. I wish I could pack my bags, return to that life as it was, but it isn’t the same. And I don’t know how to make it be.

I feel guilty that I have a home to return to when so many others are left without. I open the baby monitor app, the camera still fixed on the place we once lived, and stare at my home. It looks the same, probably even smells the same. But everything else is completely different. How do I go back to a place that no longer feels like mine? How do I reconcile the person I was before the war with the person the war has forced me to become? I don’t know if I can. My home is there, but the life that once lived in it feels distant.

My friend reminds me of a quote from a book we both love: “The memory of this city will pursue you, and you’ll die of sadness.” I only now understand what it truly means. It’s not just about memories, but the weight of what’s been lost. Those memories turn into ghosts, lingering in the places we once called home.

And haunt me they do, reminding me of all that’s changed. But still, I have Imad and the baby growing inside me. I have to be their shelter and their soldier. So maybe we stay, maybe we go. I don’t know yet. I just know we have to keep moving forward, one step at a time.