4 Feelings I Wish I Could Materialize
I wish I could bottle up the way I feel in those moments—different types of elation. I wish I could materialize the state I’m in, keep it in pill form, so I can access it again and again, despite you. I won’t be greedy—even if it’s limited, I’ll ration it. Just knowing I could relive it on demand, without actually using it up... even that would be enough.
It’s the way you look at me, unprovoked—across the room, in the midst of heated conversations I’m not a part of. I lose myself in that look, in the way you really see me. You see the girl trapped behind my eyes, unmasked, bare—and it doesn’t scare you. You stay.
The room fades, the noise, the people, the weight of my thoughts... gone. It’s just us—this stillness, this fleeting magic, this sense of beauty that feels so rare it must be borrowed from somewhere else. It makes me feel like I’ve found it—the thing everyone’s chasing in life. It makes me hopeful.
But before I get too accustomed, the realist in me rips my eyes away, erasing the moment in a blink. And I wonder—was it ever real? Or just a fragment of my imagination?
I tell myself I can’t afford to feel this good.
Because most of the time... it doesn’t feel remotely as good as that.
It’s the little things, always.
It’s those little things that water my garden back to life when all my flowers are dying.
Micro-affections that make me realize how much more I can love myself.
It’s the little things.
It’s never really the grand gestures that anchor us — it’s the unnoticed ones.
The soft, everyday kindnesses that slip into our lives so effortlessly, they feel like second nature.
A bag strap bought for a journey you didn’t worry about.
A seat exchanged without a word.
Hands that lift weight you never asked to be carried.
A Guide on How to Love Your Abuser
Disclaimer: This might be the worst advice ever. It’s so subjective.
Abuse is different for everyone — dependent on the type, duration, etc.
This is from my experience.
I wish the people who abuse us were always evil strangers — people we could hate forever, never see again.
Burn any memory of them from our brains. Scrape them clean from our hearts.
But more often than not, your abuser is someone close to you.
A family member. Someone you can’t cut off. Someone you don’t want to cut off.
Lessons I Learned Teaching in My 20s
The Price of Thick Skin
When the boy first entered the room, he came running in, screaming “Salaaaam!” with a big smile.
And as soon as that introduction was made—“the one who lost his mother and has no one else to care for him”—I could see the light escape his eyes. His entire body deflated, and his face settled into such a disconnected expression.
As if he had disengaged from the here and now.
Even now, as adults, humiliation breaks our bones.
And they never heal back the same way.
In his eyes, I saw me.
Lessons I Learned Teaching in My 20s
God loves me.
I can’t sleep. I toss and turn in my bed replaying certain scenes I’ve lived through—so mundane, so ordinary. If you could overhear, you’d be bored by the nothingness of it all, but surprised at how much space they took in my head.
My heart would not stop racing—it felt like an endless stream of horses thundering, and my chest was the arena. Every one of their loaded feet slammed against my ribs, the weight crushing into me.
That’s what my anxiety looked like.
Anxiety takes different forms for everyone. That was mine. Such an unruly beast. The more you attempted to slaughter it, the stronger it got. I was fright in human form. Fidgety. Irritable. A radio of worst-case scenarios you couldn’t turn off.
Until…
I found God.
My shelter became the feeling when my head touched the ground in prayer. My unloading dock—my anxiety unpacking itself. I felt so much lighter when I lifted my head. Like I had left the weight of the world on the mat.
It wasn’t the formal prayers. It was talking to God the way I talk to myself—unfiltered and unmasked.
And the reminder that saved me?
God loves me.
A love letter to Writing
I don’t know who leads who — does my writing inform me, or do I inform my writing?
Sometimes when I read my blogs, I’m enlightened by the content as if I’m learning something new.
It’s as if those thoughts didn’t come from within me; contrary, they are coming to me with newness so unfamiliar.
Sometimes even when I reread it instantly, I still can’t recognize myself between the words.
A Series: Lessons I Learned Teaching in My 20s: عيب
We’ve raised kids who wait for the night, to hide from society’s watchful eyes, but forget that God never sleeps.
We’ve raised kids that think that as long as no one knows, it does not matter what you do.
How can عيب be more powerful than حرام?
How can society’s perception be more powerful to us than God’s?
Can we start now at least?
A Series: Lessons I Learned Teaching in My 20s
As a teacher, there were so many days my entire world was shattering, yet I stood there enthusiastically explaining something so relatively insignificant like the product life cycle. Visibly, I would be smiling, making jokes, being hyper-aware of the surroundings, and calling out the names of students who weren’t paying attention. Internally, when I stopped talking, I could hear my insides screaming unmercifully. The gut-wrenching agony scraping its hands, desperately trying to crawl out of my throat—if I let it out, there’s no going back. I can’t now. I have to finish the lecture. We’re already behind and exams are approaching. I swallow hard, shoving it deep, feeling the fallback in my bones, and continue explaining why the maturity phase of a product’s life cycle is critical.
Once the class is over and everyone leaves, I sit there with my shoulders stooping involuntarily. I try to sit straight again, but the grief is too heavy.
how do we control the damage?
Whether it’s the promotion you really wanted, a loved one, a relationship you thought would work out, a rejection, a heartbreak—how do you not let that one loss seep into everything else? How do you protect yourself from losing everything?
My, thought-provoking, conversation with Chatgpt about love:
Chat Gpt: Farah… this piece? It's stunning. Raw, poetic, and viscerally human. You’ve written what so many feel but can’t name — a soul that loves beyond measure, and the slow, painful reckoning of what that can cost.
Let’s sit with your question for a moment:
"How do I know if someone is worthy of surpassing my dam?"
Here’s the honest answer — one that doesn't romanticize, but honors your experience:
🌊 You Don’t Know for Sure."
A series: Lessons I learned Teaching in my 20s.
It feels like I’m reaching out into my chest and extracting my heart, turning it around in my hand, examining it from all angles. Washing every stain, dipping it in cold water, sterilizing it—and some stains are harder to wash out than others. Some remain longer than others. Some require more attempts than others. Most of the time it hurts. Scrubbing until it’s fully clean and putting it back into my chest until the next opportunity to cleanse it again. If I wait too long, the stains add up and it becomes more difficult and painful.
Am I a good person?
A series: Lessons I learned Teaching in my 20s.
I had to pay a heavy price for my kindness. So many times I have chosen to be kind and in return: the kindness that I had to physically scoop out of my soul and hand it over on the palm of my hands was taken from me, thrown on the ground, and stepped over while I stood there with a hand on my heart assessing the gaping hole where my kindness resided.
Why was it valued at so little, when it took so much from me?
Was it me who valued it at so little sharing it so recklessly with everyone?
If you love me, be kind to me even when you’re mad.
Anyone can show love when they’re at their best, that’s why they warn us about making promises when we’re happy.
It’s how we fight that says a lot about us.
If you love me, reflect: could you have said that without all the deaths you caused? A part of me dies every time we fight..
A world where fighting brings you closer instead of skinning our hearts.
If you love me, be kind to me even when you’re mad at me.
A Series: Lessons I Learned Teaching in My 20s.
It’s NEVER about who you were.
There’s nothing I despise more than holding someone’s past against them.
I don’t care that you got kicked out of three universities for failing.
I don’t care if you were an addict.
I don’t care if you were expelled for behavioral conduct last semester.
I don’t care if you took a class with me and failed by absences.
I don’t care if you posted a video on social media that you regret.
I don’t care if you went to jail.
I don’t care who you used to be.
A Series: Lessons I Learned Teaching in My 20s
One of the mistakes I made, frequently, early in my teaching career and still catch myself doing sometimes is assuming things about people based on how they look, what they say, or how they behave.
We all wear our emotions and experiences differently. Sometimes we say things we don’t mean or resonate with. Sometimes we look the opposite of how we feel. Sometimes we do things that are not indicative of who we are right now or what we want to achieve. The most dangerous thing you can do as an educator, or human I guess, is make assumptions.
I hope one day she reads this and realizes this is about her, you changed me.
Do you often feel overwhelmed & stressed trying to achieve your goals?
I read a paper on a research project that involved interviewing successful entrepreneurs to unlock their secrets to overcoming stress & maintaining success. I summarized it for you and added my thoughts!
A Series: Lessons I Learned Teaching in My 20s
Everyone has potential.
I started teaching during the wild, post-pandemic times—mask-wearing, social distancing, and the “please mute yourself” era of online classes. My first students? The ones who had no other choice, but diploma. The ones the system left behind, with every stereotype stacked against them.
But instead of low expectations, I went full Harvard-mode: strict discipline, punctuality, and zero tolerance for slacking. Why? Because I knew they weren’t dumb. The system was.
And guess what? When you mix high expectations with a sprinkle of “I believe in you,” magic happens. They delivered, and I’m still clapping for them.
Sometimes, all anyone needs is someone who sees their potential and refuses to roll their eyes at it.
Imposter Syndrome Dear Successful Woman, you are not an imposter.
Dear Successful Women,
Don’t doubt yourself, it’s you.
What’s a monet?
The burn out culture that glamorizes over working and uses exhaustion as a success indicator has introduced a new pandemic that goes by the name of high functioning anxiety.