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Faded Memories

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Daily writing prompt
If you could relive one day from your past, which day would it be and why?
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When people talk about childhood memories, they describe them so vividly that it feels like I can almost see them myself. I can feel the emotions they felt at the time. The joy, the comfort, the innocence. They speak about their past as though they can step back into it whenever they want.

For me, it isn’t like that.

When I sit alone and try to remember the past, I feel as though I am lost in a haze. I know things happened. I know I laughed, loved, celebrated, worried, and dreamed. But whenever I reach for a specific memory, my mind returns only fragments. Faces without conversations. Places without stories. Feelings without context.

Sometimes I think I have a habit of placing memories into a box and setting it aside. Not because I want to forget them, but because life keeps moving forward. There is always something new demanding my attention. Over time, I stopped opening the box.

Now, when I try to revisit those memories, it feels as though it has been locked shut.

Yet something remarkable happens whenever I am with my family.

A story gets mentioned. A photograph appears. Someone laughs about something that happened years ago. Slowly, the blurry images begin to sharpen. The haze lifts. The memories come rushing back, and with them all the emotions I felt in those moments.

What I miss most are not the big milestones or the stories people would tell at a family gathering.

I miss the ordinary moments.

I want to relive the nights when we were children and all of us squeezed into our parents’ king-size bed. We would fight over the blanket and argue over who got to sleep next to Mom and who got to sleep next to Dad. At the time it felt like the most serious argument in the world. Now I would give anything to be back there, surrounded by the warmth and chaos of a family that was all together in one place.

I want to relive the days when my dad would carry me on his shoulders. The world seemed bigger from up there, but somehow safer too. I would eventually drift off to sleep without a single worry in my mind and he would not move me, walking the complete distance to home. Or even those magical moments when I fell asleep in front of the television and woke up in my bed the next morning. I never questioned how I got there.

I want to relive the afternoons when my dad fed me lunch because my mother worried that I never finished my plate. I remember treating it as an inconvenience. Just another part of my day. Now I understand that some of the greatest expressions of love arrive disguised as ordinary routines.

I want to relive the evenings when my mom came home exhausted from work and stretched out on the bed for a brief nap. Her arm was always extended outward because the pillow was never meant for me. Without ever saying a word, she made space for my head in the crook of her arm. Looking back, I realize that no pillow I have slept on since has ever felt as comfortable or as safe.

I want to relive the days when I was shorter than my sister. When I could hug her and bury my face in the crook of her shoulder. When her embrace felt like protection from everything I didn’t yet understand about the world

The Pursuit of Happyness

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What’s the last movie that made you cry?

I do not know if it is the first or the last, but The Pursuit of Happyness always gives me the feels. It does not have a thrilling plot, a heroic arc, or a dramatic love story. It is just plain and simple—and yet it moves the heart. The film shows the struggle of the common man. He has no grand dreams, only the desire to build a life for his family. There is no villain in his story except life itself. Even after doing everything right, it seems that life keeps knocking him down. And still, while enduring the countless challenges that life throws at him, he stubbornly shields his family from the pain he himself is carrying. He does whatever it takes to protect their hope and fights to turn that fragile hope into reality.

That pure relatability of the storyline always tugs at my heartstrings. No matter how many times I have seen it, I keep subconsciously hoping for a happy ending. It does not matter that I know the ending, that I could probably recite every dialogue. Each time, the movie makes me forget all the past times I have watched it and renews that raw emotion—the revival of hope.

Perhaps that is why it lingers. It reminds me that resilience is not always loud or celebrated. Sometimes it is quiet, invisible, and deeply human. Sometimes it is simply the act of enduring, of protecting those we love, of believing in tomorrow even when today feels unbearable. And that is why The Pursuit of Happyness never fails to move me—it is not just a film, but a reminder of the stubborn, beautiful persistence of hope.

Waves washing over a rocky beach at sunset beneath coastal cliffs and lighthouse

Changing the Tide of Time

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Daily writing prompt
If you could erase one event from history, what would it be?
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If I could erase one event or concept from history, I would choose anything related to nuclear technology, whether it is nuclear bombs, nuclear accidents, or the harmful consequences of nuclear radiation. The reason is simple: it is one of the few things that not only takes lives but also destroys the quality of life for those who survive. A person may have had everything ahead of them, yet their life can be reduced to the lasting physical effects caused by nuclear exposure. What makes it even more tragic is that the suffering is often endured by innocent people who had no part in the decisions that led to it. Beyond affecting one generation, the consequences can continue to impact future generations as well.

On a more emotional level, I would want to erase every instance of violence. Looking at the news today, it often feels as though violence has become so common that we no longer wake up shocked by a single tragedy. Instead, we wonder how many incidents have occurred. Violence has crossed boundaries of reason, age, and circumstance. What affects me most is thinking about the innocent people involved, not only those who are directly harmed, but also their families. I also think about the families of those who caused the harm, as they too are often left to deal with the consequences and pain.

When I consider the question from a more philosophical perspective, I wonder whether changing one event would actually make the world better or worse. We can never truly know. The butterfly effect suggests that even the smallest change can have vast and unpredictable consequences. A single event may have influenced countless outcomes that shaped the world we live in today. If there were a way to identify the one event responsible for the greatest suffering, I might choose to erase it. Yet I cannot know whether the event that replaced it would create a better world or a much worse one.

So, in the end, my answer is that I do not know. Because I do not know, I would choose not to change history at all. Not because the world today is perfect, but because it is the life I have been given. Despite all the pain, hardship, and injustice that exist, I am grateful for my life. I can only hope and pray for a better future, not just for myself, but for everyone in the world.

Rustic wooden footbridge crossing a stream between forest and meadow

Head First, Eyes Open

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Daily writing prompt
How do you deal with uncertainty?
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I’ve never been much of a planner, so uncertainty doesn’t really scare me. One advantage of being a disorganized person, I suppose. I’ve always subscribed to the idea of “we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” There’s only so much planning you can do before life decides to take things in a completely different direction.

That said, I do have a tendency to overthink. In the past, it sometimes reached the point of self-sabotage. These days, I don’t think I do it nearly as much. I’ve learned that dwelling too long on uncertainty only fuels anxiety. For me, it can become a spiral that leads to panic rather than preparation.

The first time I had a panic attack, I genuinely thought I was dying. I’d heard people talk about them before and understood the concept, but nothing could have prepared me for the intensity of experiencing one firsthand.

Over time, I’ve come to realize that sometimes we’re fortunate and things work out in our favor. Other times, and often it feels like this is the case for me, they don’t. When that happens, all you can do is find the courage to face what’s in front of you. Struggle isn’t weakness. Everyone is fighting battles of their own. Some people have simply learned to hide them better than others.

At the end of the day, the only constant is that nothing remains constant. Change is inevitable, and uncertainty is one of life’s few guarantees. The best we can do is accept that reality and trust ourselves to face whatever comes next.

Growing Up

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What’s a moment when you realized you were officially an adult?

For much of my childhood, I lived in a cocoon of protection. My parents spared no effort in shielding me from hardship, and my sister, too, placed my needs above her own. It was a world where happiness seemed permanent, where every want was met before I even knew to ask. I thought that was life — simple, safe, and endlessly cared for.

The illusion shattered the day I was handed medical proxy papers when my mother was admitted to the hospital. I was not yet eighteen, still technically a child, but in that moment the world demanded something more of me. Though I ultimately needed a relative to sign, the weight of responsibility pressed down on me. I felt inadequate, unprepared, and suddenly aware that the real world was far harsher than the one I had been living in. That was the day I realized I had to grow up.

From then on, every step became part of that growth. I finished school, pursued my undergraduate studies, and eventually secured a job. Each milestone carried with it the quiet determination to shift roles — from being the one cared for to becoming the one who could care. I wanted to give back to the family that had given me everything, to stand as their support just as they had always stood for me.

Growth, I have learned, is not a single event but a continuous unfolding. It began in that hospital corridor, with trembling hands holding papers I could not yet sign, and it continues each day as I navigate adulthood. I am still growing, still learning, still striving to balance the weight of responsibility with the gratitude I feel for the love that raised me.

Adulthood is not about perfection. It is about stepping forward even when you feel inadequate, about carrying the lessons of protection into the practice of care. My journey is ongoing, but I know now that growth is not something to fear — it is the path that allows me to honor the family who gave me everything, by becoming someone who can give back in return.

Middle Eastern dinner overlooking Dubai Marina and illuminated skyscrapers

Food, My Ancient Enemy

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Which is the best restaurant in your city?

Lately, I’ve noticed so many writing prompts about food. They make me think harder than usual, and sometimes I feel a little clueless about what to say. But food, I realize, isn’t just about taste. It’s about the places we go, the people we sit with, and the memories we carry home.

For me, the best restaurant isn’t only about how crazy good the food tastes — though that matters. It’s also about wanting to go back again and again. Still, I’ve learned that atmosphere counts too. I don’t want a place that’s too crowded. I want to hear and talk to the person I’m with. I want to spend time with my family, because those moments give me strength. In the past few years, I’ve yearned for them more than ever — the kind of moments that keep me steady when life feels overwhelming.

From my childhood, one restaurant stands out is Hatam Al Ta’ai, an Iranian restaurant in Dubai. It’s not really suitable for vegetarians because it is a meat heavy place, but for me it was unforgettable.

They served the most delicious slow-cooked kebabs and lamb chops, with fresh salad, fries, and hummus on the side. It was the only place where I would eat salad without complaint — that’s how good it was. The flavors were rich, comforting, and memorable.

If you ever travel to Dubai, I would wholeheartedly recommend Hatam Al Ta’ai. For me, it wasn’t just about the food, but about the joy of being there, the family moments, and the comfort it gave me.

One more message to the past

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If you had a time machine and could send just one message to your past self, what would it say?

What my past self needs to hear from the me of today.

Since I have already answered a similar question motivationally, I am choosing to answer this one a little bit practical. No supportive statement this time, this time it’s a slap in the face do or die statement.

There are moments in life when we convince ourselves that pain is deserved. That imperfection means we must accept whatever treatment comes our way. I once believed that. I stayed in a toxic relationship, telling myself that suffocating was the price of belonging. I gave up pieces of myself to fit into someone else’s mold, and for that, I lost years I’ll never get back.

But here’s the truth I wish I had carved into my mind – You don’t deserve pain just because you’re not perfect. You walk alone happy rather than stay with someone who will break you. Be different. Be controversial. Refuse to bend into society’s expectations. At the end of the day, you still have yourself — and that is enough.

Be alone rather than lonely. Be alone rather than broken.

This is not comfort. This is survival. It’s the reminder I carry now, the lesson I would have shouted into my past self’s ears. And it’s the truth I want anyone reading this to hold close: your wholeness is worth more than any relationship that demands you shatter to fit inside it.

Ethereal library with swirling staircases, countless books, and a luminous door

Magic that Distance brings

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Which author would you love to have dinner with?

While I love books and the worlds authors create for me with their words, I have never wished to meet any of them in person. My love is for the words themselves — words that open doors to thrillers, mysteries, and fantasy realms where the impossible suddenly feels possible. These stories are dreams I carry with me, and I would not intentionally break that magic.

The mystery of the human mind fascinates me. Two people can grow up in the same circumstances, yet the worlds they imagine will never be the same. That divergence is what makes storytelling so extraordinary. Each reader builds their own version of the author’s world, and that uniqueness is what I treasure most.

Meeting an author, however, feels like it would collapse the boundary between dream and reality. To see the person behind the words might fracture the spell those books have cast over me. I prefer to keep the curtain closed, to let the illusion remain untouched.

There is also a practical side to this choice. Being an introvert, I know I would struggle to hold a conversation with an author. Relating to another reader is easy — we share the experience of being transported. But relating to the author’s mindframe, the place where those worlds were born, feels like a gulf too wide to cross.

So I choose to keep my dream world separate from reality. I admire the craft, I cherish the words, but I do not seek the person behind them. Meeting an author is not on my bucket list. For me, the truest way to honor their work is to let their words live freely in my imagination, untouched by the weight of reality.

Hope rather than Faith

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What’s a moment when a stranger completely restored your faith in people?

I have never believed that a single act by a stranger could “completely” restore my faith in humanity. To me, that feels naive. Humanity is not a monolith of goodness or evil—it is a mosaic of choices, each person navigating their own sense of what is right. Some choices wound, others heal. And in between, there are the small, fleeting gestures that remind us the world is not entirely indifferent.

I think of the stranger who stood behind me, shielding me from the unwanted closeness of someone pressing in too far. Or the child who paused their play to hold out a hand to a pregnant neighbor, helping her step over a puddle. These moments are not grand or heroic, yet they carry a quiet weight. They whisper that kindness still exists, that even in a world heavy with selfishness and cruelty, there are sparks of care that refuse to be extinguished.

Such acts do not erase the darker truths of human behavior. They do not transform humanity into something it is not. But they ignite hope—hope that life can still surprise us with grace, hope that the burden of hardship can be lightened by compassion. And it is this hope that gives strength. It is what steadies us when exhaustion tempts us to give up, what reminds us that perseverance is not futile.

Faith in humanity, then, is not about sweeping redemption. It is about noticing the lanterns in the dark, however small their glow. It is about carrying those lights within us, so that when the path feels unbearable, we remember: the world is not all bad. And that memory alone can be enough to keep us moving forward.

We made it

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If your future self could send you one sentence, what do you hope it would say?


While most people would account for this to achieving some major milestone in their life. I think for me those three words means that I survived.. Not survival in the dramatic sense of escaping catastrophe, but survival in the quieter, relentless way of enduring the everyday battles that threatened to erode me piece by piece.

There were years when each day felt like poison slowly dripping into my veins. The challenges were not loud or cinematic, but they were persistent, gnawing at my spirit until I wondered if I could endure. And yet, I did. Against odds that seemed endless, I managed the one thing many never get to — the privilege of growing older. To slow down, to look back, to reminisce about the memories created along the way.

Survival did not mean I never failed or broke down. I did, many times. But each breakdown carried a lesson, each failure planted resilience. The fact that I endured long enough to appreciate both the struggles and the fleeting joys is itself a victory I once thought impossible.

When I look at my younger self, I no longer judge. I feel sorrow for the battles endured and gratitude for the strength they forged. My younger self was not weak — they were surviving in the only way they knew how. Every struggle stretched me further. Every year added another layer of resilience. Survival transformed into growth, and growth into compassion.

So when I imagine my future self whispering, “You survived, and that was enough,”. It is the reminder that even in the darkest days I did not succumb to the challenges but I resisted long enough to make it to the next day.