Growing Up

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.

Food, My Ancient Enemy

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

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.

Magic that Distance brings

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

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

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.

Too Many to Remember, A Few to Hold Close

What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?

I have often wondered why advice rarely stays with me. People offer words of guidance when I am in deep trouble, and in those moments I cling to them, using them as lifelines. Yet once the storm passes, the words fade. If asked later what was said, I can barely recall. Perhaps advice is not meant to be stored like a quote in memory, but to be lived in the moment it is needed.

Still, a few pieces of advice have managed to carve themselves into my thoughts. One of them is simple but profound: you are the only person who will truly fight for yourself. No one else can fully understand where I come from. Not because people are shallow, but because it is impossible. Even a mother, who is said to understand everything, struggles at times. Circumstances change, generations shift, and the battles I face are not the same as hers. This advice reminds me that self-advocacy is not selfishness — it is survival.

Another piece of advice I hold close is to keep trying. The point is not to win every time, but to keep the possibility of winning alive. Effort itself is a form of hope. Even if success comes later than I want, it is better to keep the horizon open than to declare defeat too soon. Trying is not about immediate triumph; it is about refusing to close the door on possibility.

The Perfect Image

What’s something you used to worry about but don’t anymore?

I have never been a very confident person, largely because I never fit the appearance that society calls “beautiful.” As I grew older, the world seemed to grow meaner. As a child, I did not fully understand the taunts hidden behind sweet smiles and caring words. But with time, I began to hear the malice between the lines. Eventually, the mockery was no longer disguised, and the words broke me. At eleven or twelve, I did not have the emotional strength to look beyond the bad days. I withdrew from everything — from family, from the things I loved, from my dreams and hopes.

Yet growing older brought a realization: I could be perfect in every way, and people would still judge, still comment, still find something to tear down. Many speak without understanding the impact their words can have. Others live with the sole intention of hurting. You can never truly know another person’s motives, but you can choose not to acknowledge them. It is easier said than done, but if you begin today, over time it becomes a habit. Slowly, peace replaces the noise.

Society’s expectations are ever-changing. Just when you think you have done everything right, something shifts, and suddenly you are wrong again. For years, I kept adapting myself, trying to meet those expectations. But the moment I stopped caring about what others thought, I found happiness.

Now I do what I want. If people think I am silly or foolish, I no longer mind. Their judgment is fleeting, but my joy in those moments is lasting. A silly memory can bring back a smile long after the moment has passed. And in this world, happiness is the most precious thing one can have. So I choose to cherish my silliness, to hold onto my happiness, and to live beyond the weight of other people’s opinions.

Violet and Dolphins

Daily writing prompt
If you started a sports team, what would the colors and mascot be?

I know nothing of sports. Literally noting!

While I do enjoying watching a game on the television with the family, sports is not something that I will intentionally watch.

If I were ever to start a sports team, the color has to be violet. It could also be purple or some shade of it. That is my favorite color and would always be my first choice.

On the other hand, I have heard that the mascot needs to represent the team. Mostly, strong animals are chosen to be the mascot. My personal preference would be the dolphin. Anytime people have asked – “What animal I would want to be” the answer has always been dolphin. I just am so fascinated by them.

So there you go, Violet and Dolphins that is my answer to today’s prompt.

One that I can Drive

Daily writing prompt
What is your all time favorite automobile?

For many people, cars are a passion. They know about the engine, latest features, and know exactly why a car would be good for them. For me though, a car is simply a mode of transport. I do not have a personal preference as far as the car is concerned, but the places it can take me is something that I would focus on.

I don’t need a flashy car, what matters most is good mileage. If it gets me from point A to point B without breaking down or giving me any grief I am good.

I prefer cars where I can see clearly over the dashboard and reach the pedals easily. While I used to enjoy the control of a manual stick, the traffic en route to work have made me lean toward the convenience of an automatic instead.

For me, the real thrill isn’t in the car itself but in the journeys in it. If there’s one feature that adds extra joy, it’s a good stereo system.

At the end of the day, I would want a car to use rather than a car to own.