Check In

 

https://www.timeshighereducation.com/hub/learning-labs/p/check-yourself-mental-health-awareness-campaign-uk-higher-education

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how easy it is to lose yourself without realizing it. Not in a dramatic way. Not by walking away from your life. Just by doing what needs to be done every day, over and over, until it becomes normal not to ask how you are doing.

For many years, my life revolved around responsibility.
I cooked, cleaned, washed, folded, ironed.
I worked with students.
I took care of my kids and made sure their lives were full — birthday parties, gifts, playdates, fun outings, science projects, art days, baking afternoons, pizza nights, dancing in the rain, volunteering, caring for animals, trying to raise kind humans who notice the world and give back to it.

I tried to hold things together when life became difficult. I focused on keeping things as normal and stable as possible, especially for my children. That felt important. It still does.

I tried to be a good mother.
And somehow, even while trying my best, there was always guilt — the quiet feeling that it was never quite enough.

I tried to be a good wife too. Supportive. Present. Giving. I wasn’t perfect. I was often tired. Sometimes overwhelmed. Sometimes emotionally drained. Life has a way of doing that.

Still, I tried.

I try to be good at my jobs... 

A good teacher.

A good friend.

A good daughter.

A good daughter in law

A good relative.

So much of my life has been shaped by trying to show up well for everyone around me. And somewhere in all of that, I realized I had stopped checking in with myself. Not because I didn’t care — but because there never seemed to be time. And when there was time, it felt almost uncomfortable to use it for myself.

This year, I’m thinking differently.

I am not stepping away from the people I love or the responsibilities that matter to me. I am allowing myself moments — small ones — to think about who I am, what I need, and where I want to grow.

There is something deeply spiritual about giving yourself permission to exist beyond your roles.
To remember that you are more than what you do for others.

My intention for the new year is not to break away, but to expand. To loosen the limits I’ve placed on myself without realizing it. To grow without guilt.

If I take a few moments each day to return to myself, I believe it will make me more present — not less — in the lives of the people I love.

This isn’t about becoming someone else.
It’s about remembering who I already am.

Take A Break: A Hardened Heart Forgets How to Love

Sometimes, it is okay to step away from reality.

Not because reality doesn’t matter—
but because it matters so much.

There are days when the weight of the world presses on the chest like a heavy coat that cannot be taken off. The news feels endless. Suffering echoes from faraway places, even when we don’t name them. War. Loss. Innocent lives caught in forces far bigger than them. Our hearts know, even in silence.

And yet—
we are still human.

We still breathe.
We still laugh unexpectedly.
We still reach for small comforts.

For a long time, I thought stepping away—breathing, giggling, celebrating—meant forgetting. As if joy was betrayal. As if rest meant indifference.

But wisdom whispers something softer: rest is not abandonment—it is renewal.

Life is short. Like steam rising from a cup you meant to drink slowly. Like seasons changing while you’re busy living inside them.

So we choose what we fight for.

Not every battle is loud.
Not every stand is visible.
Some courage looks like staying gentle in a harsh world.
Some resistance looks like choosing love anyway.

We speak when it matters.
We stand where we can.
And sometimes, we step back so our hearts do not harden.

Because a hardened heart forgets how to love.

There is something deeply human about gathering with family. About shared food, soft laughter, familiar traditions. About moments that remind us we are more than headlines and positions—we are people.

Festivities are not distractions.
They are reminders.

They remind us that joy can coexist with grief.
That love does not erase pain—it gives us the strength to carry it.

We are allowed to breathe.
We are allowed to giggle at spilled tea and inside jokes.
Laughter does not deny suffering—it steadies us.

In Gaza, Even Under Fire, Education Is Resistance

 

    When my sister first met Diaa online, he was simply a young man in Gaza eager to learn English so that he could pursue his studies and keep education alive despite the blockade. Over time, their exchanges turned into friendship, grounded in his relentless desire to learn and teach others. Today, Diaa can no longer reach my sister — he and his family are being displaced again and again, caught in cycles of ethnic cleansing and forced from their homes. His voice, though cut off now, still echoes through the messages he sent before communication was lost.

These are Diaa’s words, originally sent in Arabic to my sister:

“My brother Mu‘taz — well-known engineers in Gaza — they designed car showrooms and amazing villas, shops, chalets, houses, towers, and we even had an office in Al-Saraya in Al-Rimal. Thank God, within five years they became known and grew. Suddenly everything ended, and my sister’s dream — since she was seven to become an engineer — ended; now she is 34 and her home and future and past are gone. She used to be among the top at university. Likewise my brother Baha was top of his class and a TA at the university and now he is studying for a master’s in electronics. Imagine.

I am not only talking about us — all of Gaza was like this, full of dreams and ambitions. Now everything has ended, and do you know our biggest dream? To drink good water, for fuel to enter the country, to have nutritious food, and for the war to finish. I just want to live for real; we’ve lived through many wars and we have been hurt a lot.

That’s why, if you noticed or asked why I study while the war and bombing are around me, do you know why? Because I’m afraid ignorance will take over me. I’m afraid I’ll start thinking only about the war and forget my dreams and goals. I’m afraid my mind will stop understanding if I leave it without practice and study, and I’ll waste my life since I’m at the start of my twenties. That’s why it doesn’t matter to me if a hundred rockets are around me — if I have the means, I will keep going. I love culture, study, effort, education and success — I search for them, I search for them.”

    Diaa’s words show us the human cost of this war: a sister who once dreamed of becoming an engineer and is now left without a home or future, brothers who excelled at their studies but saw everything vanish overnight, and a generation whose greatest wish has been reduced to clean water, food, and the end of bombs. Even as rockets fall around him, Diaa refuses to surrender his mind to war — he studies so that ignorance does not take over, because he still believes in learning, culture, and success. 

    Diaa’s story reminds us that behind every destroyed building is a human life, a dream, and a future struggling to survive. You can help Diaa and his family hold on to education and hope by supporting their fundraiser here:

https://chuffed.org/project/help-diaa

 

Grief’s Quiet Weight

                            https://pixabay.com/vectors/broken-heart-sad-depression-heart-7182718/

Grief is strange. It comes and goes like the tide—sometimes a gentle pull, other times a crashing wave that leaves you gasping for air. I can be working in my office at school, caught up in the rhythm of the day, and then suddenly a wash comes over me. Tears fall before I even realize they’ve arrived. That’s how grief works—it ebbs and flows, unpredictable and consuming.

I think of my uncle often. For more than fifty years, his presence was a gift of laughter, kindness, and steady love. He had a way of lighting up the room with a simple joke, of making people feel seen, cared for, and cherished. He was always moving, always giving, always capturing the small but meaningful moments that stitched our lives together. His legacy is not something left behind—it continues to live in each of us.

Being away from family and friends who also loved him makes this harder. It reminds me of when I lost my Tata, my grandmother, from afar. That same ache of distance returns—of grieving without the comfort of shared tears and shared memories. It also awakens the heartbreak of other loved ones who were taken too soon, unexpectedly leaving holes in the fabric of my life.

Grief never truly disappears. It settles into us, becoming part of who we are. It is like a wrinkle etched into our skin, or a stain on our favorite shirt—always there, a quiet reminder of the love that once flowed so freely. And though it hurts, it is also sacred: proof that love existed, that love endures.

So I try to remember the joy—the laughter, the warmth, the countless moments of light. Those memories soften the edges of grief, carrying me forward while keeping him close.