Chapter 1: Roots and Rebellion
A Joyous Yet Heavy Beginning
When I was born, joy filled every corner of the hospital. My grandparents declared me the brightest star in their sky, showering me with blessings and high hopes. Even my father, a reserved man with little patience for celebrations, surprised everyone by distributing sweets in the hospital corridors - a rare display of public affection.
For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though my arrival had united our family in happiness. But even then, a shadow lingered. My mother's smile never quite reached her eyes. At just twenty years old, she cradled me in her arms with the fragile expression of someone carrying both a treasure and a burden.
Years later, when I was old enough to understand, she would tell me how, in those first days of motherhood, she had whispered to her reflection, I'm not ready for this.
Motherhood was a role thrust upon her before she could choose it for herself. That knowledge would shape my understanding of her for years to come, coloring every moment between us. Even as a child, I sensed that her love for me carried a weight, one she bore with quiet resolve - but never with joy.
?
The Departure Scene
Forty days after I was born, the house fell eerily silent. That morning, my grandparents and my mother's siblings packed their belongings and left Kuwait for Jordan, chasing better opportunities. The once-lively rooms, always brimming with chatter and laughter, felt hollow in their absence.
My mother, still tender from childbirth, sat on the cold steps of her parents' now-empty home, holding me tightly. Beside her lay an open duffel bag, unzipped and waiting, as if it were still part of a journey she couldn't take.
For a brief moment, in the depth of her grief, she placed me inside it. Not out of cruelty - but out of desperation.
At the time, I was too young to understand the weight of that gesture, too small to grasp the loss she mourned - not just of her family's departure, but of something far greater. Her own freedom.
She was no longer the girl who could dream of another life, another path. She was now a mother, bound to a reality she hadn't chosen. And I, the child in her arms, was the symbol of that irreversible truth.
Her sobs echoed through the empty house, grief a raw and unrelenting companion. For the first time in her life, she was without her parents, without the familiar chaos of her siblings. And for the first time, she was truly alone.
?
A Forced Elegance: Ballet at Four
When I was four, my mother enrolled me in ballet classes, determined to shape me into someone graceful and delicate - a perfect match for my tiny stature. Perhaps she believed the rigid structure of dance could tame the wild, unladylike spirit that already flickered within me.
Despite my natural flexibility, ballet was grueling. The endless pirouettes, pli�s, and arabesques were punishing, my small body pushed beyond exhaustion. My feet were blistered, my back ached from relentless corrections, my arms trembled from holding perfect positions.
My mother, however, seemed indifferent to my struggles. She wasn't the type to coddle or soothe. There were no warm words of encouragement after class, no gentle hands tending to my bruises. The only time she truly cared was when I performed in front of her friends.
At those moments, her face would light up, her pride visible to anyone watching. She would clap the loudest, showering me with praise for my "grace" and "poise" as though I had always been the perfect child she had envisioned.
Ballet wasn't just a hobby - it was a decade-long test of discipline, perfection, and silent endurance. Though our stage was often just the modest school theater, every performance felt monumental.
At twelve, I danced The Hunting of the Snark before the Prince of Kuwait, a fleeting moment of triumph in a childhood marked by unfulfilled potential. My instructor, beaming with pride, urged my parents to send me to a prestigious ballet school in England.
But, of course, they weren't interested. The idea was dismissed with a wave of a hand, brushed aside as impractical. My mother's words - something about it being "a waste of time" - echoed in my mind for years.
Looking back, I realize that ballet wasn't just about discipline or grace. Beneath the satin ribbons and polished pointe shoes was a bruised, aching child who longed for her parents to see her.
?
Chapter 2: Family Dynamics: A Repeated Cycle
I was always dressed in the prettiest clothes, just like my brothers, but that was where the similarities ended. While they were free to climb trees, run through the garden, and return home covered in dirt, I learned early on that messiness was not an option for me.
If my brothers muddied their clothes, it was met with indulgent chuckles and a dismissive boys will be boys. But if I so much as scuffed my shoes, my mother's sharp, disapproving gaze would cut through me.
"Do you know how much that cost?" she would snap, as if the fabric mattered more than the child wearing it. A ruined dress meant more than just an outfit lost - it meant disappointment, a reminder that I had failed to be the perfect daughter she expected me to be.
I envied their freedom - their ability to be loud, reckless, and loved all the same. They were kissed and coddled, their mistakes forgiven with a smile. But with me, love always felt fragile, something I had to earn, something that could be taken away.
My brothers basked in my mother's warmth, her laughter effortless in their presence. With me, it was different - quieter, measured. In public, she paraded me like a reflection of her own youthful potential, urging me to recite my grades or perform a dance routine. And for a fleeting moment, I could almost believe I had made her proud.
But behind closed doors, that pride faded. And in its place was silence.
?
The Boat Incident
By the time I was seven, thoughts of running away had already begun to take root - soft whispers in the back of my mind, growing louder with each passing year.
By nine, they had solidified into a plan.
Inspired by a geography lesson, I decided I would build a boat and sail away. It didn't matter that I had never seen the sea, that I had no idea where I would go. The project itself was the escape - a small rebellion, a way to carve out a space in the world that was mine.
I scavenged wood, nails, and rope, working in secret in the backyard. The boat - if it could even be called that - was far from seaworthy, but that wasn't the point. It wasn't about the destination. It was about the act of building something that was entirely my own.
When my mother discovered it, I expected anger. Instead, she dismissed it with a sigh. "This is nonsense."
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the look on her face - a fleeting moment of recognition that vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
The boat was never finished, but it wasn't a failure. It was my first act of defiance, a small, splintered symbol of the girl I was becoming - a girl who refused to stay anchored, who dreamed of horizons beyond her reach.
A girl who, despite everything, would keep trying to find her way.
A Joyous Yet Heavy Beginning
When I was born, joy filled every corner of the hospital. My grandparents declared me the brightest star in their sky, showering me with blessings and high hopes. Even my father, a reserved man with little patience for celebrations, surprised everyone by distributing sweets in the hospital corridors - a rare display of public affection.
For a fleeting moment, it seemed as though my arrival had united our family in happiness. But even then, a shadow lingered. My mother's smile never quite reached her eyes. At just twenty years old, she cradled me in her arms with the fragile expression of someone carrying both a treasure and a burden.
Years later, when I was old enough to understand, she would tell me how, in those first days of motherhood, she had whispered to her reflection, I'm not ready for this.
Motherhood was a role thrust upon her before she could choose it for herself. That knowledge would shape my understanding of her for years to come, coloring every moment between us. Even as a child, I sensed that her love for me carried a weight, one she bore with quiet resolve - but never with joy.
?
The Departure Scene
Forty days after I was born, the house fell eerily silent. That morning, my grandparents and my mother's siblings packed their belongings and left Kuwait for Jordan, chasing better opportunities. The once-lively rooms, always brimming with chatter and laughter, felt hollow in their absence.
My mother, still tender from childbirth, sat on the cold steps of her parents' now-empty home, holding me tightly. Beside her lay an open duffel bag, unzipped and waiting, as if it were still part of a journey she couldn't take.
For a brief moment, in the depth of her grief, she placed me inside it. Not out of cruelty - but out of desperation.
At the time, I was too young to understand the weight of that gesture, too small to grasp the loss she mourned - not just of her family's departure, but of something far greater. Her own freedom.
She was no longer the girl who could dream of another life, another path. She was now a mother, bound to a reality she hadn't chosen. And I, the child in her arms, was the symbol of that irreversible truth.
Her sobs echoed through the empty house, grief a raw and unrelenting companion. For the first time in her life, she was without her parents, without the familiar chaos of her siblings. And for the first time, she was truly alone.
?
A Forced Elegance: Ballet at Four
When I was four, my mother enrolled me in ballet classes, determined to shape me into someone graceful and delicate - a perfect match for my tiny stature. Perhaps she believed the rigid structure of dance could tame the wild, unladylike spirit that already flickered within me.
Despite my natural flexibility, ballet was grueling. The endless pirouettes, pli�s, and arabesques were punishing, my small body pushed beyond exhaustion. My feet were blistered, my back ached from relentless corrections, my arms trembled from holding perfect positions.
My mother, however, seemed indifferent to my struggles. She wasn't the type to coddle or soothe. There were no warm words of encouragement after class, no gentle hands tending to my bruises. The only time she truly cared was when I performed in front of her friends.
At those moments, her face would light up, her pride visible to anyone watching. She would clap the loudest, showering me with praise for my "grace" and "poise" as though I had always been the perfect child she had envisioned.
Ballet wasn't just a hobby - it was a decade-long test of discipline, perfection, and silent endurance. Though our stage was often just the modest school theater, every performance felt monumental.
At twelve, I danced The Hunting of the Snark before the Prince of Kuwait, a fleeting moment of triumph in a childhood marked by unfulfilled potential. My instructor, beaming with pride, urged my parents to send me to a prestigious ballet school in England.
But, of course, they weren't interested. The idea was dismissed with a wave of a hand, brushed aside as impractical. My mother's words - something about it being "a waste of time" - echoed in my mind for years.
Looking back, I realize that ballet wasn't just about discipline or grace. Beneath the satin ribbons and polished pointe shoes was a bruised, aching child who longed for her parents to see her.
?
Chapter 2: Family Dynamics: A Repeated Cycle
I was always dressed in the prettiest clothes, just like my brothers, but that was where the similarities ended. While they were free to climb trees, run through the garden, and return home covered in dirt, I learned early on that messiness was not an option for me.
If my brothers muddied their clothes, it was met with indulgent chuckles and a dismissive boys will be boys. But if I so much as scuffed my shoes, my mother's sharp, disapproving gaze would cut through me.
"Do you know how much that cost?" she would snap, as if the fabric mattered more than the child wearing it. A ruined dress meant more than just an outfit lost - it meant disappointment, a reminder that I had failed to be the perfect daughter she expected me to be.
I envied their freedom - their ability to be loud, reckless, and loved all the same. They were kissed and coddled, their mistakes forgiven with a smile. But with me, love always felt fragile, something I had to earn, something that could be taken away.
My brothers basked in my mother's warmth, her laughter effortless in their presence. With me, it was different - quieter, measured. In public, she paraded me like a reflection of her own youthful potential, urging me to recite my grades or perform a dance routine. And for a fleeting moment, I could almost believe I had made her proud.
But behind closed doors, that pride faded. And in its place was silence.
?
The Boat Incident
By the time I was seven, thoughts of running away had already begun to take root - soft whispers in the back of my mind, growing louder with each passing year.
By nine, they had solidified into a plan.
Inspired by a geography lesson, I decided I would build a boat and sail away. It didn't matter that I had never seen the sea, that I had no idea where I would go. The project itself was the escape - a small rebellion, a way to carve out a space in the world that was mine.
I scavenged wood, nails, and rope, working in secret in the backyard. The boat - if it could even be called that - was far from seaworthy, but that wasn't the point. It wasn't about the destination. It was about the act of building something that was entirely my own.
When my mother discovered it, I expected anger. Instead, she dismissed it with a sigh. "This is nonsense."
That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the look on her face - a fleeting moment of recognition that vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
The boat was never finished, but it wasn't a failure. It was my first act of defiance, a small, splintered symbol of the girl I was becoming - a girl who refused to stay anchored, who dreamed of horizons beyond her reach.
A girl who, despite everything, would keep trying to find her way.
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