Home After 14 Years: Explosion of Emotions and Memories (2024)

I never expected to feel so much joy and ache at once.

Returning to Saudi Arabia after fourteen years away, it split something open inside of me.

It shifted the ground beneath my feet.

It changed me forever.

I had been holding back tears I didn’t know I still carried, longings I didn’t have the courage to name.

I missed my family.

I missed the rhythm of the streets, the old songs, like:

"الأماكن كلها مشتاقه لك"

"المسافر راح"

"يا طيب القلب وينك؟"

The familiar smells, spices from traditional dishes cooking in the kitchen.

The sound of cousins laughing late into the night.

A million memories came rushing back—like a flood.

The shadows of old memories still carved into Al-Khafji’s quiet corners.

Children’s songs echoing through my mind.

Cartoon theme songs we once sang at the top of our lungs.

Sweet moments with my father.

The laughter.

The warmth.

The foods I once loved but haven’t tasted in years.

Running through the house with my brothers, our bare feet pounding the floor,

our voices full of life.

It was the kind of joy that lives deep in your bones—

the kind you forget…

until it rises like a waveand

crashes over you.

That innocent, sacred simplicity,

Of being known.

Of being seen.

Of belonging.

My childhood was split between three cities:

Al-Khafji, Kuwait City, and Al-Qatif | الخفجي, مدينة الكويت , والقطيف

Al-Khafji, where I was born and raised until I was seven.

So close to Kuwait, we would cross the border on weekends, wandering through markets, tasting new flavors at vibrant restaurants, visiting friends who felt like family.

It was warm, familiar, full of scent and salt and home.

Al-Khafji was family.

Belonging.

Joy.

I didn’t get to visit Al-Khafji in 2024, but the memories live deep, buried in my soul like sacred treasure.

Smells.

Sounds.

Laughter.

Still alive inside me.

Then there’s Al-Qatif.

A different memory.

Darker.

Heavier.

Black flags waving during Ashura,every wall echoing with grief for the twelve Imams.

It carries a sadness that never left me.

But this return… this time, I landed in a Saudi I had never known.

It was Founding Dayو a holiday that didn’t exist when I was growing up.

And what I saw startled something awake in me:

Little girls dancing in the streets, wearing the traditional dress I never had the chance to experience.

Mothers walking beside their daughters, freely, joyfully.

laughter rising like incense into the sky.

A Saudi Arabia where women now drive.

Where women go to cafés on their own.

A country I once left out of necessity,

now blooming in ways I always hoped to see.

Women have been driving since 2018, but I had never seen it with my own eyes.

This time,

I did.

Driving in Saudi Arabia… now that’s a whole story on its own.

I started off driving just like I was taught in the U.S., smoothly, carefully, following all the rules.

But let me tell you, that approach doesn’t translate well on Saudi streets.

I quickly realized: if I wanted to survive out there, I had to bring out my bold side.

Let’s just say… I learned to cut people off before they cut me off.

Driving became less about rules and more about instinct, speed, and confidence.

I also witnessed something I never thought I’d see growing up:

a bride in her wedding gown, taking photos by the sea.

Beautiful dresses flowing, brides posing and laughing, capturing memories by the breeze of the beach, الكورنيش.

These moments made me pause and whisper:

What a life I have.

How incredible to witness this freedom in my lifetime,

and to see the hand of the Lord upon my country and my people.

Movie theaters are open; we no longer need to drive to Bahrain just to watch a film.

Music concerts fill the air with sound and celebration.

Women are working at grocery stores, managing shops,

and walking confidently—without hijab—through the mall.

The very fabric of daily life is shifting.

And I stood there, watching it unfold like a story I never knew I’d get to witness.

The little girl inside me felt so alive,

playful,

happy,

light.

And also a little sad…

Because time had passed.

Because that girl had grown.

I looked around and realized: I’ve lived a life many may never experience.

I’ve traveled nations, formed a global family in God,

l heard dozens of languages, tasted cultures from every corner,

ived in the U.S., walked through fire, and witnessed beauty beyond borders.

And yet, how sweet of the Lord to bring me home.

To let me celebrate my 40th birthday right where I began.

It was even sweeter because my brother organized the whole trip as a surprise visit to our family.

What a joy!

to be surrounded by family,and celebrated where I belong.

The surprise visit to my family was one of the greatest moments of my life, and also the saddest.

To hug them,

look at them,

experience their presence,

and know I’d have to let go all over again.

When I visited my family,

I got to sit with my sisters and brothers in the living room,

singing, dancing,hearts light with laughter,

and giggling at old inside jokes only we would ever understand.

Visiting my grandfather’s house,

walking through old alleyways,

looking at childhood pictures,

hearing the jokes of my culture spoken in voices I once called daily.

Seeing the beauty of Arabic calligraphy.

Walking the malls towering above new cities.

Meeting my nieces and nephews for the first time broke me wide open.

How do you say goodbye to children you just met?

How do you carry the ache of

not being there,

to raise them,

to guide them,

to love them as only an aunt who waited 14 years could?

Everywhere I’ve gone, Europe, Africa, the Middle East,

I’ve left pieces of my heart behind.

But the piece I left in Saudi Arabia...

that one is deeper,

Heavier,

Holier.

Because blood and family carry a weight words cannot hold, because love for my people runs deeper than geography.

This visit forced me to confront everything about who I am:

my identity,

my calling,

the essence of my being.

I am a daughter of Arabia,

clothed in the beauty and tradition of my people.

And I am a daughter of God,

sealed by a higher promise and a heavenly assignment.

I wrestled.

Between flesh and spirit.

Between longing and obedience.

There was a deep spiritual warfare in my soul.

In 2024, I cried more tears than I ever had in my lifetime.

I love them.

I miss them.

I wanted to stay.

I even considered moving back—finding a job, settling in—just to be near them again.

But in my spirit, I know:

my calling is higher.

My Hevenly Father has a plan for my life, just as He did for Joseph.

Like Joseph, I was set apart for a time of preparation, refinement, and purpose.

And like Joseph, I had to endure the ache of distance,

not as punishment, but as divine positioning,

so that through my life, God would pour out heavenly blessing,

His joy, grace, and redemption upon my family and the land that birthed me.

I left with tears in my eyes, not knowing when I’d return.

But knowing this:

A part of me never left.

A part of me always belonged.

And in going back—I became someone new.