The Comforting Sun

The one from the white city

[was960]

[herwhocomfort]

I don’t celebrate birthdays. I’ve made peace with that, or at least, I try to. Because the day never feels like a celebration of me. Instead, it feels like a quiet reminder of what’s missing.

When midnight hits, I find myself scrolling through my phone, looking for any sign that someone remembered. But the screen stays mostly dark. Only my mom, dad, and sister send messages. I’m grateful for them, I really am. Still, there’s a hollow ache beneath that gratitude—like I’m holding onto crumbs when I wanted a feast.

Where are the friends? The people I thought would care? Why am I always the one who fades into the background, forgotten? It’s a sharp kind of loneliness, the kind that sinks into your bones. It’s never been about gifts; they never came, but about feeling like my birthday mattered to someone beyond my small family.

Each year, I wonder if things will ever be different. If one day, laughter will fill the room, and someone will make me feel seen, worth celebrating. But the years pass, and the wound stays the same, fresh, raw, unhealed.

I try to tell myself that happiness isn’t something others owe me. That it can’t depend on anyone else’s attention or affection. Still, when the day arrives, it’s a cold reminder of how lonely the world can feel.

And yet, despite it all, I have my family. Their love is steady, unconditional. Maybe that’s the real gift after all.

But even knowing that, why does it still hurt so much?

[herwhocomfort]

I am worn thin. Body, heart, and mind weighed down by a storm that never fades. I have fought to find peace within myself, to settle into my own skin, but instead I sink deeper. Every glance in the mirror, every captured moment in a photo, feels like a quiet reminder of all I wish I could change.

A simple shift from contacts to glasses became a crack in the fragile self I had built. The eyes I once found comfort in now seem flawed, the mirror a silent adversary, and my profile a shadow I dare not face. Living among strangers whose eyes feel heavy with judgment only presses harder on the parts of me I try to hide. I want nothing more than to vanish.

There is my nose, a quiet torment carried for twelve years, planted by a cruel voice that still whispers I am not enough. It holds more power than it should, a seed grown deep in the soil of my insecurities.

Inside, I unravel silently. The sadness and self-hate gather like storm clouds, threatening to break me apart. It is not others I mourn. It is the loss of peace within myself, the fading memory of the person I once liked, the one I hoped to become.

I returned recently from Vienna, a city I had dreamed of endlessly. The world around me bloomed with beauty and wonder, yet I did not capture a single moment. I felt so foreign in my own skin, so unwilling to exist, that I was trapped in a prison of my own making, drowning in self-loathing even amid joy.

The weight of this contrast was unbearable. Standing in a garden bursting with life yet unable to see the flowers because my insecurities cloud my view. In those moments, I hated myself more than ever, and it became clear how deeply this struggle shapes my world, even when everything else seems perfect.

[5waterm3adya]

وان ليس للانسان الا ما سعى و ان سعيه سوف يرى ثم يجزاه الجزاء الاوفى ان الى ربك المنتهى و انه هو اضحك و ابكى و انه هو امات و احيا

[its7us]

اللهمَّ سخِّر لنا الخير، وسخِّرنا للخير، واجعل حالنا من خيرٍ إلى خير، واحفظ علينا النعم وباركها و زِدها يا واسع الفضل.

[herwhocomfort]

I wasn’t satisfied with life there, not even close. Something always felt wrong, like I didn’t belong, like the air around me was heavy with something I couldn’t shake off. At first, I thought it was just an adjustment period, that I needed more time to settle in, to find a rhythm. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never feel at ease. The days dragged on, gray and monotonous, filled with a growing sense of discomfort that I didn’t want to name.

It wasn’t until much later, long after I had left, that I finally allowed myself to admit it—I hated that place. I hated what it did to me, how small and restless it made me feel. The constant dissatisfaction wasn’t just in my head; it had seeped into my heart, my soul, until every part of me regretted ever stepping foot there. I realized how much I resented that time in my life, how deeply I regretted going there in the first place. Looking back, I could see all the ways it drained me, all the moments I tried to convince myself it was fine when, in truth, it never was.

Even now, my body seems to reject any reminder of that place. There was a dish from that country I used to enjoy, one of the few things I thought I genuinely liked about being there. But every time I try to recreate it now, I feel unbearably sick—a stabbing pain in my stomach, a wave of nausea so strong it leaves me dizzy, like I might pass out. It’s as if my body remembers what my mind worked so hard to suppress, rejecting even the smallest piece of what I left behind. Only then did I fully grasp how much living there had affected me—not just mentally, but physically too. Even years later, the impact lingers, a quiet reminder of how deeply I wanted to escape and how much I regret ever being there.

[herwhocomfort]

During that time, I was exhausted—physically, emotionally, spiritually. I was suffering in ways I couldn’t put into words. I wanted to succeed so desperately that I kept pushing, trying, and forcing myself forward, no matter the cost. I poured every ounce of myself into the pursuit, hoping it would be enough, hoping it would save me from the weight I was carrying.

But in that relentless effort, I lost myself. Piece by piece, I unraveled. Not to someone else, not to the world, but to myself. I became my own undoing. Every moment of sadness, every tear I held back, every bit of suffering I endured, built up inside me until I finally broke.

When I failed, it wasn’t the failure that shattered me—it was the realization that I had sacrificed myself along the way. I wasn’t mourning the loss of success; I was mourning the loss of me. The person I used to be, the person I thought I’d become—it all felt so far away, so unreachable.

I was like a balloon stretched too thin, bursting under the pressure of everything I carried: the suffering, the sadness, the endless trying. And when it all came apart, the pain wasn’t about not achieving what I set out to do. The real pain was looking at the pieces of myself I’d let go along the way.

[herwhocomfort]

I was always just the extra one, barely noticed among others. Then you showed interest in me, you made me feel seen. It scared me.

[herwhocomfort]

A new year unfolds, and I still miss you

A new year unfolds, bringing with it the echoes of a new day—yet, the void left by your absence lingers within the recesses of my heart. It's been nearly two years since you left, leaving me in this world alone. I often find myself wondering about you—are you finding peace there? Can you see me from above? Do you miss me as much as I miss you every single day?

Two years have elapsed since my world shattered. Back then, I couldn't fathom how I would continue living without you, and even now, it remains a formidable challenge. It pains me to realize that, unlike others, I still carry the weight of grief for your loss. Have I not moved on? Perhaps. I persist in feeling your presence, imagining you in some distant land, maybe another country or continent. One certainty prevails—your place in my heart remains profound and enduring.

In the quiet moments, your presence revisits me, vivid in my dreams. Though I acknowledge these are mere illusions, I find solace in those fleeting instances when I can almost feel the essence of your being. Even for a brief second, I longed to see your face again. Please, visit me more.

Three weeks ago, I encountered an elderly lady who bore a striking resemblance to you, yet simultaneously appeared markedly different. Seated across from her in the metro, I found myself unable to lift my head, stealing furtive glances while desperately searching for traces of you in her countenance. My eyes scanned for your familiar scarf with the loosely tied knot, the brown jellaba that adorned you, and the black leather wallet that perpetually rested in your hands. The air became stifling; I anxiously awaited my station, yearning to disembark from the metro.

At that moment, a tumult of emotions surged within me—pain, loss, emptiness, and an undercurrent of anger. She invoked thoughts of you, yet I couldn't find you in her. Frustration welled up within me, directed not at her, but at the cruel reality that she wasn't you.

I am immensely grateful for the unwavering love you bestowed upon me for 23 years. Your love transcended boundaries, embracing me as the daughter you never had, and I am certain that you cherished and loved me even more than words could express. Thank you for the profound and unconditional love that has shaped and enriched my life in countless ways.

kanbghik bezaf.

A, 9200 IT

إشتقت لغالي رحل دون شورة - ماعاد يرجع لو بكت عيني دموع غايب ولكن في عيوني حضوره - لو غاب عن دنياي بالقلب مطبوع غاب الفرح والحزن طوق بصورته - والقلب من فرقاه ضايق ومفجوع عساه في الجنات يقطف زهوره - وانهارها ومن حوله الورد مزروع في جنة الفردوس يلق سروره - في الدرجات العلى منزله مرفوع

[herwhocomfort]

Morocco As An Identity

Morocco, for me, is much more than just a country in North Africa..

After six years of living abroad, I grew to cherish the simple act of calling my home "home." I no longer felt like a foreigner, an extra, or worse yet, a mere number starting with 99. I shed the burden of feeling like an imposition and could freely converse in my own language without the constant worry of people's disapproving stares.

Gone were the days of fearing that a stranger on the metro would shout, "This is my country; speak in my language," rubbing their ignorance onto Me. I, someone who not only spoke their language but was also fluent in three others.

Morocco is not just about the physical location; it's about finding your sense of belonging within the tapestry of life, whether that's within the borders of a nation or the embrace of a particular culture.

It's the profound satisfaction of being able to refer to a place as your "home," a sanctuary where you're not an imposition or an extra but a cherished part of the community.

It's the comfort of strolling through the streets and encountering individuals who share not only your appearance but also your style and the language that flows effortlessly from your lips.

This sentiment goes beyond mere geography; it transcends boundaries, weaving a connection that binds you to the very essence of your identity. It's about cultivating deep roots that intertwine with the history and traditions of your real nation or culture, fostering a profound sense of pride and unity.

It's about finding your place in the world, where every street corner, every conversation, and every smile reflects a part of who you are and where you come from. It's about forging a harmonious existence within the rich mosaic of humanity, where the concept of "home" resonates far deeper than a physical address.

Coming back to Morocco healed me, embraced me, and reclaimed my sense of belonging and identity.

-A, 9093 MA

[herwhocomfort]

اللهم لك الحمد حتى ترضى

الحمد لله على النعمة و الحمد لله على زوالها

إنا لله و إنا اليه راجعون.

“Oh God, praise be to you until you are satisfied

Praise be to God for the grace, and praise be to God for its demise

We belong to God and to Him we shall return.”

[foxeia]

Helena Kovalenko

[balar-deactivated20251211]

[ebrahimsharabash]

"You are in this world to build a place for you in heaven, do not forget that"

[serenity-islam]

[aiqtibasat]

[weltenwellen]

Pablo Neruda, from “Thinking, Tangling Shadows”, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair