There is refuge in privacy, in the art of holding the world at arm’s length. In withholding, I preserve control, guarding what is fragile, still taking shape. This quiet power—deliberate, unassuming—requires no applause. Not everything must be exposed to exist. Some things, in their truest form, thrive in the dark, far from those who confuse visibility with value.

Yet, a whisper of doubt lingers. Am I neglecting my potential, or is this stillness the necessary pause before something sharp and true emerges? The world often dresses urgency in the guise of discernment, as if movement—any movement—were better than waiting. Yet I know the most enduring work is born in patience, in refining raw edges before they are ready for light.

So, I choose patience—or at least, I tell myself I do. I convince myself that quieting the noise is not shrinking, that honing is not hesitating. Some things, I remind myself, are meant to be nurtured until they have the strength to stand on their own. And if that requires more time, then I will wait.

But am I deceiving myself? Cloaking hesitation as patience, calling it deliberation when it is fear? It’s easy to say I am waiting, guarding something precious. But what if, in reality, I’m shielding myself—from judgment, from scrutiny, from the weight of being seen? There is a comfort in smallness, in not claiming what I have learned, in keeping my growth hidden, beyond the reach of comparison or question.

I did not always see life this way. Once, I moved through it with ease, sharing my milestones without hesitation. But recent events have shifted my perspective. I have retreated from the noise of social media, taking a pause to reflect. And now, I wonder—do I call it humility because I fear taking up space, or because I wish to honor others, mindful of the vast inequalities in opportunity, and the different paths the world offers? I have watched others move boldly, declaring their steps without reserve, and I’ve recoiled, sensing they are not safeguarding their blessings, but exposing them too recklessly to the world’s insatiable gaze. But is this true restraint, or merely pride—the kind that seeks validation by evading self-assertion?

Then, there’s the fear of the evil eye—the unseen force that can turn joy sour, that withers what is spoken too soon. I have seen it, or perhaps convinced myself I have: a blessing unfolding with ease, only to falter when named. Was it destined to unravel, or did speaking it aloud invite unseen forces to sabotage what was never meant to be measured? In sharing, did I expose it to scrutiny that could undo what should remain untouched?

At the same time, I know this: nothing I have done, nothing I have become, is mine alone. I have seen God’s hand in every closed door that led me to the right one, in every moment of stillness that was actually preparation. And if that’s true, then isn’t it right to share—not for my own sake, but as a testament to the grace that has carried me? Or is that, too, a form of self-righteousness—framing my journey as something noble when it is merely the natural unfolding of events?

I have been shaped by unseen forces, hands gently steering me through life’s twists, each closed door and each still moment offering time to grow. In that, I understand: there is meaning in sharing—not to boast or seek validation, but simply to acknowledge the journey. I’ve been shaped by a quiet, unspoken force, and now I see how this shaping is a gift in itself. Some things cannot be explained, except by the grace of Allah. In that grace, I recognize that my story is not mine alone—it’s part of something larger, something deeper.

I have been moved by the openness of others, by their willingness to lay bare their struggles and triumphs. Their stories have inspired me, sparked something inside me. It was their courage to share their truths that made me believe it was possible to step beyond boundaries I once thought were mine to hold. Perhaps this is the quiet power of sharing: it gives others permission to see themselves in you, to move further down their own paths.

But then I pause—am I sharing to honor the journey, or to make sense of it for myself? Am I framing my story as something more purposeful than it is, when in truth, it has been shaped by chance, by unseen forces beyond my control? Maybe I’m trying to name what cannot be named, to shape something that was never mine to control.

I do not know. But I do know this: I do not want to be so careful, so measured, that I diminish what has been given to me. I do not want to live in fear of being seen. Perhaps there is a way to hold both things at once: the quiet and the sharing, the reverence and the boldness. Perhaps the real test is not in guarding what I have, but in trusting that no gaze—spiteful or otherwise—can undo what was never in their hands to begin with.

Peace & Blessings,

K