The Year That Tried to Break Me but Didn’t
A Year of Loss, Resilience, and Unexpected Glimmers of Hope
DEC 30, 2024
January 8th. Mark it down as the day my world tilted, crashed, and set itself on fire for good measure. Dad, battling myelodysplasia with his usual quiet resilience, was at the hospital for a routine progress check. He’d done it so many times before that I never thought twice about it—until I got the call. Suddenly, everything changed. His condition had taken a sharp and devastating turn, and he was being rushed into emergency brain surgery. One phone call was all it took to shatter the illusion of normalcy. Within hours, I was booking a flight to Beirut, bracing myself for what lay ahead.
What followed were 100 days of hope and despair locked in an unrelenting, grim dance. The ICU became our second home, a place where optimism was served up in bite-sized doses only to be snatched away when the monitors beeped in ominous unison. We hovered, helpless, offering everything we could but knowing it wasn’t enough.
Then came April 18th. A 4:30 am phone call. A rush to the hospital. And the dreadful, leaden truth: he was gone. Like that, the ground beneath my feet dissolved, leaving me to figure out how to navigate a world without him.
Grieving, I’ve learned, is a curious beast. It isn’t neat or linear; it loops, folds, and spins you around until you’re left dizzy. One moment, you’re chuckling at an old joke Dad loved; the next, you’re doubled over, blindsided by tears at the scent of his aftershave. Grief doesn’t just steal from you—it rewires you. But amid the loss, something remarkable happened: my family and I grew stronger together. We clung to each other like shipwreck survivors on a makeshift raft.
Just as I began to find my feet, Lebanon, my homeland, descended into chaos again. War. The kind that guts cities and souls, leaving ruin and questions in its wake. From afar, I juggled guilt and gratitude—a bizarre emotional cocktail. I was relieved to be safe but guilty for being away while my loved ones were trapped in the storm.
Lebanon’s devastation forces you to confront life’s core truths. What matters? Who matters? Who should you cling to, and who—mercifully—should you let drift into the abyss for your sanity?
But let’s not wallow entirely in misery, for there were bright spots in this bleak year. My nephew Amir—a nine-year-old enigma with the persistence of a seasoned entrepreneur—proved to be my unexpected therapy. Whether he was strong-arming me into buying unnecessary snacks during our supermarket escapades or showcasing his financial genius by devising clever ways to save coins, he had us all marvelling at his ingenuity. By the end of the holiday, he was the only one who had managed to turn a profit, leaving the rest of us wondering how we’d been so thoroughly outsmarted. His stubbornness—and knack for profit—made me laugh. I can’t complain—it’s in our DNA.
And then there was my entrepreneurial baby, Ghannouj the Candles. Two years of hard graft culminated in this launch—a project that feels more like a time capsule. Each scent is a door to my childhood, a whiff of nostalgia wrapped in wax and wick. It became my escape, focus, and proof that life, despite its tendency to steamroll you, can also be remarkably productive.
This year, a moment of unexpected joy came with the Assad regime's crumbling in Syria. For decades, this brutal dictatorship has not only devastated its own country but left deep scars on Lebanon, including playing a hand in the assassination of my uncle. The news felt surreal—a long-overdue reckoning for a regime that has inflicted so much pain and suffering. It didn’t undo the damage or bring back the loved ones we’ve lost, but it was a rare and powerful reminder that even the most oppressive systems can fall. It was a glimmer of justice in a year otherwise marked by grief, and it reignited a small but steady hope for the future of our region.
The year wasn’t all bad, though, thanks to people—both old and new. Friends who steadied me when I was on the verge of crumbling, and other who wandered unexpectedly into my life, bringing sparks of hope and love.
Now, about 2025. Resolutions? No, thank you. This year taught me that life has a knack for taking your plans, shredding them, and laughing in your face. Instead, I’ll focus on the next 24 hours. One day at a time because who knows what bureaucratic nightmare, geopolitical upheaval, or act of God is lurking around the corner.
And that’s it. There is no grand conclusion, just an acknowledgement that I survived—and perhaps even grew—in a year designed to crush the faint of heart. Here’s to whatever madness lies ahead.