Without realizing it, our hands find the same light switches every day, morning, night, and all the quiet moments in between. The soft click signals the beginning of something, or the end. It’s a habit so ordinary, so unnoticed, that we rarely think about it. And yet, it quietly shapes the rhythm of our lives. One switch means the day has begun. Another signals it’s time to rest. A hallway light clicked on in the middle of the night tells the story of a child waking from a dream, a mind restless with thought, a soft search for water or peace or calm. These switches become emotional landmarks. We remember the one we reached for after hearing bad news. The one we turned off before leaving a place for the last time. The one left glowing when we waited for someone to return. It’s strange how something so small becomes part of our emotional architecture. We don’t notice until it changes, a move, a renovation, a burned-out bulb, and suddenly, our hands fumble, our rhythm is disrupted. In a way, light switches are a quiet form of memory. They hold routine. They hold mood. They hold presence. And every click is a decision, to step into light, or to return to the dark. To begin again, or to let the day rest.
It is easy to believe that life revolves around us, not in arrogance, but simply because we experience the world from the inside out. Our thoughts, our worries, our plans, they take up so much space that it’s easy to forget the vastness of what exists beyond them. But right now, as you read this, a million other lives are unfolding. Somewhere, a child is laughing for the first time. Someone is watching the ocean and feeling small in the best way. Someone is hearing their favorite song without knowing it will become their favorite. Someone is falling in love. Someone is letting go. The world is not waiting for us to catch up. It moves, independent of our thoughts, expanding in ways we will never fully witness. And maybe that is a comfort, that we are part of something so much greater than our own small sphere of existence. That while we are caught in our own worries, there are sunsets still happening, conversations still unfolding, stories still being written. So when life feels overwhelming, step outside of yourself. Look at the sky. Listen to the sounds of a world that is bigger than what’s in your mind. Because somewhere, something beautiful is happening, and whether or not we see it, it is real.
Last night, after the lights were off and the house had settled into its quiet, I did my usual small thing. I went to the corner where my son Ehan keeps his papers and toys.
Not the ones we save neatly. Not the ones with dates and folders and proud labels. I mean the loose ones. The scraps. The half torn pages with pencil marks that stop mid thought. The ones a child forgets the moment he begins living the next moment.
When he falls asleep and when I clean his toys and his drawings, I always do look through what he left behind. Not to judge. Not to correct. Just to see where he went while I was busy being an adult. It feels like finding footprints after someone has walked through a room you thought you knew.
And in the middle of that pile, I found this.
A piece of lined paper, torn at the edges, still holding the softness of being handled. Pencil lines, confident in some places, uncertain in others. A shape I recognized before I fully understood what I was looking at.
My logo.
Or rather, his version of my logo.
He had drawn a figure, a face shaped like an oval, a single dot for an eye, and around it, rings and curves like a boundary drawn again and again. As if he was not satisfied with one outline. As if the border needed to be repeated, thickened, protected. Then, inside the shape, he wrote the words in his own handwriting. Or probably he got interested in the “borders” I had designed around the head in the book cover to symbolize the “inner world”
THE BORDER MIND
Not perfect. Not complete. Missing a word. A little smudged where his pencil pressed too hard. The letters slightly leaning, like they were walking. The kind of writing that does not care about alignment, only meaning.
I don’t know about you, but I am the kind of person who melt with things like this.
Because I did not ask him to do this. I did not sit him down and say, draw my website logo. I did not even tell him it mattered to me. I did not point at it and explain branding or design or identity. I simply lived near that logo, the way adults live near their own ideas, and somehow he noticed. Somehow, it entered his small world without a ceremony.
There is something almost unsettling about that, in a beautiful way.
A child sees everything.
Not in the sharp, analytical way we imagine when we talk about observation. He sees in a quiet, soaking way. Like cloth left in water. He absorbs what is around him, and then one day it appears again in a form you did not expect.
I have spent time choosing that logo. Thinking about what it should hold. What it should hint at. How it should sit beside the title, The Border of a Mind, without explaining itself too much. I wanted it to feel like a silhouette at the edge of thought. A person turned slightly away….
Ehan did not see any of that, and still he caught something true.
His drawing has a kind of honesty that no polished version can reach. The figure in his sketch looks less like a brand and more like a person. A person inside a shape. A person inside a boundary. A person surrounded by lines, as if thought itself has layers.
Maybe that is what a mind feels like to him. Not a clean outline, but a space inside spaces.
The part that moved me most was not the resemblance. It was the intention. The act of copying, which is never really copying. Children do not duplicate. They translate.
He took what he saw and brought it into his own language. A pencil. A small hand. A page torn from whatever notebook was nearest. And then he gave it back to me, without knowing he was giving anything back.
When I picked up that paper while cleaning the cupboard, I had the strange feeling of holding a message.
Not a message written to me directly. Not a note that says, I love you, or I am proud of you. Children rarely speak in those straight lines. Their messages come sideways. In drawings left under a chair. In a song hummed from the back seat. In a sentence spoken while they are half asleep, when their guard is down and the world is soft.
This one came in pencil, and it said something like, I see you.
It is easy, as parents, to feel unseen.
We are present all day and still feel invisible. We pack food, tie shoelaces, answer questions, wipe spills, carry bags, carry feelings, carry time. We give so much that we forget our inner life exists outside our responsibilities. Sometimes even our own work begins to feel like a thing happening in the background, not quite real.
And then a child quietly reaches into that background and pulls something forward.
Look, he seems to say. This is part of you. I noticed.
Of course, he did not say those words. He is still a child. He will not frame it like that. If I ask him tomorrow, he might shrug. He might laugh. He might say he was bored. He might run away before I can even ask.
But the paper says it anyway.
The borders we speak about as adults often sound dramatic. Borders of identity. Borders of language. Borders of belonging. Borders between who we are at work and who we are at home. Borders between the self we show and the self we hide.
Ehan lives inside a different set of borders.
His borders are drawn in pencil and erased with a palm. His borders are emotional. The border between being brave and being afraid can change in five minutes. The border between tears and laughter is thin. The border between imagination and reality is not a wall, it is a door that swings both ways.
And yet, here he is, drawing borders around a figure and writing my title inside it.
It made me wonder what he thinks this thing is, this website, this work that takes my attention sometimes. Does he imagine it as a place. Does he think it lives somewhere physical. Does he think it is a person. Does he think it is mine, or ours.
Maybe to him, The Border of a Mind is not an idea. Maybe it is simply a part of the house, like a chair or a cup. Something he sees me return to. Something he senses has weight, even if he cannot name the weight.
There is a particular tenderness in the way children mirror us.
Not the mirror that shows your face. The mirror that shows your life.
They reflect back what you repeat, what you carry, what you return to when nobody is watching. They do not reflect your speeches. They reflect your patterns.
I keep looking at his spelling, THE BORDER MIND, and I keep smiling.
He left out a word, and somehow it still feels right. Maybe even truer, in a child’s way. A border. A mind. Two things next to each other. No explanation. No linking phrase. Just the two nouns standing side by side, like two strangers who already understand each other.
For me, this is very valuable.
I know this. One day, when he is older, this scrap of paper will matter in a way he cannot guess. It will remind him that there was a time he drew what he saw, without fear of being wrong. It will remind me that my work was quietly witnessed by the smallest person in the room.
And for me, right now, it is a gentle kind of proof.
Proof that a child is always paying attention. Proof that what we build in silence can still be felt. Proof that love sometimes arrives without words, folded into a torn piece of lined paper, hidden among the ordinary debris of a day.
A small hand drew my logo while I was not looking.
And in doing so, he drew a line straight into my heart.
Not all change is loud. Sometimes, it happens so quietly that we don’t even realize we have outgrown something until we return to it and feel the difference. A conversation that no longer stirs the same emotions. A place that once felt like home but now feels distant. A habit that simply fades, not because we forced it away, but because it no longer belongs to us. We expect change to be dramatic, to come with an announcement, a defining moment. But often, it is slow, invisible, happening in the background of ordinary days. We wake up one morning and realize that the things that once hurt no longer do. That the dreams we once chased no longer call to us. That we have become someone we never planned to be, but somehow, exactly who we were meant to become. And maybe that is the most beautiful kind of growth, the kind that does not demand our attention, but simply unfolds. The kind that does not ask us to rush, but meets us exactly when we are ready. So if you feel like nothing is changing, if you feel stuck, take a step back. You are growing in ways you cannot yet see. And one day, without warning, you will realize that you have already become someone new.
Some of the most important days of our lives don’t feel special while we’re living them. There is no grand moment, no sign telling us pay attention, this will matter later. They pass like any other, unnoticed, unmarked, until we look back and realize everything changed somewhere in the middle of them. A conversation that seemed casual but planted a seed in our mind. A decision so small it felt meaningless, yet it led us somewhere we never expected. A quiet afternoon spent with someone who, years later, we would give anything to sit beside again. We think of life as a collection of big moments, but the truth is, most of it happens in between. In the everyday routines, in the laughter that wasn’t supposed to be memorable, in the unnoticed pauses where something shifts without us realizing. Maybe today is one of those days. Maybe something seemingly ordinary is happening now that, years from now, we will look back on and see differently. And maybe that is reason enough to be present, to pay attention, to cherish even the simplest moments, because we never really know which ones will stay with us forever.
So much of life is spent waiting, for the right moment, for the right conditions, for someone to tell us it’s okay to begin. We wait for permission to take up space, to chase a dream, to change direction, to finally say what we have been holding inside. But permission rarely comes the way we expect it to. No one will show up and say, Now is the time. Now you are ready. Now you are allowed. The doors we are waiting to be opened are often ones we could have walked through all along. We wait because we are afraid, of being wrong, of failing, of stepping outside of what is familiar. But in the end, the waiting itself becomes the thing that holds us back, not the thing we are waiting for. What if we stopped waiting? What if we acted before we felt fully prepared? What if we gave ourselves the permission we’ve been waiting for from others? Because the truth is, no one else gets to decide when we are ready. No one else can give us the life we want. At some point, we must decide to step forward, not because we are certain, not because we are fearless, but because waiting will never be what moves us forward. Only action will.
Without realizing it, we carry pieces of the people we have known. A phrase we picked up from a friend. A song an old love introduced us to. A way of laughing, a habit, a favorite food, all borrowed, all absorbed, all woven into who we are. We are not just ourselves; we are a mosaic of everyone who has ever left a mark on us. The way we fold our laundry, the books we reach for, the small superstitions we never questioned. We inherit these things, sometimes consciously, sometimes without even noticing. And just as we collect pieces of others, we leave parts of ourselves behind, too. A joke someone still tells because we once made them laugh. A recommendation someone now swears by. A kindness we barely remember giving, but that someone else never forgot. It is a quiet kind of immortality, proof that we live on in ways we never see. That even after time and distance have pulled us apart, something of us still lingers in the people we have known. And maybe, when we feel lost, when we feel like we don’t know who we are anymore, we can remember this: we are made up of love given, lessons learned, moments shared. We are never just one thing. We are everyone we have ever met.
You know.. sometimes travel memories light you up from inside. This is one such recollection that I want to share with you. I had travelled to Cold Spring Harbor in Laurel Hollow, a beautiful village in the Town of Oyster Bay in Nassau County, on the North Shore of Long Island, in New York. It is one of the finest green spaces I have ever walked through in my life , a place where the density of the trees creates its own soft hush, where the calmness settles into you before you even realise it, where the slowness of the air feels like an invitation to breathe differently. Being someone who has spent most of my adult life in the Middle East, this sort of a space is one of the luxuries I cherish. The interplay of trees and light were like magic. The sunlight filtered through the trees with a gentleness that made everything look newly washed. I remember sitting on that empty bench for a long moment, letting the silence settle around me. The trees stood in their quiet confidence, their branches stretching into the open sky as if reaching for something that had always been there. Sitting there peacefully, I had a kind of clarity that morning that felt almost unfamiliar. Netta and I (may be Ehan also) have fond memories of this place.
The shape of the trees in particular…made me skim through a faint recollection from years ago. I once came across an old illustration in a very old art book, a simple sketch that placed a pair of human lungs beside the shape of a winter tree. I’m not remembering the book. The image had stayed with me without my knowing it, tucked quietly into some corner of thought. I had forgotten its details. But sitting there in Laurel Hollow, the memory returned with surprising clarity. The resemblance was unmistakable now. The trees around me were breathing in their own slow language. And somewhere inside my chest, a matching structure was doing the same. I’ve tried to draw it digitally here. I am marveling at the similarity between the lung airways and the tree branches.
The branches overhead divided and softened into thinner lines, narrowing into delicate paths of light. Deep inside the body, the airways mirror this same patient branching, splitting again and again until they reach the quiet threshold where air becomes life. It is almost impossible not to feel humbled by this symmetry. That the architecture of a tree and the architecture of a lung share the same longing. To hold. To receive. To release.One breathes out what the other breathes in. A silent partnership written long before we learned how to notice it.
Sitting there that afternoon, the shadows of the branches lay across the grass like long fingers of memory. The world around me felt achingly familiar and strangely new. The trees were not just scenery… they were part of a larger rhythm that had been happening around me my entire life. A rhythm my body participates in without instruction, without effort, without acknowledgment most days.
It made me wonder how many miracles move through our ordinary days unnoticed. Trees that give without being thanked. Lungs that work even when we forget them for weeks at a time. The quiet exchange between the two continuing in perfect harmony, whether or not we are aware of it. Whether or not we ever pause long enough to recognise the beauty of being held between them.
There is something tender in this realisation. That the world outside and the world inside are not separate at all. The trees stand on the hillside, reaching upward. The lungs rest quietly beneath the ribs, reaching inward. Both searching for the same invisible gift. Both offering it back. Both shaped by a generosity that requires nothing from us.
Most days, we pass through life too quickly to see these patterns. The branches remain branches. The breath remains breath. The sacred hides inside the familiar. But once in a while, on a morning like that one, something makes you look twice. And in that second look, something opens.
A tree. A lung. Two reflections of the same mercy.
And you realise that all of this continues even if you never notice. But noticing turns the ordinary into reverence. And reverence becomes a quiet remembrance of the Almighty, who shaped both breath and branch in the same loving pattern. A moment of grace. Let not the noise of this life blind our inner eyes. The trees on the sides from your drive back from work, may now look a bit different 🙂
Not everything we communicate is spoken. There are words we never say, yet they echo in the things we do. In the way we linger in a hug just a little longer. In the way we show up without being asked. In the way our eyes soften when we look at someone we love. Silence carries meaning. A glance can say I’m sorry. A small gesture can say I care. The absence of words is not always emptiness, it is often a language of its own, subtle and profound. Sometimes, what we feel is too deep for words, and so it slips through in other ways, in a shared laugh, in a hand placed gently on a shoulder, in simply being there when it matters most. But we forget how much we say without speaking. We forget that love can be in the way we listen. That forgiveness can be in a simple nod. That understanding can be in the silence that asks for nothing but presence. So pay attention to what isn’t said. Listen to the quiet. Notice the gestures, the pauses, the unspoken truths that pass between people. Because often, the deepest conversations happen without a single word, in a language older and softer than speech.
There are weights we pick up along the way that were never truly meant for us. Expectations that grew from someone else’s dreams. Guilt that was never ours to bear. The silence of others, their disappointments, their ideas of who we should be can quietly settle on our shoulders until we begin to mistake them for our own. We hold on because we care. Because we were taught to give, to help, to keep everyone else comfortable. But in doing so, we sometimes forget that our hands were also made to release. Not everything handed to us is ours to keep. Not every opinion needs to be carried. Not every expectation needs to be met. There is a soft kind of strength in pausing and asking, “Does this really belong to me?” The fear. The pressure. The story about who you’re supposed to be. Maybe they were only passing through. You are allowed to put them down. You are allowed to be lighter. You are allowed to make space for what is truly yours: joy, peace, purpose, your own voice. Because sometimes, the greatest freedom begins when you realize this simple truth: not everything you carry was meant to be yours.
