The Girl Who Sat Crying in 2017
As I reflected on why the room change affected me so deeply, my mind travelled back to a moment nearly nine years ago...
The room change hurt because it wasn't about a room. It was about a relationship that had quietly grown over nearly a decade. As I rewound the years, I realised my story with her did not begin in an office.
It began in 2017. I still remember the day she sat in front of us crying. She was the Managing Partner's daughter, contemplating leaving medical school. I remember feeling helpless. Not because I did not care, but because I have never been the hugging kind. I have always appeared composed on the outside. Yet something about seeing a young girl cry in front of complete strangers stayed with me. I remember thinking that if someone is willing to let their tears fall in front of people they barely know, then the burden they are carrying must be incredibly heavy. More than anything, I wanted to help. Perhaps that was where it all began. Perhaps that was where the heart of a mother quietly attached itself.
Life moved on.
She joined work. Eventually we found ourselves sharing the same room. What followed were years of ordinary life unfolding side by side. We worked together, attended training programmes together, travelled together to the UAE, the UK, for work and learning. We solved problems together, learnt new things together. And somewhere in the middle of all those ordinary days, a relationship formed.
Not overnight. Not intentionally. Just naturally.
I found myself wanting her to succeed. Wanting her to discover her strengths. Wanting her to know that she was capable of more than she often believed.
Over the years she began sharing pieces of her life. I watched her journey through different seasons. I saw her navigate the uncertainties of being single. I watched her in love. I watched her become engaged. I watched her get married. I watched her grow. I watched her become more confident in herself.
When Faisal became part of her life, I found myself cheering quietly from the sidelines. When she pursued her MBA, I felt genuinely proud. Every achievement felt personal in the way a parent's heart often celebrates the success of someone they care deeply about. I simply wanted her to flourish. I wanted her to feel accomplished. I wanted her to know she could build a beautiful life. What touched me even more was that the care was reciprocated.
She calls me "Aunty." She gave me space in her life And somehow, without either of us planning it, we became part of each other's everyday story. There were days when I carried burdens into the office and never spoke about them openly. Yet she was there. The room became more than a workplace. It became a safe space.
Looking back, I wonder whether the Iraq years would have felt heavier had she not been there. When B was away, she brought a sense of normalcy into days that often felt long. She spent time with my children. She came back from trips and visits with stories, gifts, and thoughtfulness. She made me feel less alone. She made my family feel like family to her too. And yet, throughout all those years, I was always careful. Perhaps too careful.
Because her father owned the company, I never wanted anyone (even her) to think I was trying to build a relationship for personal advantage. I never wanted special treatment. I never wanted people to misunderstand my intentions. So I kept a part of myself guarded.
I loved her quietly. Supported her quietly. Celebrated her quietly. Not because the affection was small. But because it was genuine. And genuine things do not always need an audience. Perhaps that is why this recent change affected me more than I expected. Because when I looked at the change of space, I was not seeing a desk. I was seeing nine years of memories. Nine years of laughter. Nine years of conversations. Nine years of watching a young girl become a remarkable woman. And suddenly I realised that what I missed was not proximity.
It was presence.
Not the person sitting in the same room.
But the person who had become part of my everyday life.
Which is why, even as I miss having that daughter-like presence in the room, my prayer remains the same as it has always been for her: Go further, Dream bigger, Shine brighter, Become everything God created her to be.
For much of my life, I have learned to be the steady one.
The six-year-old who comforted her older sister in a hostel far from home.
The daughter who understood her father's fears before she fully understood her own.
The wife who held herself together when her husband left for Iraq.
The mother who tried not to let her children see her tears.
The colleague who reasons through change and carries on.
Perhaps strength is allowing yourself to feel deeply without becoming bitter.
Perhaps it is accepting that understanding a decision does not mean you will not grieve what it changes.
And perhaps it is recognising that every person we encounter leaves traces behind ...
marks on our hearts that remind us we were never meant to journey through life untouched by one another.
I felt God gently reminding me of something I already knew:
It is a gift to care.
It is a gift to feel.
And it is a gift to bless others, even when we do not fully understand the chapters they are walking through.
Yet love, if it is genuine, does not cling. Love blesses. Love releases. Love celebrates even when it must let go. So while a part of me misses what was, a greater part of me hopes for all that lies ahead for her.
I pray that the next season brings new opportunities, new growth, and new joys.
I pray that the doors ahead open wider ...
I pray that she goes further than she ever imagined.
And that is the quiet paradox of caring deeply for people.
We miss them.Yet we still want the very best for them.
The room changed. The routines changed. And perhaps a small part of my heart changed too.
But if there is one thing I have learned, it is this: People may leave a room, but the impact they have on our lives remains long after the chair is moved and the desk is rearranged.
And for that, I am grateful...
Someday when I'm ready..I'll share this with her :)
Read Part 3
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