And afterwards, I broke down.
Me
My parents passed away when I was only 11. That night, we were heading to Mecca, the holy land, to perform Umrah. A yearly tradition of our family. After a stop at a gas station, we continued along the road to Taif. Not long after, I dozed off. “Astaghfirullah!” my mother shouted, jolting me awake. In that fleeting moment, our vehicle jerked before rolling onto its side, and my consciousness began to fade.
I woke up inside our car, visibly crumpled, my mother and my father was nowhere to be seen. I forced myself out the car, each step heavy, as though I had only learned how to walk. Somehow, keeping my balance required more mental effort than it normally did. I touched my left ear and felt blood. Oh, that's why.
The side of the road was brightly lit, but it wasn't directed towards our car. There were individuals lying down in the direction of those lights. That's when it dawned on me. Why hadn't I looked for my brothers and sisters? I dashed towards them, though it felt more like dragging my body forward. Fahd, Hilya...where was Aisha and Akthar?
A hand touched my shoulder and I jolted in response. A man in a beard stood behind me. Only then did I notice the crowd gathered behind him. They must have seen something. They must've seen something. "Where is my brother? Where is my sister" I cried in English. None of them seemed to understand. Their responses were in Arabic which unfortunately I also couldn't to comprehend.
I realized I had yet to search the car. Once again, I dragged myself towards the car and looked inside. The front seats were empty, blood visibly seen on the windshields. I held myself together to not cry and continued on with the search. Upon looking in the middle row, I saw Aisha. Akhtar was still nowhere to be found. My ear was still bleeding, and I barely had the strength to stand, let alone carry both of them. If I was going to find Akhtar, I would have to carry Aisha first.
With all my might, I unfastened her from her baby seat. By God's grace, Alhamdulillah, I found the strength to lift her into my arms. I walked slowly towards my other siblings with her, slowly lowered her beside them. I knelt next to her and kissed her forehead.
Next thing I knew, my vision went dark.
Realization
Until now, you must have realized how much my family has meant to me. Not only their care, but also their opinions, their ideas, and their hopes are things I've always held close to my heart. Our family nearly lost everything that day, but Alhamdulillah, we were surrounded by people who cared about us. However, indirectly, a spotlight had been cast upon us.
I knew I wasn't my father, and that I could never replace him. But at the very least, I wanted to be dependable. I wanted to be someone my brothers and sisters could look up to, someone they could be proud of. This extended beyond my siblings to my cousins, grandparents, aunts, and uncles. I've always felt that a burden had been placed upon me, a responsibility to set an example. I've always felt as though all eyes were on me, as though failing to become someone great would render me worthless. I'd be a disappointment. I wouldn't be loved or cared for. I'd let everyone down.
Because of this, I decided to be the best. I gave 100% of myself to everything I did. I might not have been the brightest, and my lack of achievements sometimes felt like a testament to that, but I refused to let it consume me. I got into the best schools, landed a good job, and, heck, even made my grandparents and aunts shed tears of joy because they were so proud of me. Those are moments I'll always remember.
And now, over the past few months, perhaps because I haven't seen my brothers and sisters or my grandmother in so long, I've begun to feel a sense of longing. An emptiness.
Alongside this, I developed a habit of opening my LinkedIn profile and looking through my own experience. I'd look at my education, reread my bio, and admire what I'd accomplished. I felt a sense of personal pride in the skills I'd developed, the achievements I'd earned, and the title I held. It was as though I was telling myself, "I've made it." As though, finally, I'd become someone of value to my family.
But one day, I paused. I decided to have a conversation with myself. That night, I talked about my achievements, my background, my thoughts, my feelings, and everything else that had made me who I was. I asked myself why. And then, one simple question was asked:
"If tomorrow you lost this title, would you still feel the same sense of worth?"
My heart immediately answered: "No."
And afterward, I broke down.
Through all my dedication and pursuit of excellence, I hadn't realized that I'd become mechanical. Day after day, night after night, my only ambition was to improve. I read books and articles, practiced new skills, and trained to sharpen the ones I already had. Granted, I'd experienced periods of burnout, months when I slowed down and allowed myself to rest. But just as quickly as those periods passed, my motivation returned, and I was back to where I'd started.
Never had I realized how much of my identity I'd lost along the way. I hadn't realized how deeply this burden had defined me, how much it had shaped me as a person: my goals, my motivations, and the very reasons I continued to live the way I did. I never realized how little I'd come to value myself beyond the experience I'd accumulated and the achievements I'd earned.
Reflection
Perhaps, all these years, I've been so occupied with becoming someone that I've forgotten how to simply be someone. Someone who doesn't have to prove anything, who doesn't have to be the best, who doesn't have to earn his place in the hearts of those he loves.
I still want to make my family proud. I still want to do great things, to become a better engineer, to be someone my siblings can look up to. I don't think there's anything wrong with that. But perhaps it's time I learned that these things don't have to be the price I pay to feel worthy of love.
For the first time in my life, I find myself asking a question I don't know how to answer.
Who am I when I no longer have to prove that I'm worthy of being loved?
Apologies: I'm going to be honest, this was a conversation I had with ChatGPT. I was deep in my own thoughts and I had to let go somehow. I was afraid of what other people would think of me, that's why I tried to ask AI.