I’ve been telling stories for as long as I can remember. As a six-year-old, I used to record myself on cassette tapes, spinning wild tales with characters I made up on the spot. I had no audience—just me, talking to myself, completely lost in my own little worlds. Then, at eleven, I wrote my first novella, نهر العجائب (The River of Wonders). Of course, being a kid, I added pictures—ones I photoshopped myself. I kept myself busy, entertained by my own imagination.

But, like most people, I grew up trying to figure out who I was. I ended up in engineering school, following in my father’s footsteps, carrying the weight of family expectations. It was Egypt’s top university, and I was doing what I was supposed to do. The only problem? I didn’t like it. Not for a second.

Then came the moment that changed everything. I was standing on stage, giving my first-ever presentation. I had picked a topic I loved—anime—and on the outside, it seemed like it went well. But as I stood there, I felt an electric surge shoot through my shoulder and right arm. My body was shaking, my heart racing. It was my first intense anxiety attack, and later that day, I found myself sitting in a heart doctor’s office.

The tests came back fine (thank God), but the doctor told me something that stuck: my heart wasn’t the problem—stress was. The anxiety was literally making my body shut down. She prescribed me heart medication—the same kind my father, in his fifties, was taking. I was nineteen.

That was my wake-up call. Why was I doing this to myself?

I hated what I was studying.

I was pushing myself toward a future I didn’t want.

For what?

So, I decided to shift my focus. I joined student activities, cared less about school, and returned to what had always made my heart feel alive: writing.

But just because I’d figured out what I loved didn’t mean the road got any easier.

2014 was the hardest year of my life. I had graduated, and suddenly, the pressure to become an engineer was crushing me. In my family’s eyes, not an engineer meant spoiled, unambitious, and clueless about the value of money. I was broke, I started three different projects, and all of them failed. I tried applying for writing jobs, but no one took me seriously.

Until, finally, I landed my first job—as a copywriter at a medical advertising agency. It was a stepping stone, yes, but at the time, it felt like anything but progress. The office was so rundown my best friend called it a basement. We didn’t even have an office boy, so at one point, the trash can started overflowing. I still remember telling my manager, Either this gets fixed, or I’m out.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t easy. But I kept going.

One job led to another. Step by step, I moved away from copywriting and closer to what I truly wanted—writing and editing books. And today? I’m here. A full-time editor. An author with two books out. Living a life that, once upon a time, I never thought possible.

Looking back, I had moments where I completely lost faith in myself. But every single time, God’s plan was better than mine. And for that, I am forever grateful.

So if you’re feeling lost, if you’re stuck in a place that doesn’t feel right, if you’re scared to take a different path—just know this: you don’t have to have it all figured out. Just keep going. The story isn’t over yet. 💛

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