My true journey began when I left Jordan and the region almost a decade ago. As a 40-year-old Jordanian-German mother and woman of Palestinian origin, I have always carried the weight of generational trauma and displacement. Growing up, I absorbed the pain, losses, and emotional struggles of my family of Syrian, Lebanese, and Palestinian origin. Their stories shaped my identity before I even had the words to express them, leaving behind a legacy of hidden shame, rejection, inner conflict, and guilt. I embraced psychology, a field that deeply resonated with me despite the stigma in my hometown. Wanting not only to understand my own sufferings but wanting to heal the suffering of the ones I truly love. 

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As I grew older, I fought my way into a field of patriarchy. I landed at the refugee camps in Jordan and the broader Middle East region, where I worked with some of the largest NGOs supporting Syrian, Iraqi, Kurdish, and Palestinian refugees and local communities. Let me say it was not easy being a woman in such a setting. It was there that my eyes opened to the capitalist world. We live in a world full of politics we barely understand, yet one that deeply affects those in the margins due to unfair and unjust political systems due to unfair social systems. I fought for women and their rights in both emergency and local communities, and though it was a challenge, it was a powerful experience to see the resilience and strength of the people I had the privilege to support. On a personal level it was healing, giving displaced women and children their voice and power back.

I was also one of the first founders of mental health support in schools in refugee camps across Jordan and other areas in the Middle East, which was a game changer for both children and their parents. We shed light on issues like trauma, PTSD, postpartum depression, loss and grief and the importance of breastfeeding. I had bigger dreams, projects, and ambitions to implement for women and children until life took a turn.

I was broken by losing my mother, the loss of my career, discovering I was pregnant within a short time. My mother's diagnosis was a devastating blow, she was given just one month to live. I wanted to be there for her. But one month after her passing, I found out I was pregnant. It felt as though the universe was hitting me with a series of blows I couldn’t quite grasp, so I packed up and moved to Germany with my German husband.

I was told it was better to raise my daughter in Europe, but I never accepted those words. I was told it was a privilege to live in Europe, but my privileges were stripped away. My motherhood was lonely in a foreign land, surrounded by a culture that was not my own. Without my language, my warm traditions, and without my tribe, I felt lost. I started to question the messages we, as women of color, receive in Europe, and the same ones from my own people back home. "You're so lucky to live there."

I found myself torn between two worlds, neither of which fully accepted me. I don’t belong to either, and my identity has been shaped by the tension between both. As an Arab woman, living in Europe, I ask myself: can I really express my authentic self here? I do so through my work, but it’s a constant struggle to find space to be truly me. It's a struggle I face as a woman in Europe. However, this journey has not been without its toll. I have found myself falling into depression, stripped of the real, authentic me. I was trying my best to navigate a life that wasn’t mine. I was raised to believe it was a "better world," but the reality felt foreign, and I was lost within it. As an Arab woman of color, I had to reinvent myself and reconnect with my true identity not just for myself, but for my daughter and for all the Arab women living far from their loved ones and tribe. I had to rewrite the internalized voices that had been ingrained in me, and I did so with the help of my husband, family, friends, and my therapist.

When my daughter turned three, I returned to work. I decided to work in Arabic and to support men and women in the Arab world. My heart and mission belongs to the Arab world, and it always will. I am currently in the midst of my training to become a sexual therapist, aiming to expand my expertise and support others in a more culturally sensitive way . I want to help people in our region reconnect with their bodies, embrace their sexuality, and strengthen their relationships not through the Westernized lens often imposed on us, but through a culturally sensitive approach that honors our identities and lived experiences. For too long, psychology has been shaped by colonial perspectives, dismissing the richness of our narratives. It’s time to decolonize these conversations and create spaces where our understanding of intimacy and relationships is rooted in our own cultural wisdom, not external ideals. Psychology, with all its complexities, has been the compass guiding me back to my truth. It has empowered me, not only as a professional but as a woman and a mother, as someone who stands up for the voiceless.

The lessons I have learned along the way have given me a unique perspective on trauma, motherhood, empowerment, and generational trauma that we unconsciously pass on to our children. Despite the challenges of living far away from home, I am determined to honor my roots, my heritage, and my identity. As an Arab psychologist living and working in Munich, I will no longer remain silent or be silenced. I will make sure our voices are heard, unmuted, and understood.