Someone is born, and someone passes away. Some people arrive, while others quietly leave. That is the rhythm of life. Every day, somewhere in the world, a newborn takes their first breath while someone else takes their last. Birth is greeted with celebration and hopeful prayers, while death is accompanied by silence, tears, and farewell. Life keeps moving in its mysterious cycle, reminding us how fragile and temporary everything is.

This month, I was reminded of that cycle in a very personal way. This month marks the month I was born. And this month as well, my husband’s uncle passed away. I was not particularly close to him. Our relationship was mostly one of recognition rather than closeness. He was my husband’s uncle, after all. But he was also an obstetrician–gynecologist, and during my pregnancy he once examined me. In that brief encounter, he did more than just check my condition, he also helped calm the worries my mother-in-law had about my pregnancy. It was a small moment in the grand timeline of life, yet somehow meaningful. Even though we did not share many memories, I remember his kindness and the quiet reassurance he offered during a time when anxiety easily filled the room.

Life has its way of intertwining beginnings and endings. In the same month that marks the beginning of my own life, I am also reminded of someone else's farewell. And perhaps that is how life gently teaches us, while some stories begin, others find their closing chapters.

The beginning of Ramadan this year felt restless, almost chaotic. Our days were spent going back and forth between our own house and my in-laws’ house because we were asked to watch over their home. What seemed like a simple responsibility slowly turned into something heavier in my heart. Sometimes, when we returned to our own house just for a moment to check if everything was still safe and in place, there were negative comments about why we kept going back and forth. Those words lingered longer than they should have.

In moments like that, I quietly remind myself: our house may be small. It is simple, with only a few things inside. But that does not make it any less meaningful. It is still our home. A place built with effort, care, and quiet dreams. Of course we want to make sure it is safe. Of course we want to check if everything is still standing as we left it. Even the smallest home deserves to be looked after.

At the same time, the weight of the economy feels heavier than before. It presses quietly on everyday life. It reaches even the smallest corners of daily needs. There are moments when something as simple as wanting to buy skincare feels out of reach. Such a small thing, yet it can become a reminder of how tight things feel lately.

In the middle of all this, there are also moments when I realize I have been too harsh with my own child. Those moments often return at night, when everything is quiet. Right before sleep, regret arrives softly and sits beside me. I ask myself the same question again and again: why was I so harsh today?

Yet little by little, I try to understand myself better. I once read that when emotions start to explode while caring for a child, it is better to pause. Step away for a moment. Breathe. Calm the storm inside before returning. Surprisingly, something so simple can make a difference. Taking a short pause helps prevent words and actions that might come out of uncontrolled frustration. Because no matter how tired or overwhelmed I feel, my child should never become the place where my exhaustion is released.

Perhaps this is part of the long journey of becoming a parent, learning, failing, regretting, and learning again. But every new day is another chance to soften the heart, to be more patient, and to try, once again, to become a better version of myself.