Slipping through my fingers all the time

Written by: Fatima

Studying for my test on WW1, my mother's voice caught my attention. “The annual Karachi book fair is from 18-22 December. Fatima, start preparing your list.” In a moment, Serbian nationalist groups and Archduke Ferdinand’s visit to Bosnia got pushed back and only one thought became prominent: It’s December again.

December, a symbol of conclusion, a time not only to rewind but also prepare. A month that

makes you ask yourself, “Did I do enough?” So to answer the same, I picked up my yearly

journal and flipped back to the beginning. Like other girls on social media, I had also made a

vision board which I was quite proud of considering it was my first time making one. Flipped a

few more pages and finally landed on “Goals for 2025”, a page with a list of objectives, some

crossed out, some still untouched but nevertheless reflecting progress.

As I reached January, I travelled back to the time of my university's beginning. The pages were filled with panicked rants, lists of courses and some tips I had come up with, the messy writing reflecting my nervousness.

Continued flipping, I came to my first outing with some girls from university. The sparkly stickers I had decorated the page with showed how much I had enjoyed that day and a realization hit me: It all worked out.

I entered the literature world this year, hence the unfinished documents in my phone and

inspirational content in my journal. I came to the page I had written after my first article had

been published in an international geopolitical journal. The pride I had felt back then, seeing my family read it with awe washed over me again. The moment highlighted in pink, when my father shared my article with his friends, telling them “my daughter wrote this” made me feel giddy all over again.

My journal also witnessed me volunteering in some digital magazines. The moments of doubt, lack of inspiration and occasional overwhelm was etched out in sentences half smudged but thoroughly felt. Then there were the pages dripping with immense joy, when my friends had gone crazy over my pieces, especially the one who isn't even a reader.

The page for my birthday is my favorite. With a cake drawn in the middle and borders decorated with pink bows, I had used my gel pens to write about the lunch I went on with my friends and the diary and a pen with an astronaut on top I got as a gift. At one end of the page, I had drawn the red frock I had worn even when I failed to get the color right. The other end had a Sanrio sticker from the collection my mother had gifted me.

Then came some pages where I had let out the desperation I had felt witnessing Palestinians

suffer and all I could do was watch. How “geographical luck” had made it possible for me to

celebrate Eid wearing new clothes but they had to bury their loved ones. Especially that one

picture that showed a photo card of a kpop idol in the rubble of a destroyed home. The thought that she was also my age, liked the same things, had the same dreams, yet I got to grow up and she became just another statistic.

Reaching more recent pages, my plans of starting a community for youngsters interested in

contemporary affairs and history took the spotlight. The list of ideas for name, theme and icons revealed the hours I spent browsing the internet. There's still a lot to work on so this might turn into a goal for 2026.

Turning to another page, my language learning journey came up. The chaotic writing exposed my struggle with Russian grammar. But the underlined sentence “I can introduce myself and my family in Russian now” sparked the motivation.

As I reached the end, another thought occupied my mind. “What do I want to achieve in 2026?”

Many ideas jumbled up, some clear, some still gruff, some who I could outline while others I

couldn't even identify. But I smiled as I looked back at my journal. Everything had turned out

okay. And so it will again.

“Fatima, come outside. Your father brought a cake.” My mother's voice brought me back to my desk where my notes were scattered, “28 July 1914: Austria-Hungary declares war on Serbia” highlighted. I got up, collecting and securing them in a file as I hurried outside. Later I will ask mother to buy me a new journal for 2026 but now, the cake demands attention and so it will receive.