The Compass: The Quiet Voice Within
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There are moments in life that seem ordinary as we live them, only to realise years later that they quietly changed the course of our lives. For me, one of those moments came towards the end of 2019.

For many years, introducing myself had been easy, if someone asked who I was, I usually answered by talking about my work, what I had accomplished over two decades in building a career that had given me purpose, responsibility, and experiences I will always value. Like many people, I never questioned it, as it felt natural. Our work becomes part of our identity and over time, the two can become difficult to separate.

Earlier that year, I had resigned from my position at the Arab Academy. It was not an easy decision, but it was one I believed in, and I was convinced that I could build something different, a company that would give young graduates the chance to prove themselves, not simply by following familiar paths, but by helping reshape the way organisations thought about talent and quality.

The idea filled me with hope. I could already imagine what it might become, but reality had other plans for me.

One challenge led to another. Some were practical; others were beyond my control. Gradually, the confidence I had carried with me into that new phase began to give way to doubt. There was no dramatic moment when the dream ended. It simply became harder to recognise.

By December, I knew I needed to step away for a while. Not to find answers, but just to hear my own thoughts again.

I travelled to Aswan, one of the oldest cities in Egypt and a place I have always loved. There is something about the city that changes the rhythm of life. The Nile does not seem to be in a hurry there, and neither do the people who live beside it.

I stayed at a hotel on Isis Island, surrounded by the gentle flow of the river, palm trees, and a silence that felt strangely comforting. Every morning I would wake early, find a quiet place overlooking the Nile with a coffee or a book, and simply enjoying the day to unfold. For the first time in months, I gave myself permission not to solve anything.

Looking back now, I smile at what I believed I had travelled there to do. I thought I was reflecting on a business idea... I thought I was deciding whether to continue a project... I thought I was planning the next chapter of my career.

But I was wrong.

Life had taken me there for an entirely different reason. It had taken me there to introduce me to someone I had quietly neglected for a very long time.

Myself.

The days settled into a gentle rhythm. I would wake early and walk around the island, spend time reading a book, and allow my thoughts to wander without feeling that every one of them needed an answer.

There was something strangely comforting about not having a schedule to follow, no meetings, no deadlines, no decisions waiting for me before breakfast. Only the quiet company of the Nile, and the comforting feeling that, for a little while, life was asking nothing of me.

One afternoon, while I was sitting in the hotel lobby, I noticed a elegant lady speaking to one of the reception staff. She was asking for directions to the old Aswan market. A few minutes later, our paths crossed. She introduced herself as Julia, a psychologist from the Netherlands.

Now, I remember thinking how unusual it was to meet someone travelling alone. Most European visitors I had met in Aswan were part of organised tours, following carefully planned travel programs from one historic site to another. Julia had come for a different reason. She had come to spend time with herself.

Perhaps that was why our conversation felt so natural from the very beginning. Neither of us seemed interested in the questions people often ask when they first meet. We were not trying to impress one another. We were not comparing achievements or measuring success.

We simply talked.

That evening, I was sitting in the lobby reading as usual, when she walked over with a warm smile.

"May I join you?" she asked.

I closed my book.

"Of course."

What I expected to be a short conversation gradually became part of each day. Sometimes we talked over the morning coffee, sometimes while walking along the Nile, some other time during a sunset cruise, where conversation seemed to flow as gently as the river itself. Sometimes we simply sat in silence, watching the river, without feeling the need to fill every quiet moment with words.

Our conversations wandered wherever they wished. We spoke about our families, our work, the choices we had made, the dreams we still carried, and the questions neither of us had fully answered.

Looking back, I cannot remember every conversation. Time has a way of softening the details. What I remember is something much simpler. For those few days, neither of us seemed interested in the titles we carried. She was not speaking to a former executive, and I was not speaking to a psychologist. We were simply two people trying to understand our own lives a little better.

I did not realise it then, but something inside me had already begun to change.

The week passed more quickly than I expected. Perhaps that is what happens when conversations are unhurried and genuine. We simply listened to each other.

There is something refreshing about speaking with someone who knows nothing about your past, your achievements or your disappointments. There were no expectations. Somehow, that creates a different kind of conversation. Lighter and more honest. As though neither person has anything to defend.

On Julia's final morning in Aswan, we spent a little time together before she left for the airport. As we said goodbye, I asked if we could keep in touch. It felt like a natural question, after several days of thoughtful conversations, I imagined we might continue them from time to time.

With the same warm smile and a quiet certainty; she said something I have carried with me ever since.

"Let's keep our honesty while we discover who we really are. If we are destined to meet again, life will bring us together sometime."

For a moment, I did not know how to respond. It was not the answer I had expected. Yet it never felt like rejection. If anything, it felt like freedom.

Years have passed since that morning, and I have often found myself returning to her words. Not because they answered a question, but because they quietly asked one.

Who are we when there is nothing to gain from being anyone other than ourselves?

I watched Julia leave, believing I was saying goodbye to someone I had met during a journey to Aswan. Looking back now, I think I was also saying goodbye to a version of myself. A version that had quietly begun to believe that titles, and achievements could answer the question of who I was, but they never could describe parts of my life or describe the person living it.

A few weeks after I returned home, the world began to change. News of a new virus slowly turned into a global pandemic. Airports became quiet. Offices closed. Streets that had once been full of life suddenly felt unfamiliar.

Like millions of others, I found myself with something I had not expected.

Time.

The company I had hoped to build was no longer moving in the direction I had imagined. Instead of planning a new beginning, I found myself returning to something I had almost forgotten.

My writing.

Earlier that year, I had completed my second book in Arabic and submitted it to the publisher. During those long months of uncertainty, I found myself reading it again, not as someone trying to improve a manuscript, but as someone trying to understand the person who had written it.

It is a strange experience to read your own words after life has changed you. Sometimes they still feel like your own. Sometimes they feel as though they were written by someone you are only just beginning to understand.

As the weeks passed, another thought quietly began to stay with me. For most of my life, people had known me through the roles I held. The executive. The consultant. The trainer. The author. Each description was true. Each represented part of my journey, but none of them answered the question I had slowly begun to ask myself.

Who am I when all of those introductions become silent?

The more I reflected, the more I began to think that knowing ourselves is not about adding more to our identity. Perhaps it begins by gently setting a few things down, not because they are unimportant, but because they were never meant to carry the full weight of who we are.

I no longer believe my journey to Aswan was about stepping away from work, nor do I think it was simply a holiday after a difficult year. Without realising it, I had travelled there because I was ready to become quiet enough to listen. Not to another opinion. Not to another plan. Not even to another ambition. Just, I needed to listen to the person whose voice had gradually become hidden beneath all the others.

Julia did not give me answers. Neither did the months that followed our last conversation. What happened during this journey to Aswan gave me something far more valuable. They gave me permission to stop searching for my identity in the places where it had never truly lived.

Since then, I have found myself paying less attention to the labels people carry and becoming more interested in the lives behind them. A title may tell me what someone does. A nationality may tell me where they come from, but none of those things can tell me who they are.

That takes time. It takes conversation. It takes curiosity. Most of all, it takes the willingness to meet another human being before deciding who we think they are.

The truth is that each of us carries stories, traditions, and values that have shaped our journey. They deserve to be honoured, but they were never meant to become the whole story.

There is always something deeper. The person who remains when the introductions are over. The person who is still there when success is replaced by uncertainty, when plans change, and when life becomes quieter than we expected.

As I think back to those days beside the Nile, I realise I returned home carrying something I had not packed for the journey. Not certainty. Not a new direction. Not even a clearer plan.

I returned with a quieter question. One that has stayed with me ever since. It is a question I continue to ask myself before making important decisions, before judging another person, and sometimes simply at the end of an ordinary day. It is not a question that demands a perfect answer. Only an honest one.

Perhaps that is where understanding begins. Not in discovering everything about ourselves, but in becoming willing to meet ourselves with the same curiosity, patience, and kindness that we hope to offer others.