It was New Year’s Eve in Santa Monica.
The kind of night that tries too hard to be special.
Music thumping. People dressed like hope.
Drinks promising more than they ever deliver.

I wasn’t at a party.
I wasn’t even really celebrating.
I just wanted somewhere that felt familiar, so I went to my favorite lounge and sat quietly on the patio ... alone.

The world already felt... uneasy.
Politics shifting. Emotions heavy.
And somewhere deep inside, I think I knew this night wasn’t going to end the way I hoped it would.

A TV inside played muted coverage.
I saw the ticker tape first.
A shooting.
A Turkish nightclub.
At first it felt far away...
I even whispered to myself ... “Please don’t be a Saudi.”
That’s how disconnected I was from myself. From everything.

Then I opened my phone.
Names started coming in.
And one of them hit me like a truck.
A name that belonged to a Samman.

I held my breath. Froze.
Hoping ... praying ... it wasn’t my direct cousin, the one I shared childhood with.
It wasn’t her... but it was another relative.
Along with others I did know.
Friends. Saudis I had met just several months earlier.

The relief was twisted. And the grief came anyway.

What I still can’t explain is why I didn’t call anyone.
Not my parents. Not friends back home.
I just sat there... surrounded by strangers, music, and celebration...
and I quietly broke.

I thought I was invisible in that moment.
Tucked in my little corner.
But the waiter ... a friend ... noticed.
He came over gently and turned my seat slightly, so I was facing away from the window.
No words. Just that small act.
Protecting me without asking questions.

And that’s when it hit me:
I was the funny one. The jolly guy.
The one people leaned on.
And now I couldn’t even stand up.

I didn’t apologize.
Not to the room.
Not to the waiter.
Not to myself.

I just sat there.
Eyes wet.
Heart cracked open.
And I let the softness happen.

On January 1st, I woke up like I was carrying something I couldn’t put down.
And later that day... I booked my ticket home.
Two weeks. That’s all I gave myself.
Fourteen days left in LA.

Then something unexpected happened.
A friend I had just met just five months earlier during my first Flight Attendant interview, reached out.
I told her what happened what happened, and she suggested something I hadn’t considered:

“Go to the airline assessment. It’s on the 4th. It’ll get your mind off things. Please!”

At first, I didn’t take it seriously.
But she nudged again. Said my chances were good, especially from her brief interaction with me in our first interview.
Said it might help me feel something again.

So on January 4th, I went.
And something shifted.

It was the first time in days I felt... awake.
People were kind. Maybe overly so. Were they genuine? I don’t know.
But for once, I didn’t care. I just felt human again.

Then on January 8th, I had my farewell dinner.
It was the night of the Golden Globes.
And somewhere between dessert and small talk, I knew I was done.
My mind was made up. I was done.

Looking back, that New Year’s Eve wasn’t just about grief.
It was about surrender.

Surrendering the version of me that had it all together.
Surrendering the plan I thought I was following.
Surrendering to the fact that maybe... softness wasn’t failure.
It was clarity.

The beginning of hard decisions.
The end of pretending.

And if someone I loved were in that same place today ...
holding back tears in a room that doesn’t know how to hold them ...
I wouldn’t say “be strong.”

I’d just say,

Let it out. I’m here.