steeped by samia no.45 | 03.12.26
Snippets from my desk, somewhere at the tail end of Ramadan.
I’m sitting at my desk. It’s become my favorite place, slowly curated, one used bookstore find at a time. In the beginning of the pandemic, the Facebook Marketplace desks I inquired after were all quickly sold without responses. I caved in and bought this wide desk on Amazon, and the smaller version was sold out. It fits just right, wedged against the wall, between my twin bed and closet door.
Its faux wood surface is stacked with books, stacked together by complimentary colors, while puttering around across many slow mornings. A book nudged here and there, pushed ever so slightly so that its yellow cover might peek out against its dark green spine. These books have been collected in recent years, or are thoughtful gifts from bookish friends. The trinkets and treasures clustered around are swapped out frequently or seasonally. And truthfully, whatever can last Zayn’s temper tantrums, where he pushes things off my desk to get attention, has a good chance of sticking around.
There are two things from Eo, a wooden cat phone stand and lovely yellow tray with a post-it note, a Free Palestine sticker, and a small strip of fortune cookie fortune. Renuka gave me a Story Oracle deck that I love to shuffle through. Right now, a small tin of Studio Tanaïs’s Namaka Candle sits on top of Azadi by Arundhati Roy. I love to open the tin when I’m working out or doing yoga, and catching a wif of its coconut milky, gardenia scent. Something I’ve truly never smelled before in my life.
Next to the candle tin is a small jar of Lavender Peach Apricot tea gifted to me by A-bel. There’s a blue tile coaster with a delicate floral pattern that my brother got me from Hawaii when I was in college. It’s one of my most treasured objects, a fairly delicate thing, a rest stop for mugs and mugs of chai and jasmine milk tea throughout undergrad and the rest of my 20’s thus far.
My desk is made of memories, pretty things to gaze at or pensive things to pick up and read snatches of, in between working and as the light and shadow from the bedroom window travel their orbits around the room. My desk is witnessing my slow self actualization.
Here, I bring you vignettes at my desk, traversing the times we’re in, the month we’re in, and the themes turning over in my mind.
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It’s Ramadan right now. Year by year, we’re emerging out of spring and trekking deeper into winter. Ramadan shifts 10 to 11 days each year, and a full cycle of Ramadan around a solar year takes about 32.5 to 33.5 solar years. In 1998, when I was born, Ramadan began on December 20th. I just looked this up for the first time.
I turn 28 in less than a month, heading into my “Saturn Return years.”
My turning point is near.
My early childhood memories of Ramadan were in the fall season. My mom, aunt, and grandma making samosas, the savory fried smells, the cut up fruit, the little pink noodles and basil seeds in bright pink Rooh Afza milk, at least one person (my uncle, memorably, lol) spilling something at the iftar table. Going to Sunday school! Not my favorite but still added to the Ramadan-ness. My siblings and I often think about the local Art & Wine Festival happening during Ramadan, and we’d work at the Youth Commission booth, not getting to enjoy the fun festival foods. Core memories.
Spirituality, Religion, Islam. Who are they to me, if not a means to try to be a better person and be of service to my communities and to alchemize reality into expansive truths or into a more just reality for the world? I may be uncovering new shades of this, year by year. I’m not really sure. But I feel something, and I think that matters.
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This is lifted from my journal, an entry penned a few days ago. This journal sits nestled on my desk, next to literary fiction and memoirs, a few doors down from my previous journal.
March 8th, 2026 // Spring Forward.
Truthfully, the everydayness of my routine is sinking in again, expanding into the crevices of my mind. I’m working on 3-4 freelance projects and dip in and out of motivation to write and network and create my way to the next big thing. My needs and aspirations are shifting. More growing pains. At the same time, I love the work I do and the women I work with and their purpose-driven businesses.
I think younger Samia would understand my (dis)content, would understand a bit about how things became the way they are. How the dust settles on the pretty books—but not the cat hairs that also settles on the pretty books, she wouldn’t fathom our household having three cats (it’s mostly Naru’s hairs).
My turning point is somewhere.
We’re living in very strange and difficult times. When are we not? But that takes on different disguises and circumstances in the 2020’s. It feels hollow to go about everything as usual, when there is so much going on and its incredibly layered and connected—the air strikes on Iran by the U.S. and Israel, the ongoing genocide in Gaza, the Epstein files, ICE snatching people, AI, COVID-19, come to mind. Corrupt people are merciless and highly calculated. My taxpayer money, from my small freelance income, is going toward all of this. War crimes upon war crimes.
The house is cold. The sun us out and beckons me outside. 9:30AM is now 10:30AM. We don’t have free healthcare but Israelis do. Silicon Valley companies continue to contribute to war crimes. Tech as a work field is diminishing in stability. People are giving work their all, getting laid off, and starting their own things. People are giving work their all, getting laid off, and struggling to make ends meet.
In the early 2000s, Abu was training a team in India before he got laid off. Now, people are training AI before they get laid off.
Ammi is a few credits shy from qualifying for Medicare, and we’re in the process of hopefully applying for her Medicare under Abu. That is wild to me. What would you do otherwise?
On Windfall Island in Legend of Zelda: Wind Waker, the rich become poor and the poor become rich. This image has always stuck with me.
Adulthood is witnessing and attempting to put language to these contrasts and contradictions and dualities and inequities. Some people acknowledge things but are cynical, some people are shouting from the top of their lungs, some people are starting to connect the dots, some people shrug and continue about their days, some people are part of the problems. Who are you? And are you more than one?
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I see myself in the pages of literary fiction, characters who are older professors or writers, living in cozy houses with their pets, somewhere quiet or somewhere bustling. Jhumpa Lahiri’s unnamed protagonist in Whereabouts lives a pensive life, bumping into old lovers at the store, residing in or near an Italian piazza, living with the quiet delights, solitude, and discomforts of being in her 50’s un-partnered.
I see an interplay of my mom’s life, my favorite aunts’ lives, my grandmothers’ lives, the small business founders I work with and how they move through life and grow older and blossom in their own ways.
If I get the opportunity to live to an old age, which is something not guaranteed because we really don’t know what might happen (a sinking feeling: my parents are both cancer survivors, am I likely to get cancer?), I can picture myself reading and volunteering and going on adventures, in my neighborhood and abroad, like my eldest uncle. The world that elder Samia will live in will be harder and harder. She’ll have to deal with health declines, death, grief, and though it’s not new to her, it will feel weighted in new ways. I hope her conviction will grow and grow, along with her wisdom, patience, and tea collection. I hope she meets a lot of cats.
What does it mean to be a late bloomer in this era?
What does it look like to start anew in a later decade of life?
My turning point is here. — S.A.
💫 Catch Up:
02.27.26 | My years of losing & finding my focus
steeped by samia no.44: A writer & listener’s attempt to understand her brain better.
💌 About This Blog:
Steeped by Samia is a space where I can simmer on thoughts & curiosities about life, liminal spaces, digital culture, & more. Far too often, my writing ideas fizzle out in energy; I never get to see them to their full potential. While building my rhythm with writing, I want to share these stories with you.
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