From Darkness to Design: How Drawing Healed the Trauma I Couldn’t Explain

Back in 2014…

It’s hard to revisit that time, but it shaped who I am. I was only six years old, just a child. Yet, I lived with a kind of pain most people wouldn’t associate with someone so young. I suffered from depression and mental trauma. Sounds strange, doesn’t it? But it’s true.

I was the youngest in my family — Papa’s favorite, Mama’s little love, the baby of the house. My siblings were older, sometimes jealous in little ways, but never cruel. I received plenty of attention and affection. There was no sign of neglect, no obvious reason for the darkness I felt inside.

And that’s the part that still puzzles me.

Where did it come from?

It didn’t come from school.

It didn’t come from home.

It didn’t come from family or friends.

There was no trauma, no tragedy. Just an invisible weight that settled deep inside my chest — one I couldn’t name or explain.

What did that trauma feel like?

At night, it came alive.

I’d lie down like any other child, but sleep wouldn’t come. And then, I’d begin to see things.

Not monsters. Not ghosts. No, I saw words.

BURDEN. HEAVINESS. DIFFICULTY.

They were just words — abstract nouns we use in grammar lessons. But for me, they became living, breathing things. They had faces, shapes… forms I could never quite describe, not even to the psychologists I saw later.

When they came, I wasn’t dead… but I wasn’t alive either.

It was like being trapped in a nightmare while fully awake. My eyes would fly open, and I’d see them. I would scream, always the same desperate cry:

“Mama! Papa! Help… please come!”

My parents would come running, holding me, trying to wake me.

But I was already awake.

My vision would blur, like watching a TV with a broken signal. My parents’ faces appeared like static — black and white lines, distorted and unreal. Behind that flickering screen was the terrifying world where I was stuck.

These episodes would last about twenty minutes. And when they ended, I’d collapse into tears, my body limp and shaking. My mind blank. My heart broken.

My parents did everything they could. We visited doctor after doctor, hoping someone could tell us what was happening. Some thought it was night terrors. Others suspected something neurological. But no one had a clear answer.

Until one doctor in Jeddah gave us hope. He helped me turn a corner. But that’s a story for another time.

The pain didn’t stop in 2014.

These episodes continued until 2017. For three long years, I lived with fear, confusion, and an unshakable sadness. But after that… it stopped.

Alhamdulillah — I’ve never experienced anything like it again.

Still, that trauma lived quietly inside me. Hidden, but not gone. I never truly understood it. And I never thought I’d find peace with it.

Until I discovered something unexpectedly powerful.

A hobby.

A simple one.

All I need is a black pen and paper.

That’s it.

Drawing lines, repeating patterns, letting my mind drift while my hand moves across the page — this has become my healing. It’s not about art or skill. It’s about release. It’s as though I pour all the darkness onto the paper, transforming it into something quiet… something beautiful.

And here’s the most amazing part: I don’t even try to focus when I draw. In fact, I lose focus — in the best way. My mind drifts into a peaceful place where fear can’t reach me. A place filled with light and stillness. A place I never knew existed.

Maybe it’s my soul’s way of reclaiming something I lost.

Maybe it’s just the miracle of creativity.

But whatever it is, it’s mine. It speaks to me. It grounds me.

This hobby didn’t just give me something to do — it gave me something to feel.

Joy.

Relief.

Wholeness.

Connection.

Every line I draw is like a thread sewing up an old wound, gently and patiently. Every pattern is a quiet voice saying, “You’re okay now. You made it.”

I believe this gift — this unexpected passion — is deeply connected to the trauma I once experienced. It’s a quiet victory. A reminder that even when we can’t understand our pain, healing can still find us.

I’m older now, and that child who once cried in the night feels far away… but she’s still a part of me. And she’s proud.

Because after all these years, I’ve finally found something that brings me peace. Something that makes me feel heard.

And for the first time, I feel seen — not just by others, but by myself.