Raaida - a mirror, an anchor

A quiet revolution from Beirut to LA.

I met Raaida in Lebanon in 2017, at an entrepreneur retreat. She didn’t enter a room like most people. She didn’t demand attention with loud laughter or glitz. She simply observed, quiet, absorbing everything before she acted. She is Colombian-Lebanese—but not the stereotype of the loud, vibrant Latina. Nor the noisy Lebanese party-girl. Her fire is subtle, almost imperceptible, yet unstoppable. Every move she made was deliberate and, above all, meaningful to a crafted path.

We connected again at a friend’s wedding. I grew up with Arabic roots but had never set foot in the Middle East. And yet, when we spoke, it was like our ancestors were whispering to each other. The stories of our mothers, the tales of our families—they tangled together in ways that felt too familiar to be a coincidence. I joked we must be distant cousins. Deep down, I felt the truth of it.

She talked about Lebanon like you’d describe your hometown. With certain nostalgia but a place you always return to, to feel whole. I was stilly mesmerized by how clearly she understood her identity, something that had always felt elusive to me. She knew where each action and prayer she did was welded from. For me, every pattern I see in myself as an adult launches a little investigation into the family files and stories like a puzzle that is never fully complete.

Raaida’s life reads like a story of courage. Against all odds, she found love with a Middle Eastern-American, uprooted her life, and flew to Los Angeles, leaving behind Colombia and her sustainability business—a full life she had built with her own hands. She carried everything she loved across continents for a shot at a new love. And yet, in our weekly FaceTime calls, she still carries herself with the same grounded, unshakeable presence. We don’t talk about the weather or idle gossip. We talk about life. About dreams. About the things that sting.

Sometimes, I catch myself in her, and I see her in me. I long for the closeness of the family she has created, the roots she carries with her everywhere, while she envies the freedom that comes naturally to me. It’s strange, almost cinematic, how two lives can mirror each other in absence and longing, a reflection of what we each miss and what we each have. A friendship that tends to each other’s hearts, the purest kind of friend love.

From her, I learned that when life breaks your pace, the better question isn’t why me? but what’s next?. I’ll tell her about a strange dream I had, or how I want to quit everything and build a life far from banking. She’ll pause, thoughtful, and then ask in that calm way of hers, “What’s next? In the large scheme of things, what matters most?”

A few months ago, I confided in her about a family illness. A big one, that moves everything you ever believed and the way you live. Permanence and control are out the window. Worry settles in your chest.

Raaida said: “Talk to God”. I joked back, “But where has he been?”. The truth is, that praying had been a forgotten habit of mine, which I was too ashamed to admit. Awkwardly, I mumbled some sentences together in bed that night.

Eventually, I relaxed. I spoke until the air around my throat me felt lighter. Talking to God helped; not because answers arrived, but because the burden stopped being mine alone. It shifted, gently, onto someone else’s shoulders. I still pray, because of Raaida

We invented time, money and God.

Sometimes I wonder if that has led us astray as humankind. When science, medicine and health fail, all you have is faith. You pull back the curtain to your most humble self and land on your knees in a church.

Raaida isn’t just a friend. She is a force, a mirror, a quiet revolution in human form. Meeting her, knowing her, talking to her—is like witnessing a life fully lived, and somehow, being allowed to step inside for a tiny moment. She reminds me that connection doesn’t need proximity, and impact doesn’t need noise. Sometimes, the loudest life is the one lived in silence.