In Lebanon, stability feels like a distant idea, something you hear about more than you experience.
We don’t plan too far ahead.
Not because we don’t dream, but because plans here are fragile.
Electricity comes and goes. Prices rise without warning. Safety can shift overnight. Even a normal day can change before it ends.
So we learn to live differently.
We learn to expect the unexpected.
To make peace with maybe.
To celebrate small things, because big things feel uncertain.
But living like this does something to you.
It makes you anxious without knowing why.
It makes you feel like you’re falling behind, even when you’re trying your best.
It teaches you to survive, but sometimes you forget what it feels like to feel secure.
And still, we stay.
We stay not because it’s easy, but because it’s home.
Because somewhere between the chaos, there are moments of warmth, shared laughter, late night conversations, the comfort of people who understand without explanation.
Maybe nothing here is stable.
Not the system, not the future, not even tomorrow.
But somehow, we are.
We bend, we break, we rebuild.
Again and again.
And maybe that’s our kind of stability,
not in what surrounds us,
but in who we become because of it.
