“In the Mirror of Dubai: A Journey Back to the Self”

By Wafa Al Naimi

I never knew that arriving in Dubai would feel like stepping into a mirror.

Not a mirror reflecting my elegance or my new handbag… But one that showed me

a woman I had long forgotten,

buried beneath fast-moving days and other people’s expectations. I watched the city from the taxi window that night, as if I had never seen glass before.

The buildings gleamed, lined up precisely like pieces on a glowing chessboard.

The sky leaned toward grey, and the roads twisted like unfinished thoughts.

Billboards blinked in languages I knew, but the silence inside me was louder.

And within that silence, a quiet question stirred:

<< Can a place built of glass give me back a part of myself? >>

I remembered something I once read by Jean Baudrillard:

<< In the desert, there is everything and nothing >>.

And in that moment, I realized…

Inside me, there was a desert too.

A silence that had stopped asking for permission to be heard.

A thirst I had learned to ignore.

The hotel lobby was grand, perfumed, and polished like a memory meant to impress.

But my attention drifted elsewhere: to the bellboy’s silent bow, to the cool air brushing my cheek, to the reflection of a woman in the elevator mirror…

Me, but with eyes searching for something that wasn’t material.

Sometimes, we don’t travel to discover new places.

We travel to reorganize our hearts. To listen again to the parts of ourselves we’ve silenced. To walk not just through airports and cities, but through forgotten hallways of the soul.

And here I was, in the heart of Dubai, not with a checklist of tourist spots, but with an invisible question tucked in my chest. A question that followed me from the plane, lingered in customs, and now sat gently beside me in this unfamiliar city:

<< Will I find her again? The woman who once knew how to feel fully, to live gently, to walk barefoot in her own body? >>

I wasn’t searching for adventure.

I was searching for reconnection.

And though I hadn’t said it out loud, my whole being was preparing for a meeting like no other… A meeting that might remind me of the woman who had long lived quietly within me.

On my first morning, my feet led me to Dubai Mall—not to shop, but to observe.

I wasn’t chasing sales or trends. I was chasing a feeling I couldn’t quite name.

I stepped inside as if entering a grand visual performance.

Everything sparkled, but none of it was warm in my way.

Beauty here wasn’t quiet—it was staged, sharp, performed like a dance designed to impress rather than invite.

It felt choreographed for cameras, not for hearts looking for real conversation.

At Dubai Mall, I didn’t feel like a participant—I felt like a spectator in someone else’s dream.

Women walked with poised elegance, their designer bags swaying like fashion statements in motion.

Screens shimmered with curated perfection, perfumes drifted through the air like invisible whispers of luxury, and mannequins stood frozen — sculpted into an ideal so precise, it felt almost unreal.

I watched how the lights were placed to flatter, how the music was soft enough to sell, and how even the scents were curated.

And within me, something stirred:

<< Is this beauty truly mine… or just a reflection of what the world wants me to be? >>

In that moment, I felt a kind of emotional hunger—not for objects, but for warmth.

Yet, there are still beautiful corners in Dubai Mall — places with a human, social pulse. Spaces that feel alive, not just curated. Real moments hiding behind the glass, reminding you that beauty still exists when it’s felt, not just seen.

For something real in other places
I left.

And let my curiosity lead me elsewhere—to Jumeirah Souk.

There, the shine wasn’t in the glass… but in the memory.

The ground was uneven, paved with age and story.

Shops overflowed with fabric and incense, not packaging. The scent of saffron danced with oud.

The walls whispered in Arabic, and I felt like I belonged to a slower rhythm.

An old vendor caught my eye.

He smiled at me and greeted in Arabic:

<< Marhaba Al-Sa’a, ya binti… can you smell it? This is real oud, aged for years >>. His words landed in my chest like a hand on the heart.

<< Marhaba Al-Sa’a” how long had it been since I welcomed myself with such tenderness? >>

I asked about the perfume, and he shared stories—not just about the oud, but about people, the sea, the way scents remember us even when we forget ourselves.

His face was carved by time, but his eyes held sparkle.

His voice was slow, poured like syrup.

I wasn’t shopping—I was remembering.

Remembering the girl who once held her mother’s hand in a market like this,

not searching for a thing, but for a feeling.

When I left the souk, there was perfume in my bag—and something far more fragrant in my heart.

Longing, it turns out, can’t be bought. But it can be awakened.

The next day, I longed for a different kind of silence—not the polished silence of luxurious rooms, But the kind that the body hears before the ears do.

The type of silence that feels like home, where nothing is said, yet everything is felt.

So I went to Palm Beach, just before noon.

The sun was soft, not yet fully awake, And the sea lay there like a quiet companion, whispering to itself in waves.

I strolled along the shore, my shoes in my hand,

sand pressing beneath each step like a secret I didn’t know I was keeping. Then I sat down, barefoot, and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to think.

I just wanted to breathe.

Each wave came close, then curled back—like a thought that almost reaches you, then slips away.

I watched, breathed, surrendered. There’s a certain honesty in the sea—It doesn’t try to impress.

It just is.

And in that space, I wasn’t a tourist or a woman on a getaway.

I was someone slowly returning to herself.

The sound of the waves.

The coolness of the sand.

The ancient salt in the air.

All of it felt like a kind of washing.

Not of my body… but of all the things I had been carrying without knowing.

Then I heard a voice beside me.

A woman in white, sitting quietly, her gaze calm like the horizon.

She turned and said:

<< It’s not the sea we come for… It’s the part of us we left here last time. >> Her words didn’t surprise me.

They felt like something I’d known but never dared to say aloud.

I asked her,

<< Do you come here often? >> She smiled.

<< Every time I lose myself… I return here. The sea and the sun don’t give us answers. But they teach us how to listen. >>

We walked along the shore in silence,

Watching tiny silver fish flicker beneath the surface—like thoughts too delicate to catch. When we parted ways,

I didn’t feel alone.

I felt accompanied.

And I realized that the most crucial encounter of this journey…wasn’t with a place, or a person—But with a woman I had missed for far too long: Myself.

On the fourth day, I visited two places I felt a pull—toward stillness, toward something quiet that could speak to me without words.

I wanted to feel something beyond thought…So I went to a contemporary art exhibition.

The gallery space was bright and still, each artwork waiting like a soul paused in silence.

I wandered slowly through it, letting the colors, textures, and movements speak in a language deeper than speech.

I stopped in front of a mixed-media installation about freedom. There were paintings, short looping videos, sound fragments, and shadowed words etched on glass.

It wasn’t a display—it was an experience.

I stood still.

And somehow, it felt like the piece was standing still for me, too. I didn’t just look at the art. It looked back at me.

Not through eyes, but through energy—That strange vibration you feel when something touches a hidden part of you.

A woman approached me—elegant, Emirati, with a rose oud fragrance floating gently around her.

She was a gallery guide, but she spoke like a poet.

<< These works >> she said, << reflect freedom—and the quiet pain we carry in the thinking body. >> I said:

<< It’s as if they’re painting all of us, without needing our names. >> She smiled.

<< There is no true beauty without a trace. Without something left behind. >> Her words stayed with me.

They didn’t just land on me—they settled inside, like a soft, precious stone tucked into the pocket of my soul.

The next day, I visited the Butterfly Garden.

After all that silent art, I needed something alive, moving, fragile.

And what better teachers than butterflies? Their colors were quiet, not loud.

Their wings were transparent, as if they trusted the world enough to be seen.

I watched one butterfly spin around a pink flower, lift gently, then drift away—free, joyful, unhurried.

In that moment, I whispered to myself:

<< I, too, deserve to feel light. I, too, can rise. >>

On a golden morning, I made my way to Burj Al Arab.

The taxi ride felt cinematic—Dubai unfolding in wide angles and golden hues,as if the city knew I needed this moment of softness and awe.

The tower rose in front of me like a sail about to catch the wind—majestic, unwavering, proud.

Its lines were clean and sharp, its posture is unapologetic, as if to say: << I know who I am. >>

Everything inside whispered exclusivity:

The textures, the quietness of the staff, the scent of white florals. The luxury was not loud—it was curated, elegant, precise.

But still, I asked myself:

<< Does this place know its value… or do we assign it meaning to feel worthy ourselves? >>

I took the elevator up to a high-floor café. From above, Dubai looked small.

Orderly.

Contained.

And I sat with that feeling.

The realization that maybe everything that once felt overwhelming in my heart— confusion, doubts, hesitation—wasn’t as big as I thought.

It simply needed a new perspective.

That evening, I stepped into a space that couldn’t be more different—a women’s yoga circle in a quiet, palm-lined neighbourhood.

There were no mirrors, no branding, no judgment.

Just warmth.

Soft mats, herbal scents, and the hum of deep breaths moving through still bodies. An experienced teacher guided us—not just through poses,

but through emotions we didn’t know we were holding.

At first, I felt a little out of place.

But I closed my eyes…

And I let go.

After the session, one of the women invited me to a tea circle.

We sat barefoot on cushions. There was no small talk—only honesty, gentle laughter, and real presence. She smiled and said:

<< It’s beautiful to honor the body, not because it is perfect, but because it is our first home. >>

I nodded and softly replied:

<< I’ve always wanted to treat my body with reverence…and to learn how to heal it through human wisdom. >>

She placed her hand gently on my chest and said:

<< Then begin here. Say to it: ‘Thank you, my dear body, for carrying me—even when I forgot how to carry myself. >>

The first gentle session, bringing together women and men from different cultures, made me reflect on the depth of human connection. The instructor said:

<< Say: Thank you, my dear body, for carrying me. >>

I whispered the words to myself and felt them echo through my being…

In the eyes of the women around me, I saw quiet honesty, deep respect, and a soft, unspoken pact — each of us carrying her own story of healing. Something within me expanded.

As if my heart opened its arms to this truth:

We are here not to exchange stories, but to share healing. There is no need to name the wounds when honesty is held with compassion;

it no longer needs explanation. That night, I didn’t feel like I was visiting a yoga studio…

I felt as if I had finally come home to the Earth. That, despite our differences, we were living together with love, planting seeds of a shared inner peace.

At the airport, while waiting for the final boarding call, I looked down at my suitcase.

It was full—but not just with clothes and souvenirs. It held the sound of the sea, The scent of oud, The warmth of small conversations, and the whispers of a body finally breathing in peace.

I sat near the boarding gate and watched the planes take off.

And I remembered the line I wrote in my journal the day I arrived:

<< Can a city made of glass remind me of the woman who once lived quietly inside me? >>

Today, I know the answer.

This journey to Dubai wasn’t just a shopping break or an escape.

It was a threshold—a passage into a softer version of myself.

A more attentive one.

A woman who no longer needs to prove anything—because now,

She knows.

As I said goodbye to the city,

I realized it wasn’t leaving me. Everything I touched here—from butterfly wings to towers of glass, from grains of sand to the quiet sea— had one message for me:

<< The return is not always to a country…

Sometimes it’s to yourself. >>

And on the plane, I closed my eyes and smiled. I was no longer the woman who first arrived.

And this time, I want to depart the same way I long to return—With presence, softness, and a soul wide open.

This article is part of the practical work carried out by the students of the Master’s in Travel Journalism at the School of Travel Journalism.