7. Reflection – Bring Back the Birdsong
I used to think growth was a straight line.
You go to school, you get a job, you move forward — always forward.
But now I know: real growth is quieter.
It curls and recedes. It hides in shadows. It sings in silences.
I’ve walked through mirrored showrooms and stood in half-built cities.
I’ve sketched resort islands and negotiated floorplans.
I’ve led teams through friction, deadlines, and politics —
and found, somewhere between the screen and the site,
a self that had sharpened, but also softened.
There were years I doubted myself.
Years I felt like a ghost in London —
underpaid, overstretched, watching others speed ahead
while I quietly kept going.
But I kept going.
And now, as I prepare for a new beginning —
perhaps in Riyadh, perhaps elsewhere —
I carry with me not just a portfolio,
but a deeper knowing.
That architecture is not merely what we draw.
It’s how we notice.
It’s how we endure.
It’s the decision to design gently,
even when the world rewards noise.
I still think about that boy in the hutong.
The one who traced rooftops with his eyes.
Who saw more in shadows than in facades.
Who believed architecture could be a form of kindness.
I want to return to him — not by going back,
but by going forward more honestly.
Perhaps I’ll write again.
Perhaps I’ll teach.
Perhaps I’ll walk slower and listen longer.
But whatever comes next, I know this:
I want to bring back the bird song.
Not the spectacle.
Not the thunder.
Just that quiet, persistent song
that tells you —
you are here,
and you are becoming.