Every life begins to take shape long before we recognise it.
I have often wondered why some people continue to grow throughout their lives while others seem to stop growing long before life is over.
With hindsight, I do not believe the answer lies in intelligence. Or talent. Or even opportunity.
I believe it begins much earlier. In the small decisions we make when nobody is watching. In the values we inherit. In the questions we ask. In the disappointments we quietly carry. And in the curiosity that refuses to leave us.
We rarely notice those moments while we are living them. Years later we look back and realise those ordinary moments were quietly preparing us for the people we would eventually become.
From where I stand today, that is where my own story begins.
Two gifts, given without instruction
I was born in Amman, Jordan, on the twentieth of April, 1959, the middle child in a loving middle-class family.
If someone were to ask me whether I had a happy childhood, I would answer without hesitation: yes. Not because life was perfect. It wasn't. Like every family, we had our challenges and our disappointments. But those are not the memories that come first.
I remember warmth. I remember feeling safe. I remember a neighbourhood where people knew one another by name, where children filled the streets with laughter until the evening called us home, and where neighbours quietly looked after each other without expecting anything in return.
At the time, I thought that was simply how the world worked. Only years later did I realise how fortunate I had been.
When I think about my parents, I do not remember them for what they owned. I remember them for what they believed.
My father was a hardworking man. Before the café that became our family's livelihood, he had owned a building materials business that did not succeed. Life had not always rewarded his effort in the way he hoped. Yet I never saw him surrender to disappointment. He simply began again.
As a child, I did not recognise the lesson I was watching. From where I stand today, I realise resilience was never taught to me in words. It was demonstrated every single day.
My mother influenced me more quietly. She believed deeply in education, and often reminded us that knowledge was something no one could ever take away from us. She never forced us to learn. She created an environment where learning was respected.
My father taught me the dignity of work. My mother taught me the dignity of learning.
Without realising it, they were preparing me for a future none of us could yet see.
The comparison that hurt — and what it planted
As a young boy I was not thinking about the future. I was simply being myself. And I was different from my older brother.
He was naturally outgoing. He made friends easily and enjoyed being around people. I was much quieter. I enjoyed reading. I loved drawing and painting. Give me a book, a pencil and a blank sheet of paper, and I could happily spend hours on my own.
At school I discovered I had a talent for art. Whenever there was a competition, I wanted to take part. I still remember how proud I felt when a teacher recognised my drawings. It was not the prize that stayed with me. It was the encouragement.
From where I stand today, I think every child carries an invisible question: do I have something valuable to offer? Sometimes one teacher, one parent, or one encouraging word is enough to answer it.
Not every memory was easy. My father often compared me with my older brother. He did so because he loved us both. He admired my brother's confidence and worried that my quiet nature would make life harder for me.
As a child I did not understand that. I only knew the comparisons hurt. I remember wondering why being quiet seemed like a weakness.
From where I stand today, I no longer hear criticism in my father's words. I hear concern. He was trying to prepare me for a world he believed rewarded louder voices.
Neither of us knew then that quiet people can also lead. They simply lead differently.
Those comparisons did something unexpected. They planted a quiet determination that has stayed with me my whole life. Not to prove my father wrong — never that. But to prove to myself that a quiet person could make a meaningful difference.
I did not know how. I simply carried the thought with me.
Classrooms that did not look like classrooms
School vacations became another education. Whenever I could, I looked for work. Sometimes I helped in my uncle's shop. One summer, without telling my parents, I found work in a nearby restaurant.
The work itself was not important. What mattered was how it made me feel. I liked earning something through my own effort. I liked the responsibility.
Working with my uncle allowed me to observe how adults dealt with people, solved problems, and earned trust. At the time I thought I was helping in a shop. Only later did I understand I had been sitting in a classroom without knowing it.
Curiosity was the other constant. I had never travelled outside Jordan, yet I was fascinated by the world beyond it. I wanted to know how other people lived, how they thought, what they dreamed about.
There was no internet. No social media. No instant communication. So I found another way.
I began writing letters. While many boys spent their pocket money on sweets, I spent part of mine on postage stamps. Slowly, letter by letter, I built friendships with young people in other countries. Eventually I had around forty pen pals around the world.
At first I believed I was improving my English. From where I stand today, I realise I was doing something far more important. I was expanding my world.
Those letters taught me patience. They taught me curiosity. They taught me that although people live in different countries and speak different languages, they often share the same hopes, fears and dreams.
Around the same time I began learning French at the French Cultural Center. I could not have explained why. I simply loved learning. It made the world feel larger.
The pattern I could not see
Reading. Drawing. Working. Writing letters. Learning languages.
None of those activities seemed connected. Yet every one of them was quietly preparing me for the life I would one day live.
I thought I was collecting experiences. Life was shaping a mindset.
That is perhaps the greatest lesson I take from my childhood. We rarely understand how we are being prepared while the preparation is taking place. Only years later do we look back and see that the smallest moments became the strongest foundations.
As I left childhood behind and prepared to enter university, I believed I was taking the first real step towards my future.
From where I stand today, I smile at that thought. The first steps had begun long before. I simply had not recognised them.
A quiet moment for you
When you think about your own childhood, what comes to mind first?
- A person, a place, or a conversation?
- Or a feeling that has stayed with you throughout your life?
- And what did you do naturally as a child that you have since stopped doing?
Take a moment to think about the child you once were. Not with judgment. Not with regret. With curiosity.
Because somewhere inside that child are the beginnings of the person you are still becoming.
Adapted from Journey One of my forthcoming book, "The Quiet Leader."