A week ago today, I was in NYC. I can explain how I got there, but the emotions I felt are much harder to put into words. I believe everything comes from God, and this experience felt especially personal.
I often think about how influencers who don’t look like me or face the same biases see brand trips or funded work trips as something they "deserve"—and maybe even as routine. That’s great for them; it should feel that way. But even after more than five years in this industry and working hard to remain grateful for every opportunity, I allowed myself to fully embrace the emotions of this trip. Not just to remind myself of my gratitude, but to acknowledge that I am living my dream career.
No matter how difficult last year was—dealing with censorship and blacklisting in my industry—if experiences like this can come from it, then it will all be okay. As my dad said, “I told you, Baba, when you don’t take ‘blood’ money and stay firm, Allah (SWT) rewards you.” And that’s exactly how it felt.
Being flown overseas is one thing. Going to NYC—my favorite city—is another. But working with a brand that truly celebrates inclusivity, that doesn’t see my political values as "scary," and instead makes space for them because they align with basic human rights? That takes it to another level.
Below, you’ll find my diary entries typed up for you to read. I’d rather be raw and honest about my thoughts in the moment instead of trying to piece together the emotions after the trip. This feels much more personal. I hope you enjoy reading about what I did and what I was thinking.
en route 21st January time: idk when
I’m currently on the plane to LA, and then—hopefully—New York. Who would’ve thought? The last-minute nature of this trip might actually work in my favor. Less time to process, less time to say no.
Just two days ago, I was praying for something—anything. A spark. A sign to align me, to show me what to do, where I’m headed.
If I had to describe how I feel, "butterflies in my stomach" wouldn’t be enough. It feels more like a whole flock of birds, frantic and restless, leaving no room to think or breathe. All I can wonder is—why me? How? How did I get so lucky? Where did I go right? Are these nerves just a mix of travel anxiety and excitement, or is my body physically rejecting the idea of leaving my cozy house in suburban Western Sydney—where I have a cute kitten and a set routine—to fly across the world alone? Alone.
Not to mention the added weight of traveling as a Muslim woman in an airport with Trump newly elected into office.
I wonder if this feeling goes against my very DNA—if that’s why it feels so foreign. The women before me didn’t travel internationally alone. Some didn’t travel at all. Is my body resisting the independence or thriving on it? I honestly can’t tell. That’s the joy of having anxiety, I suppose.
Flying to New York alone to chase big city dreams… or to survive a zombie apocalypse? At this point, I can’t tell. Feels the same to me.
Maybe this is what happens when you’ve dreamed of something for so long that, when it finally happens, your mind can’t quite comprehend it. Maybe I’ve put too much pressure on the moment.But what I do know is this: this moment will make me proud. Little me proud. And future me even prouder.
I think I’ve cried at least 15 times in the past three days, thrown up once, and even had a nightmare that felt eerily like a scene from Saw. Right now, I’m mid-air, surrounded by the unmistakable smell of what I think is a mix of chicken pesto pasta and microwaved cheese—not exactly pleasant.
As the plane took off, a single tear rolled down my cheek. Not because I’m sad or scared, but because the fear of the unknown consumes me. The what ifs, the what’s next—it all makes me feel out of control. And losing control? That’s what truly panics me.
touchdown 21st January time: 9:30 pm
New York, I love you.
Safe to say the nerves are gone and the excitement has kicked in. It’s cold, so cold my fingers were painfully numb waiting for the uber outside the airport. My breathe was smokey and left a cloud, immediately i’m sure people could tell i’m not a local. I don’t know why i’m so drawn to this city but being given the opportunity to visit more than once and twice is a gift i’ll forever be grateful for.
smelly snow 22nd January time: 7:00 am
This morning I prayed fajr and realised how even without a familiar prayer mat or prayer scarf, the action still feels like home.
I tried Blank Street this morning—not exactly a New York delicacy, but after having my iced (yes, iced) banana bread matcha, I fear this place will leave a lasting impact on me. The streets are covered in snow, and as expected, a little smelly too. It’s adorable seeing little kids bundled up in fuzzy coats and puffer jackets that make them look like tiny cocoons. It amazes me how used to it they are—how they not only tolerate the cold but seem to enjoy it.
I wandered into a few bookstores today. Some had Palestinian books about Gaza or novels by Palestinian authors displayed front and center, a reminder of how divided this city is—between those who stand for human rights and those who oppose them. In Sydney, or Australia in general, people tend to avoid being too loud, too confrontational, too direct. But here, the pro-Palestinian statements make me feel a little more at home.
cheese toastie or grilled cheese? 22nd January time: 11:50 am
I am currently at ‘daily provisions’, i’ve ordered an oat cappuccino, they don’t sprinkle chocolate on top of their cappuccinos here. I added honey because they also only have simple syrup. Currently so hungry but mostly dehydrated and need water. The grilled cheese doesn’t come close to my famous recipe I made when I was at least 11. A Vegemite and cheese toastie with red onion. I bought a Madeline book for my future bebe. Now I need to find my family gifts too. I also can’t find a copy of ‘madonna in a fur coat’ anywhere.
sleepless in New York 23rd January time: 1:40am
it’s 1:40 am, I slept at around 7pm. Brooklyn at night is so much quieter compared to where Iv’e stayed previously. Theres the occasional siren or horn but nothing compared to Times Square. I’ve taken some sleeping vitamins and had some chamomile tea and I hope I can sleep until 6pm. I mean AM. Maybe I am tired.
There’s something about the harsh weather and the spirit of New Yorkers that fascinates me. People from all around the world—expats and locals alike—are bundled up, determined to get from point A to B swiftly, coffee in hand, wrapped in fuzzy gloves. Somehow, the brutal cold doesn’t scare anyone away. The dreams, the goals—they’re too strong. I can see what keeps drawing people here. It’s not affordability, nor safety, nor security (it’s still the U.S., and an orange man runs it). But the city lights, the towering high-rises, and the fusion of cultures—it’s romantic. Exhilarating. It sparks curiosity and leaves no room to sit back and wait for life to happen to you.
Sydney, in contrast, thrives on routine—safe, structured, wrapped in a bubble. That isn’t entirely a bad thing. But here, you can sip coffee beside a writer, a magician, a priest, or a criminal—all moving fast, coffee in hand. A Vietnamese restaurant stands beside a Mexican taqueria, just across from an Irish bar. The New York dream isn’t exactly like the movies, but it’s still alive.
You know what would really keep the dream alive? Chocolate dust on their cappuccinos.
bagel to go 23rd January time: 8am
I woke up super early again today but instead of pondering I got my first bagel of the trip. An everything bagel with scallion spread, toasted. delicious of course. After another blank street matcha which today was the vanilla cinnamon honey matcha, delicious but not as good as the banana bread one, I came back to my room to plan my day.
whispers in the cafe 23rd January time: 2pm
I’m currently sitting at a cute café in Park Slope. It looks like something straight out of a movie—think When Harry Met Sally or You’ve Got Mail (my two all-time favorites, by the way). The Instagram loser in me wants to take photos because I think my outfit matches the décor perfectly, but instead, I’m bravely opting out. Wow, go me.
I’m listening to I Know It’s Over by The Smiths. My throat is dry—being a mouth breather with a deviated septum, I would never survive living here. I’m sipping an oat cappuccino with cinnamon on top. This café is so small it only fits about six people at most, the music is soft jazz, and the barista stands there watching.
Across from me, two men sit. One has a slim face and an overgrown haircut and seems to be manically marking papers—maybe math papers. The other is on his laptop, constantly touching his hair, fidgety. The two women next to me are whispering their conversation. The younger blonde seems to be learning from the older woman. Their hushed voices are oddly soothing. The older woman seems full of wisdom and lore, and when the blonde pulls out a notepad to take notes, I get it—I would do that too.
I like how cafés here are actually for conversations, writing, and people-watching. Sydney’s café culture mostly revolves around "aesthetic" spots designed to go Instagram-viral. But here, people sit alone, book in hand, and no one thinks twice about it. I like that.
delirious 24th January time: 9:00am
I slept at 7pm again and woke up at 2am today, unlike a before, there’s no hope i’ll fall back to sleep today. Once it was 7am I ran to black seed bagels to get my fix. I also got a French vanilla latte that tasted like hot milk. By the time it was 4pm I was running off of 2 coffees and one large matcha, still delirious.
wondering why but grateful 24th January time: 8:00pm
I had a great day. I ran some errands and then met Yasmeena in another side of Brooklyn. We went vintage shopping, I grabbed a lot of cute things, and then we met with Beyza. We had Thai food and then went to a matcha cafe, very cute. It’s a weird feeling knowing you have a bond with people who live over 20 hours by plane away. I do wonder at home sometimes why being social isn’t as natural to me like it is when i’m away from home. Not to bag out Sydney again but I do think people at home commonly associate creativity with being ‘cringe’ and not a real career or interest. Maybe Sydney has the luxury of not needing to adapt and indulge in art or creativity, they find safety in the mundane. Allah swt knows best.
ready set, go! 25th January time: 3:00pm
today started bright and early, pack, checkout, uber etc. I ended up having to repack my bags in the middle of the reception because I was sent like 10 pieces from Batul (Batul the collection). After one more everything bagel with scallion cream cheese, I was off to the shoot. My Uber driver was a wholesome Salvadorian uncle who showed me videos of gorillas boxing. After that, he went on to tell me how I should take care of myself and stay active. One wholesome and inspiring Uber ride later, I arrived at the shoot.
Two suitcases, one handbag, and one tote bag in hand, I was eager to seize the day. I had the coolest smoky eye done on me, which I’ll definitely be trying to recreate when I get home. Out of habit, I brought along some extra hijabs, but to my surprise, that wasn’t necessary—I was already given options on set. Beyond just feeling included, the team was mostly POC, something I’ve never experienced before. Instead of my hijab, my ethnicity, or even my Western Sydney postcode being the topic of conversation, it was my Aussie-ness—or the fact that I’d flown from so far.
I opened up about my experiences in the Australian creative industry, and everyone agreed on how insane it sounds (and is). Instead of Taylor Swift blasting on set, I worked with Doechii and Jorja Smith playing. Another noticeable difference? Eating was actually encouraged—unlike my shoots in Australia, where I feel peer-pressured into having yet another bland green smoothie just to avoid judgment.
After a whirlwind of emotions—excitement, happiness, and the hope that I delivered both face and professionalism—I was off to the airport to catch my afternoon flight to Sydney.
At the airport, I couldn’t have looked more insane—truly. I had an oversized suitcase that cost me $100 USD to bring home, a smoky eye with no base, nine press-on acrylics (the thumb popped off in the Uber), and an outfit that made no sense: a trench coat, Uggs, and a jumper, all mismatched because I was already over my weight limit. Overstimulated and running on adrenaline, I finally settled in at the airport. That’s when the emotions hit—I’m going home.
I miss my husband and my sweet Whimsy, but also here, I tapped into a side of myself that I hope I don’t just become nostalgic over. I hope I’ve changed. I hope I’m not the Nawal I was before I came here.
When I land, I’ll be 26 years old. This year has already been transformative and fun. As always, I’m grateful.
loved the intimacy of this, girl! im an og and i remember your vlog from the last time you went to new york, i want to see more long form from u! i love the bit about praying fajr. as someone that has travelled solo a few times, salah defies space and truly does feel like home <3
Your writing style is so familiar, in the best way. I heavily relate to becoming a more social, almost unfamiliar version of myself when traveling somewhere. I wish I could transfer that exhilaration into my everyday, but alas. Alhamdulillah.