Walking into the first Soliya session, I was genuinely excited, maybe even a little idealistic. The idea of linking up with people from entirely different backgrounds felt like a huge opportunity. It wasn’t just an academic assignment; I wanted new friends and new perspectives. I felt open, ready, and totally curious about what I might learn.

That excitement paid off immediately, even if it was just with one person. Meeting the student from Kentucky in the breakout room changed everything. She didn’t just give surface-level answers; it was like she invited me into her world. I remember her turning her laptop around, almost like a quick FaceTime call, to show me the specific posters on her wall and introduce her roommate, who was studying nearby. It was such a small detail, but it felt incredibly warm. She shared specific challenges she was having with a math class, and then asked me deep questions about my life in the U.S. versus my childhood in Dubai. When she talked about travel, she was definite: “Seriously, if I ever make it to Egypt, I’m calling you. You have to show me the markets.” I promised I would. It was something simple, but it confirmed that something real was forming, not just an academic connection, but a genuine bond.

That sense of safety allowed us to go deep fast. We started talking about immigration, mobility, and the reasons people move. I felt comfortable enough to tell her my own story: being born and raised in Dubai, and the complex process of moving to the States at fourteen. I explained how much that transition fundamentally shook my identity. I told her that you feel constantly split, you carry the culture of your home, but you’re trying to build a new life in a place that already has its own rigid rules. She just listened, asking clarifying questions about my family’s perspective and what specific traditions I missed. That mutual respect made the whole, heavy topic feel less academic and more like two people sharing something.

However, the connection I had with her was unique. When we were in the larger group, the energy was often stagnant. The silence from some of the other students, a few from different parts of the U.S. especially, was deafening. It felt like they were viewing the session as a required task, not an opportunity. When they did speak, it was usually brief and often focused on wrapping up the point, not exploring it. That lack of engagement made those parts of the conversation feel completely flat and awkward.

The vibe changed entirely when the students from Lebanon and Pakistan spoke up.They were intense, articulate, and pushed the entire group to think critically.They brought up the difficult, necessary topic of privilege in migration. They specifically questioned the narrative of people from highly-resourced countries moving to places with fewer resources, places like Pakistan or Lebanon, and then complaining about the lack of infrastructure or ease of life. I remember the Pakistani student saying, “It feels like they expect everything to function perfectly without understanding the immense effort and adaptability it takes for people here to manage their lives every single day.” The Lebanese student added that this expectation is rooted in a profound underestimation of how resilient and resourceful communities are in the Global South. It was a strong, critical statement that forced me to look at my own assumptions about privilege and comfort.

Beyond global politics, Soliya was a mirror for my own flaws. I realized that my brain processes information at light speed. I understand the nuances of a topic quickly, especially in discussions about the economy, how prices, wages, and currency fluctuations affect families’ choices. But I realized something frustrating: my delivery is slow and often unclear.

Scenario I remember : During a rapid-fire discussion about how cost of living pressures shape identity, I had a perfect, sharp insight ready to go. I felt the thought form perfectly, but I panicked under the pressure of the waiting screen. I rushed to speak, jamming five sentences’ worth of complexity into two quick points. I watched as the host looked confused, and I knew I had missed my chance to be heard clearly.

I learned that I rush because I am afraid of taking up too much time, or that the thought will vanish. This experience showed me I need to be more deliberate: I need to allow myself time to pause, structure the thought, and then speak directly and confidently. I need to practice expressing myself without the pressure of immediately proving my intelligence.

Ultimately, my biggest takeaway about people is that vulnerability is currency. People open up when they are given space, and they feel safe when they are truly listened to. The sessions proved that genuine interest melts away assumptions and replaces them with real, complex stories. The sessions taught me that being a better communicator isn’t just about finding the right words; it’s about being willing to be vulnerable, giving others the space to be vulnerable, and knowing when to slow down and let a good thought land. Listening truly changes the room. My goal now is to apply this lesson, to speak up clearly and confidently, and to keep prioritizing those genuine human connections, regardless of where they start. The act of listening, like really listening, is the key to unlocking the potential of any conversation, whether it’s with a future friend from Kentucky or a challenging voice from Lebanon.