When the Sheikha Spoke to me in a Dream

“When the Sheikha Spoke to Me in Dreams”

In the quiet stillness of the dream state, she came to me. Not as a Sheikha cloaked in titles, nor as the leader commanding respect from a podium, but as a woman—raw, human, whole. She entered my vision like a story waiting to be told, carrying the presence of a way-finder, a shapeshifter, and a storyteller. She embodied the archetype of the princess and the advocate, the healer and the poet, the mother, and the child. In this dream, her words illuminated paths like lanterns in the dark, unraveling truths I did not know I was looking for. She was not above me, distant and unreachable; she was beside me. Two women, two souls, bound by something far greater than the waking world could define.

In this dream, our stories began to intertwine, not through titles or roles, but through the simple truth of shared humanity. I saw her, truly saw her, not as a Sheikha but as a woman navigating the intricate dance of power, vulnerability, and authenticity. She carried ancestral trauma like a precious inheritance—not a burden, but a responsibility. She carried it for all the women she represented, for her people, for her lineage.

Her life, like mine, had been filled with trials and tribulations, moments that demanded bravery, endurance, and transformation. In her eyes, I recognised the same quiet fears, the same whispered doubts that had once lingered in my own. The heroine archetype was no myth; she was flesh and blood, a mother, a daughter, a wife, a friend, even an aunt like me. Her position of power did not shield her from exhaustion, nor did it exempt her from doing the inner work required to rise each day.

We were both women who must choose, repeatedly, how we show up for ourselves and for others. Her unique power did not make her immune to the draining pull of responsibility. Like me, she knew the ache of tired bones, the weight of expectations, and the quiet moments where surrender becomes the only path forward.

When I met her in this dream—this Sheikha, this heroine—I saw her not as a figure elevated on a pedestal, but as a human. And she saw me. In that moment, we were simply two women, two souls, two humans stripped of titles and roles. We shared the universal truth that in our darkest hours, when adversity knocks at the door, we are all the same. We reach for the same lifelines: grace, gratitude, compassion, forgiveness, love, and self-belief.

And in her, I saw courage—not the absence of fear, but the determination to walk through it. I saw a woman who had learned to braid her pain and her power, her vulnerability, and her strength, into something that could carry her and others out of the darkest places.

As we shared stories in this liminal space, I realised that her journey reflected my own, and of every woman who chooses to rise above, who chooses to trust and to surrender, who chooses to be both brave and tender.

That is what I know for sure: no matter how high the walls or how heavy the crown, we are all bound by the thread of humanity. And in that thread lies our greatest power—to see and to be seen, to lift and to be lifted, to believe and to belong. In waking, I carried this truth with me: though the dream may have ended, the connection it revealed will endure.