I Heard It’s 2016 Again

This week, everywhere I turned, I kept seeing the same phrase:

2026 is the new 2016.

At first, I thought it was God sending me a validating message—especially considering my life truly began in 2016.

(If you’re new here, this is explored deeply in my YouTube series The EX Files on @xpirednfabulous.)

Or maybe it was nostalgia—a collective longing for a time before the world felt so heavy. Before burnout became a badge of honor. Before we learned how to brace instead of dream.

But the more I sat with it, the more a different question surfaced:

Why does that year still have such a hold on us?

For me, it’s because 2016 wasn’t an aesthetic or a vibe.
It wasn’t something we romanticize in hindsight.

It was survival.

In 2016—after escaping an abusive relationship that nearly cost me my life the year before—I was standing at the edge of myself. Stripped raw. Completely heartbroken. Terrified. But also deeply aware that if I survived that, I could never again pretend to be small.

And then I made a decision I was wildly unprepared for.

I went online.

Not cautiously.
Not quietly.
But fully—and fearlessly.

At the time, there were no Muslim or Arab women doing what I was doing. No roadmap. No precedent. No one I could look to and say, She did it. I can too.

There was FouseyTube.
And then there was me.

A woman.
Doing comedy.
Storytimes.
Sharing her life.
Her truth.
Breaking open conversations that were never meant to be public.

At a time when MusRab women were expected to be quiet, private, obedient, and married by twenty-five—I was none of those things.

And let me be clear: I paid for it. Hard.

I didn’t just open a window—I flung every door wide open into a world that wasn’t ready for me. I took risks without protection. Without industry support. Without community approval. I was ostracized more times than I can count. My name, my reputation, constantly dragged, distorted, massacred.

I crawled through hell so other women wouldn’t have to—so they could fucking run.

And there’s something both poetic and deeply painful about how this part of the story is remembered.

Privately, MusRab creators – who I won’t name – tell me, “You’re the reason I started.”
The reason they began doing comedy. Sharing their stories. Wanting a platform.

Publicly?
The credit never comes.

I’ve watched many of these same women—now far surpassing me in numbers and fame—sit in interviews and talk about what inspired them. And I’ll admit, a part of me still waits to hear my name. To receive my flowers. Or even an invitation—to collaborate, to stand beside them instead of being treated like a pariah.

Instead, I hear this:

“There was no representation of women like me. That’s what made me start my journey.”

It’s not ego that wants the validation.
It’s the pain.
The isolation.
The cost of being first.

For a long time, that hurt.

But here I am in 2026—no longer needing that approval. Knowing, with certainty, that the last laugh will be mine. Knowing that one day, very soon, they will want me to say their names. To collaborate. To stand together in a photo.

Mark my words.

After all—we’re in 2016 again, right?

The year I decided to marry myself.

Yes. In October of 2016, I married myself.
No spectacle.
No audience.
No performance.

Just a woman making a quiet, radical vow—to choose herself. To protect her heart. To honor her instincts. To never again abandon herself for love, approval, or belonging.

Which means 2026 marks ten years of being committed to myself.

Ten years of self-trust.
Ten years of self-respect.
Ten years of learning when to stay—and when to leave.

And maybe that’s why all this talk of 2026 being the new 2016 landed differently for me.

Because maybe it is.
Just not in the way people think.

Maybe 2026 is the upgraded 2016.
More refined.
More self-aware.
More grounded.
Less performative.
Less desperate.
More elegant in its knowing.

Maybe it’s the year women stop trying to prove their worth—and start protecting it.

In 2016, I was healing—but fueled by defiance. By adrenaline. By the need to be seen.

In 2026, I’m still healing in certain ways—but I’m led by devotion.

I’m not here to impress a man.
Not a community.
Not the internet.
Not even fellow creators.

I want to impress me.

I want to live honestly when no one is watching.
To love without an audience.
To choose peace over performance.

Back then, I was becoming myself out of survival.
Now, I’m becoming myself out of self-respect.

And women don’t hear that enough.

Being alone is not a failure.
Being unmarried is not a delay.
Being childfree is not an absence.

Sometimes it’s a woman gathering herself.
Learning herself.
Loving herself deeply enough to never settle for a life that doesn’t fit.

Take me… starting over at forty-one?
Can you think of anything more fearless?!

So maybe the real question isn’t whether 2026 will feel like 2016 again.

Maybe the real question is this:

What happens when a woman finally stops trying to prove who she is—and starts living as her?

Unapologetically.
Patiently.
Without fear.

Because if that’s what this year is about…
Then maybe 2026 isn’t just the new 2016.

Maybe it’s the year you stop auditioning—
and finally come home to yourself.

Just like I did.