More than two months have passed since a ceasefire came into effect in Lebanon. But for Lebanese abroad, there is still much to be anxious about when it comes to the future of our country. First, Lebanon now has a president, ending two years of vacuum and political deadlock. But the fact that it took a ceasefire agreement in a war most Lebanese never wanted to force Lebanon to finally appoint a leader is heartbreaking.

In my last op-ed for The National, I wrote about the agony of watching Israel’s live-streamed war on my home country through my phone screen, which served as a peephole into the death and destruction unfolding. It was dystopian and traumatising, and frankly something I’ve yet to come to terms with.

The situation remains concerning, as Israeli troops are still stationed in border towns in southern Lebanon, and more than 20 Lebanese were killed by Israeli fire as they attempted to return to their homes last month. Despite a truce extension giving Israeli forces more time to withdraw from Lebanese territory, there are fears that Israel is planning to occupy five strategic areas in the south beyond the withdrawal date, as The National reported.

Lebanon’s new head of state, Joseph Aoun, who was elected by Parliament on January 9, is the former head of the army, which is one of the few respected state institutions in the country. His inaugural speech moved me to tears, as it was sincere, powerful and unifying – a rarity in Lebanon.

And yet it was necessary to take the news with a grain of salt. Any form of celebration seemed premature. A few days later, a former diplomat who served as the president of the International Court of Justice, Nawaf Salam, was named the country’s prime minister. He had been regarded as a front-runner, along with the caretaker prime minister Najib Mikati.

I didn’t have high expectations while watching the parliamentary session, as I assumed Mr Mikati was going to be re-elected, in the true fashion of maintaining the country’s status quo. But then Mr Salam received the support of 84 MPs, compared to Mr Mikati’s nine votes. Many Lebanese were shocked.

Echoing the words of people I interviewed, the news felt like a breath of fresh air.

I was immediately taken back to October 2019, when I took to the streets of Beirut with millions of others in a protest movement against the governing class. While I knew change would not come overnight, I had hoped to see better days.

It all came tumbling down shortly after, under the weight of one of the worst economic and financial crises in the country’s history. All my savings from my first job, which I had hoped to use to pursue a master’s degree, vanished. I could live with that, as I was still young and could make more money. But what about my parents’ and grandparents' bank deposits that they thought would help them when they retired?

The situation only got worse, evident in every news headline I wrote as a Beirut-based journalist. “Lebanese lira sinks to all-time low”, “Lebanon declared ‘hunger hotspot'”, “Despair grips Lebanon’s youth”. I was getting sucked into a wormhole of bad news, where I was the bearer, and it was taking a toll on me.

Like many other Lebanese, I made the difficult decision to pack up and leave the country, when it was the last thing that I wanted to do.

I moved to a city where I knew no one, had no friends and had never lived alone. It was not easy. But I found a decent balance where I could visit my family back home every few months while working in Abu Dhabi. But this feeling of never being fully there, and never fully here, makes me uneasy. Could this be about to change? I made a promise to myself to eventually go back and raise a family in Lebanon – but until now, it didn’t seem realistic.

Yes, my trips to Beirut are what keep me going. Being around my family and friends gives me life. My grandfather’s daily lunch invites for a barbecue feast, my grandmother force-feeding me and making sure my plate is always full, my younger brothers treating me like a true princess, as the only girl in the family, and my mother spoiling me like I’m two, not 27 years old. These are things I never want to take for granted.

“What if every day looked like this?” I keep thinking. “Why do I have to say goodbye every time and leave? Why can’t this be constant? Why am I away from my loved ones when there’s nothing more important?”

The same thoughts swirl in my head every time I’m back home, and I always shut them down by reminding myself about how grateful I am for the life and job I have, and how hard I worked to get there. In this game of tug of war, no one wins.

I scroll through my feed, and I see my Lebanese expat friends posting about their own families, and I know it’s a shared experience. I look at some friends who still live in Lebanon and I know they long for a future abroad.

Being in Lebanon is no easy feat, and nor is being away. But I want to believe that better days are coming. I want to believe all those songs we listen to about Lebanon returning to its glory days are true. But for now, I have to be cautious.

Maybe, someday, I really will book a one-way ticket to Beirut. Maybe, someday, I’ll have Sunday lunch with the family and it won’t come with a tearful goodbye. Maybe, someday, I’ll be home again and home will welcome me back with open arms.