Everyone Knows Best Except You

Giving advice is a global pastime. Some people play tennis. Others collect coins. Many give advice. With passion. With flourish. With absolutely no invitation.

Saudis aren’t unique in this — not at all. Turks, I’ve noticed (especially via satellite TV and grandmothers), deliver advice with operatic intensity. Germans offer it with bureaucratic precision. Arabs? We give advice like we’re announcing breaking news. There’s no soft landing. Just conviction, volume, and occasionally, a raised eyebrow.

My kids are German. Raising a teenage daughter has taught me more about unsolicited advice than any etiquette book ever could. I was raised on the idea that if someone older gives you advice, you say thank you — even if it’s a stranger on the street. Especially if it's a stranger on the street. Because they “mean well.” And meaning well, apparently, is the ultimate justification.

What no one explained was what to do with all that advice afterwards. Stack it in a drawer? Frame it? Obey it immediately?

I wasn’t allowed to say no. I wasn’t even allowed to pause. Any hesitation was interpreted as rebellion. Or worse — ungratefulness. So I grew up second-guessing everything. Was this the right decision? The wise one? The mature one? I wasn’t sure what I actually wanted — only what would sound smart to the nearest adult.

As a Saudi, maybe I could’ve managed. Follow the script, collect approval, feel accepted. But being a Saudi raised in Germany meant I had two systems installed — and they didn’t always update in sync. I didn’t want to be rescued. I didn’t want to be spoken to like someone with no instincts, no brain, no life experience.

I remember after a tragic car accident in our family, someone came to visit. He turned to the surviving brother — still in shock — and said, “See what happens when you drive fast? This is how you learn.” Except they weren’t speeding. And it wasn’t a lesson. It was grief.

Advice, in our culture, is often delivered from a pedestal. More religious. More experienced. More “correct.” It doesn’t always feel like support. Sometimes, it feels like someone rewriting your life with a red pen.

For a long time, I tried to prove I was on the right track. Spoiler: I failed to convince them. But the good news? I stayed on it anyway.

And these days, I feel okay. Not brainless. Not rebellious. Just quietly relieved that I get to make decisions — and not everyone needs to approve.

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