Every child pretends. Every child plays. Some dress up, some dance, some make up stories and characters with voices that mimic cartoons. It’s often adorable. Fleeting. A phase.

But sometimes, it’s not. Sometimes, it’s something more—a flicker that won’t fade, a rhythm that won’t stop, a hunger that no toy or screen can satisfy.

And if you’re lucky enough—and open enough—you see it. Naz Bahmani did.

“I think I saw it before I could name it,” she says. “He wasn’t just playing. He was performing. Telling stories. Living them.”

In the living room, in the car, at dinner. Her son Benjamin wasn’t trying to be the center of attention—he was just full of it. Stories, expressions, voices, feelings. The kind of creativity that doesn’t ask permission before pouring out.

A Mother Without a Map

Naz didn’t grow up in this world. She wasn’t part of the film industry, didn’t know casting agents or script coaches, hadn’t read blogs about “raising a star.”  Her life in the UAE was familiar and warm—routine school mornings, weekend family time, the ebb and flow of everyday motherhood.

But motherhood has a way of surprising you.

“He was cast in a small play,” she remembers. “We thought—cute. A memory. But then came the rehearsals. Then came the discipline. He’d come home and still want to practice. Hours. And he was happy. Lit up. We weren’t pushing him. He was pulling us in.”

That’s when it began. A new language entered their home: self-tapes, monologues, casting calls, acting classes.
And so did something else—Naz’s second life.

One where she wasn’t just packing lunches but researching lighting for auditions. Where she wasn’t just his mother, but also his guide, his advocate, his anchor.

Between Applause and Silence

There’s a romance to chasing dreams, but real life is quieter. Less red carpet, more living room rug. Less applause, more self-doubt.

“There were nights I cried after he slept. Not because I didn’t believe in him—but because I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Naz confesses this without shame. In fact, it’s become part of what she shares with other parents now—that you can love your child fiercely and still feel afraid. That you can show up imperfectly, and still be their safe place.

And in that space between her own doubts and her son’s dreams, something else grew—her own voice.

“I started sharing what I was learning. Not because I had answers, but because I didn’t. And I thought—maybe someone else feels this too.”

The Invisible Village

Raising a creative child is often lonely. Not because people aren’t kind, but because most don’t understand. In a world that celebrates engineers and doctors, what do you do with a child who wants to pretend for a living?

“It’s hard to explain to other parents,” Naz says, gently. “It’s not a competition. I’m not trying to ‘make him famous.’ I’m just trying to honour who he is.”

Without extended family nearby, Naz had to build her own village. She found it slowly—in conversations, online messages, mentors, and other mothers quietly cheering her on.

“The UAE has given us space. Possibility. But what I needed was also emotional community. Not advice. Just someone to say: I see you.”

The Lessons the World Doesn’t Teach

Naz speaks often about boundaries—about how, in a world obsessed with visibility, her job is to teach her child when not to perform.

“We live in a time where everyone’s filming, sharing, uploading. But I tell him—your worth isn’t in being seen. It’s in being whole.”

She talks to him about kindness, consent, rejection, identity. She teaches him how to lose gracefully, how to question praise, how to protect joy. In every part of his journey, she remains both his soft place to fall and his quiet compass forward.

And in doing so, she has grown too—not as a manager, but as a woman finding her rhythm in the messiness of purpose.

If You Ask Her Why

Why go through all this? Why not let it go? Why not wait till he’s older?

She smiles. Not the rehearsed kind. The kind only mothers carry.

“Because I saw him. And I chose to say: I believe you.”

Not "I believe in you"—but I believe you.
I believe what you feel. I believe what lights you up. I believe this matters to you, even if the world doesn’t understand.

What She Hopes He Remembers

One day, he’ll grow up.
He’ll look back on these early years. The camera angles. The lines. The mistakes. The excitement.

And when he does, Naz wants him to remember only one thing.

“That he was never alone.”

That someone stood beside him in the wings, whispering lines, cheering silently, holding space.
That someone believed in his dream before it made sense.
That someone said, “Let’s do this,” even when she didn’t know how.

A Story Shared, A Story Still Unfolding

Today, Naz continues to share her reflections online—not to go viral, but to connect. To remind other parents that you don’t need to be an expert to raise a dreamer. You just need to be present.

Her story is still unfolding.
Her son’s path is still being written.
But in the chapters already passed, there’s enough truth to light a thousand other journeys.

Because every child with a spark deserves a parent who sees it.
And every parent deserves to be told—they’re doing better than they think.

Voices of UAE

Celebrating the stories behind the strength, and the mothers behind the movement.

"Main Tere Saath Hoon" — A Mother's Journey Beyond the Spotlight.

The story of Naz Bahmani, a mother who followed her child into the unknown and discovered her own light.

The Spark No One Could See

Every child pretends. Every child plays. Some dress up, some dance, some make up stories and characters with voices that mimic cartoons. It’s often adorable. Fleeting. A phase.

But sometimes, it’s not. Sometimes, it’s something more—a flicker that won’t fade, a rhythm that won’t stop, a hunger that no toy or screen can satisfy.

And if you’re lucky enough—and open enough—you see it. Naz Bahmani did.

“I think I saw it before I could name it,” she says. “He wasn’t just playing. He was performing. Telling stories. Living them.”

In the living room, in the car, at dinner. Her son Benjamin wasn’t trying to be the center of attention—he was just full of it. Stories, expressions, voices, feelings. The kind of creativity that doesn’t ask permission before pouring out.

A Mother Without a Map

Naz didn’t grow up in this world. She wasn’t part of the film industry, didn’t know casting agents or script coaches, hadn’t read blogs about “raising a star.”  Her life in the UAE was familiar and warm—routine school mornings, weekend family time, the ebb and flow of everyday motherhood.

But motherhood has a way of surprising you.

“He was cast in a small play,” she remembers. “We thought—cute. A memory. But then came the rehearsals. Then came the discipline. He’d come home and still want to practice. Hours. And he was happy. Lit up. We weren’t pushing him. He was pulling us in.”

That’s when it began. A new language entered their home: self-tapes, monologues, casting calls, acting classes.
And so did something else—Naz’s second life.

One where she wasn’t just packing lunches but researching lighting for auditions. Where she wasn’t just his mother, but also his guide, his advocate, his anchor.

Between Applause and Silence

There’s a romance to chasing dreams, but real life is quieter. Less red carpet, more living room rug. Less applause, more self-doubt.

“There were nights I cried after he slept. Not because I didn’t believe in him—but because I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Naz confesses this without shame. In fact, it’s become part of what she shares with other parents now—that you can love your child fiercely and still feel afraid. That you can show up imperfectly, and still be their safe place.

And in that space between her own doubts and her son’s dreams, something else grew—her own voice.

“I started sharing what I was learning. Not because I had answers, but because I didn’t. And I thought—maybe someone else feels this too.”

The Invisible Village

Raising a creative child is often lonely. Not because people aren’t kind, but because most don’t understand. In a world that celebrates engineers and doctors, what do you do with a child who wants to pretend for a living?

“It’s hard to explain to other parents,” Naz says, gently. “It’s not a competition. I’m not trying to ‘make him famous.’ I’m just trying to honour who he is.”

Without extended family nearby, Naz had to build her own village. She found it slowly—in conversations, online messages, mentors, and other mothers quietly cheering her on.

“The UAE has given us space. Possibility. But what I needed was also emotional community. Not advice. Just someone to say: I see you.”

The Lessons the World Doesn’t Teach

Naz speaks often about boundaries—about how, in a world obsessed with visibility, her job is to teach her child when not to perform.

“We live in a time where everyone’s filming, sharing, uploading. But I tell him—your worth isn’t in being seen. It’s in being whole.”

She talks to him about kindness, consent, rejection, identity. She teaches him how to lose gracefully, how to question praise, how to protect joy. In every part of his journey, she remains both his soft place to fall and his quiet compass forward.

And in doing so, she has grown too—not as a manager, but as a woman finding her rhythm in the messiness of purpose.

If You Ask Her Why

Why go through all this? Why not let it go? Why not wait till he’s older?

She smiles. Not the rehearsed kind. The kind only mothers carry.

“Because I saw him. And I chose to say: I believe you.”

Not "I believe in you"—but I believe you.
I believe what you feel. I believe what lights you up. I believe this matters to you, even if the world doesn’t understand.

What She Hopes He Remembers

One day, he’ll grow up.
He’ll look back on these early years. The camera angles. The lines. The mistakes. The excitement.

And when he does, Naz wants him to remember only one thing.

“That he was never alone.”

That someone stood beside him in the wings, whispering lines, cheering silently, holding space.
That someone believed in his dream before it made sense.
That someone said, “Let’s do this,” even when she didn’t know how.

A Story Shared, A Story Still Unfolding

Today, Naz continues to share her reflections online—not to go viral, but to connect. To remind other parents that you don’t need to be an expert to raise a dreamer. You just need to be present.

Her story is still unfolding.
Her son’s path is still being written.
But in the chapters already passed, there’s enough truth to light a thousand other journeys.

Because every child with a spark deserves a parent who sees it.
And every parent deserves to be told—they’re doing better than they think.

Voices of UAE

Celebrating the stories behind the strength, and the mothers behind the movement.

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