That was me, over and over again as I obsessed with friends and strangers alike about my upcoming trip to Pakistan.

Even as I said the words, they felt strange. I am an American-born and bred Pakistani, but I visited Pakistan nearly every year of my childhood.

As an idealistic 17-year-old, I spent an entire summer trekking out to a low-income neighbourhood in Pakistan to teach English to 21-year-old college students. I still remember my prize students, Shazia and Faisal, who encouraged me to keep showing up every day, despite the taunts and hostile stares I received from other students. They nurtured my idealism even when I was ready to give it up.

I didn’t have Shazia and Faisal back home, though.

And in the 17 years since I last set foot in that college, all I knew was “terrorism” and “violence.” These were the words used to describe Pakistan in the news and even in casual conversations among Pakistani-Americans.

With my professional interest in religious freedom, came other equally troubling descriptors for Pakistan: blasphemy laws, persecution, assassinations.

Also read: The Pakistani-American dilemma: Guests or citizens?

It is no surprise, then, that it took me almost two decades to come back, and even then primarily because of parental obedience (my mother had been campaigning for over a year for me to join her during her January 2015 visit) than any sort of loyalty to the country.

In the 17 years since my last visit, I had also become a mother to two children, and was not the least bit interested in putting myself in harm’s way.

Yes, I had a vision of Pakistan as a battleground.

Boarding the plane only weeks after the Peshawar school shooting, my heart was tinged with dread. And when the plane landed in Karachi, I leaned forward into my window to take in the view of the Jinnah International Airport.

It was time to step out of my bubble, and my heart was beating just a little bit faster because of it.

My home that week was the Embassy Inn on Shahrah-e-Faisal. Conveniently located just minutes from Tariq Road, and immediately adjacent to a gas station food mart, I was able to fully indulge both my need for cheap deals on dazzling Pakistani costume jewelry and my nighttime snack cravings.

Kulchas in Karachi.

BBQ at Do Darya.

During one such snacking venture, I noticed the gas station workers pushing together wide barriers, blocking a small but rowdy group of motorcyclists from entering. “Hmm, weird,” I thought, shrugging it off and slipping past the divider on the side where the gas station met the hotel.

Read on: A Punjabi in New York: Juggling multiple identities

I proceeded to buy ice cream undeterred and then returned to my hotel room to enjoy it whilst watching, for the 30th time, the TV hysteria over Imran Khan’s marriage to Reham Khan.

It turned out the barriers were being placed to ward off mob violence. Muhammad Saeed Awan, a member of the banned Lashkar-e-Jhangvi militant group, had been hanged at Karachi's Central Jail, and the gas station was preparing for a potential torching of its premises by protesters.