I left a marriage, a country, and—maybe most of all—a version of myself I had to believe in to survive.
I left safety that wasn’t safe. Roles that didn’t fit. Apologies I didn’t owe. Expectations I never agreed to but still carried like debt. I left spaces where I was constantly translating myself into something more palatable, more helpful, more silent.
What I’m writing now is what I couldn’t say then.
I’m writing the edges—of grief, of reinvention, of rage that became clarity. I’m writing what it means to escape both a life and a narrative and to rebuild something that actually fits. I’m writing about leaving a country that promised purpose but delivered sickness. I’m writing about women and systems and the lies we have to peel off just to breathe.
This isn’t a blog about healing, exactly. Healing is too polite. This is about aftermath and freedom. It’s about the messy, gorgeous middle—when you’ve jumped but haven’t landed yet, and the wind is the only thing keeping you upright.
If you’re here, I hope something in this speaks to the place in you that’s also standing at the edge—wondering what would happen if you took the breath they always tell you to take, but instead of looking inward, jump.