My entire life, I’ve had one foot out the door — in every city, every job, every version of myself. I used to think that was about location. That the next turn, or the next door, or at the end of the next flight, I would find what I was looking for.
But I’m starting to see it differently now.
What I was really moving toward wasn’t a new place or a new experience. What I was really moving toward — was me. I didn’t know that at the time. I thought I was chasing opportunity, or freedom, or the next thing that would finally feel like enough. But what I was really searching for was a self I had never fully met — because so much of who I was had always been filtered through other people.
I think that’s true for a lot of us — especially the ones who’ve spent decades feeling like we were too much, or not enough, or just misplaced in our own lives.
I don’t say this out of ego: I believe I had more potential than was ever nurtured. More voice than was ever encouraged. More to offer than anyone really made space for.
And I know I’m not the only one.
At 53, after a string of serious setbacks that have at times felt insurmountable, I’m still here. Still standing — figuratively — but definitely still writing. Still trying to figure it out.
This is the beginning of that effort — not to find a polished version of myself, but to speak honestly from the version that exists right now. The one who moved to another country without a clear plan. The one who lost more than she expected and is slowly figuring out what’s left to build with.
This is my first post. It’s not neat, and it’s not final. Neither am I.
It's Fine, I'm Fine, Everything's Fine 