Transitions-2025
“I think I’m having what you’d call an existential crisis. Isn’t that when you’re confused about life, and everything feels like an identity conflict?” “Something like that. Yes — you are. But we’re going to have the best freaking time. I just know it.” [Katie]
It was 8:45 p.m, and we’d barely coasted outside Albany County. My head wasn’t in it, and neither was my body — sitting idle, unsure if it was hungry, tired, or both. We settled on McDonald’s. I tossed pieces of my chicken nuggets out the window between rain showers, just trying to catch some air.
Tokyo felt like New York, but not quite. The people moved with an almost NPC-like precision — polite, distant, unreal. It was organized chaos: endless queues, tiny head nods, unspoken rules. I stuck out and blended in at the same time. Jet lag and hunger — or both — left me dizzy as I wandered neon-lit streets while my body insisted it was 6 a.m. back home. Sleep barely found me, yet I dragged myself out of bed, Katie and I clinging to groggy threads, fully assimilated.
In true Adrianna fashion, we texted just 45 minutes before meeting and figured it out on the fly. Skipping across the street was Lil B Adri herself — pom-pom hat, jelly sandals, bobby socks. We rushed over to meet her fur baby, Boomer: a handsome, spoiled corgi living it up on the 19th floor near Tokyo Tower. On a clear day, the view offered a gentle glimpse of Mount Fuji. How bougie her expat life had evolved into..
Amid all the wonder, I couldn’t forget that my life back home was falling apart. Smiles on Instagram, tears beside thirty-foot snowbanks in Hakuba. My toes were numb, and it mirrored how my heart felt — frozen, thawing, sad. Katie and I lay shivering in bed, the heater in our lodge completely broken. The only relief came from knocking back 9%ers, which eventually landed me headfirst in the bathroom tub. I carried a gash on my leg for months after, a painful reminder that drinking is, once again, lame.
On the floor of our hotel room, I spotted a single gold Australian one-dollar coin. I shoved it into my pocket and moved on.
Japan, paired with the density of my dying spirit, was a weight I was lucky not to carry alone. I saw Erika — from Spain, now in her hometown — and suddenly my worlds collided amongst all my friend groups.
One night at dinner, the four of them (Adri, Katie,Shoin & Erika) strategized my next move.
“Nicole, you’re bigger than Schaghticoke. You know this. Just go. Leave. Please. I promise it’ll be okay.”
Regrettably, they were right.I smiled between chopsticks while a lump formed in my throat — bitter, angry, sad. Why do I always have to leave people? Why is there so much distance from one of the only people who truly gets me? I was furious that I had to find the discipline to eat properly instead of stabbing at my food.
At home, my life continued to unravel — largely by my own doing. I drifted from place to place, pondering my direction like a fish out of water. I left the Gristmill Antique center of my own free will, downsized my belongings, and gave myself the space I thought I needed to make decisions. Instead, it became an endless waiting game. I felt unchanged. Stuck. The questions at home grew louder as I receded without answers.
Below my apartment, I sat with Aunt Janice in her living room during some of her final days, listening to her giggle about the adventures of her life as a three-time divorcée. She had a softness with me — maybe because we were both rebel children, drawn to adventure but notoriously bad at staying true to our hearts. Tethered to oxygen, she waddled through the house, and at night I fell asleep to the hum of her respirator vibrating the walls. Marissa visited often with the local ambulance as our family EMT voluntarily giving out enemas and refilled oxygen tanks. Still, life continued.
In the middle of it all, I got up and left for Colombia. Dreams, it turns out, can still come true despite the circumstances. After five years, I finally made the journey to see Laura — my longtime Spanish tutor and best friend. In hindsight, I needed the challenge. I jumped in, leveraging my mediocre Spanish to navigate time with her family and friends. It was Holy Week, so we celebrated the way Colombians do best — getting obliterated en las calles.
The only gringa here, I thought, fast-walking through the CBD with my hood up at 8 a.m. to start work at Laura’s place.
“Nico, do you see that building across the street?” she asked from her window on the 19th floor in La Candelaria. Little men paced across the scaffolding in hard hats. “I’ve lived here for a year, and every day I watch it climb toward the heavens and think — how much have I grown since then, too?”
I grappled with the idea of where my life would settle in a year’s time, while simultaneously thinking: How beautiful is her soul?
It was an experience I’ll never forget. Bogotá reminded me to stay curious, I rode through the city at night in Ubers and on motorbikes, mountains cradling the valley around us. We drank aguapanela while watching cars sputter below from the heights of Monserrate Hill shivering from the altitude.
“Nico, you are my sun, and I am your moon,” Laura grinned as we stood in the tattoo parlor mirror, admiring the flash tattoos we’d just gotten. It was 3 p.m. on the Lord’s Day, and my pupils were the size of the moon.
By June I was restless, it was time to leave. In April after Colombia I collected my thoughts. I made the decision to deliberately put myself in uncomfortable situations to challenge my routine based thinking.I had moved home again, packing what I could into a single suitcase. Aunt Janice had passed, the cat was euthanized, and I had no reason to linger in town any longer. Summertime trickled in through slow rain showers, and I found myself craving the chaos of a Euro trash summer.
Landing in Valencia gave me the familiar space I needed to heal. Spiritually, the city carried a lot of weight for me in the early stages of this transition — the moment I realized I was not living as my authentic self. Dropping myself into a new apartment in a new country with strangers forced every fiber of my being to adapt. Distance and repeated exposure to unfamiliar environments reshaped my brain and how I managed stress. Constant micro-adaptations felt like exposure therapy on crack. My nervous system recalibrated faster than ever as I dealt with lost luggage, foreign roommates, unreliable public transport, and navigating life in a still-new language.
In those early days, I barely recognized myself in the mirror while brushing my teeth. At one point, a lesion so large on my chin looked like a small meteor had puckered the right side of my face. My hair was literally falling out from heat and stress, and when it grew back, it was darker than ever. I was struggling to stay afloat but prayed it would pass — just like the kidney stone I developed three weeks in.
As my context changed, I stopped looping old self-stories. I simply stopped rehearsing them. Survival demanded my attention, leaving no room to dwell in old patterns. That’s not to say I didn’t falter — I did, often when old beliefs tied to confidence and self-worth resurfaced. I broke down at the smallest infractions. I was a self-conscious wreck, uncertain about my day-to-day life, and the only solid footing I found was locking myself in my 95-degree room for twelve hours at a stretch. Nightly, I forced myself to walk along the Turia, just to see other humans and breathe. I felt mildly insane, craving English so deeply, yet all I heard was vale, vale, vale.
Weekends became my lifeline — until they didn’t. I blew up my remote sales job and walked away. After an overnight hiking trip that left me aggravated beyond belief, I ran away to Madrid midweek knowing Erika was there, somewhere. That spontaneous train ride on a Thursday afternoon became the cornerstone of my butterfly effect. If I hadn’t gone, I never would have met JD, JF, and IH at the hostel bar. Serendipity stitched us together when a bitch-ass waitress forced me to sit at their table. JD extended the offer-“Yo, we just met, but do you want to see Sam Alfred with us?”I had no idea who the hell Sam Alfred was, but without hesitating, I pulled out my PayPal and dropped 80 AUD on a ticket. They seem chill enough, I thought — and that was enough.
We stayed out until 9am the next day, a full 12 hours passed right by and the only thing I ate was two bites of KFC and the free hostel lollipops. They looked out for me, making sure I was safe, and we danced for hours as they graciously surrounded me upon my request to “Keep the creepers away from me.” Not a damn person came near me. That night, they literally saved me when a homeless man two hand grabbed me in the street from behind as we were leaving the club. It was the first time that had ever happened to me and the first time I’d really gone out “Alone.”
Having tasted such freedom, I decided to pick up where we had all left off. I piggybacked on their trip the following week in Amsterdam for Dekmantel, a techo festival. It was the first time I’d ever traveled with a single backpack, sharing a hostel room with just barely strangers. Since JF and I were tag alongs, the others managed everything, and once again I felt safe to be myself — without questions, without needing to offer anything other than good vibes and to hold the emotional support water bottle. That really got me through when I was pacing the front of the main stage in the rain waving violently up to the others who had a hawk eye on me from the balcony. Below I danced and It was an ethereal experience.
While getting on the shuttle our first night, I met Mick — the lighting tech for one of the main stages. In my impairment, I asked him what it felt like to be in love for the first time, despite being a stranger. His life unraveled the way strangers’ lives always seem to with me. In our brief exchange, I learned Mick was grappling with life in the throes of active cocaine addiction — just like his father, Stanley Ted Edwards, better known as the infamous Jango the Clown. We rambled through his story and parted ways, not before he mentioned I was welcome to loiter at the lighting booth and see how it all worked. He was half American after all, caught between two identities in which he struggled to belong in, something most expats can relate to.
On the second day, the gang led me back to see Mick where I tried my best to look at all the buttons on the light machines but simply ended up giving him a hug and swapping cell numbers for support. The day trickled into night, and the weekend came to an end. I spotted Mick again trying to get on the shuttle somewhere far in front of us. Security pulled him out of line for reasons I never learned, and I decided to make a scene to catch his attention and he joined us. The story wasn’t over yet.
Mick told me he had finally heard from the love of his life, even though she was on holiday with her husband — and that the fallout had happened the night before with the husband sending him a message. He was suffering heavily. We talked about what rehab could look like and about my experience living with Tommy during his attempt at sobriety. Something in that conversation stirred him. As the bus pulled up to the train station, he stood up, looked me dead in the face, and gave me a bear hug.
With deep sincerity, Mick smiled, holding my shoulders in both hands. “Nic, something inside me feels so healed after talking to you. You have a lot of decisions ahead of you {This was the moment I decided to Australia}, but it will all be resolved before you know it. And now I know that if I want to be the person I need to be for her, I will seek help. Thank you.”
While the gang watched from across the curb, they felt miles away. In that moment, it was just the two of us. On the ferry back, my eyes welled with the realization that it was Tommy who had led me there — led me to strangers who became “brothers”, who protected me and let me feel joy again. It was Mick I needed to meet. And my brothers, in that moment, were Aussies — Aussies from Melbourne, of all places. The universe always sends the gentles souls when you’re in your healing era.
A part of me healed in Amsterdam on that trip. It became a space for profound sorrow and restoration. Under the bleachers on our last day, we shared painful truths about the abuse we had all individually endured in our youth. I clenched four pieces of gum between my teeth, smiling through tears, only to hear JF say, “You guys are being downers right now, I can’t cope,” before disappearing into the crowd. We looked like drenched dogs sitting there and one of them muttered “He’ll be back for his bag”. JD turned to me and said, “It’s going to be okay. I’m glad I met you. I knew when we met that I needed to protect you, you’ll be okay, every sunset means we have a new day to start over fresh,” (or something like that). In that moment, it all made sense. Releasing those emotions felt like stepping out of a storm.
I can’t fail to mention the moment we stepped onto the grounds and watched the first act that day: we turned and looked behind us, and there was THE Sam Alfred, the very same DJ from Madrid, the reason we had all met. The gang got photos with him, and then we headed back toward the ferry, holding my arm the whole way as they guided me as I struggled to maintain focus . These were the siblings I had asked God for — my brothers to watch over me, even if only temporarily. Music had always been an outlet for Tommy, and a few other things as well. I believe it was Tommy who connected all the dots, bringing me to these moments so I could share and release the pain we both carried as kids but never spoke of. This season of my life is full of grief, but also profound healing.
That morning, before I left Amsterdam, I said goodbye to the bros. As I sat waiting for JF to appear, I was scrolling through reels on my phone, feeling properly sorry for myself which is apart of the come down of a good weekend. At some point — between staying up all night crying on the phone with anyone awake and feeling like my whole life had changed in 48 hours — I made the choice to go to Australia. But the doubt lingered because my mind needed a “Why.”
As I tried to ignore the thought, I quietly tuned in and heard over the radio, faintly: “Nobody said it was easy It’s such a shame for us to part Nobody said it was easy No one ever said it would be this hard Oh, take me back to the start.”
Is that Coldplay, I thought? What the hell. And there I was, blubbering with realization. Oh my freaking god, I can’t go back to the start — [Australia], I thought. But the signs were there, clear as ever: go back to where you left off, whatever that meant. It felt like a riddle, and my life had become all about cracking the code.
Eventually, Erika and I found each other in Madrid, and we traveled to Valencia. Amid the chaos, we spent a full week together — reminiscing and crashing out — reflecting on what that one Brit had said back in July: “No plan is the plan.” The same Brit who had sparked my impulsive escape to Madrid and probably ,subliminally, Australia. Maybe they were right.
Get The Archive of a Nomad’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
Much of that summer continued to feel profound in ways I can barely explain. Signs kept piling up, and the words people were saying didn’t make sense in the context of our conversations. It felt like every word was curated just for my ears, and I started to feel out of my mind.But above all I continued to laugh it off in a giggly sort of way, because nothing was so serious.
After Amsterdam,I flew back to Valencia exhausted, crying and rocking myself, while my mom — deeply concerned about my emotional well-being — was ready to fly off the handle because of the distance between us. About six hours before leaving for Ibiza, I had quit my job, and that same day I sobbed for four hours, sweating through the weekend as I applied for my Working Holiday visa for Australia.”I am an absolute retard,” I thought several times a day.
Lex joined that night, and from then on, the rest of the summer became mine. I let myself grieve and allowed spontaneity to guide me. Ten days of travel with Lex across four cities — Ibiza, Barcelona, Valencia, and Benidorm — and eventually on to London, carrying nothing but a single backpack, pushed me to my limits, and yet we thrived. We certainly had our mishaps, including the moment I realized I left half my bag back at the ibiza hostel.
We did dodgy things at all hours of the night. We were electric in Ibiza singing pink pony club with BF at 5am in a taxi only to hop on a plane to Barcelona.their our engines began to sputter to a halt after doing the most. Alexis bitched about not seeing one landmark in any city we visited- when she couldn’t even wake up before 11am. In all of that there was hardly a pause for reflection as we moved from city to city, embracing everything as it came. With that same bag, I continued on to Málaga, then Alicante, and finally London, “working” through my last few days.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you like this — I barely recognize this version of you. Who are you? I missed her. You haven’t been yourself in years,” Alexis said as we sat bleary-eyed on the train to Barcelona, giggling. We set timers set on our phones between podcasts to remind us when to get off the train as we nodded off.
London, like Amsterdam, healed a part of me I hadn’t been able to reach on my own. My personal biases had initially made me resist going, despite constant signs pointing me there like the London tower mural that mocked me everyday outside my building in Valencia. On the surface, it was everything Instagram claimed it to be-overrun by filthy migrants. The difference was that I didn’t have to plan a thing — I showed up almost unannounced ( 1 weeks notice) and was welcomed, while guided through the city in profoundly meaningful ways. “Just let me take care of you, please,” I was told by BF.
“I stalked your instagram and realized flowers are meaningful to you so I bought tickets to visit Kew Gardens before you flew in so you could remember home,” How thoughtful, I was so grateful to have someone do such a thing for me. At one point In the middle of a beautiful sunny afternoon in the gardens I stood there in awe leaving me feeling like I’d found a second home for the first time. Goosebumps rose on my skin as I felt this amusing sensation as if I’d already lived this life before. I just shook my head in affirmation as I continued the rest of the trip moving through London with poise and ease, as if it was second nature.The following morning, looking out from the 14th floor in Canary Wharf with my head at the wrong side of the bed giggling to myself, an orange-and-black butterfly sat patiently, as if waiting just for me.
For the first time, I felt like the main character in my own life. “Who am I growing into?” This unafraid, protected, and deeply loved version of myself was new. Discovering a quiet magnetism that drew exactly what — and who — I needed, right on time, was an ability I hadn’t realized I possessed.
I paced the Victoria and Albert Museum alone, having not the faintest idea how I got there. Somewhere along the way, I had followed BF’s itinerary and then diverted from it. I glided through the museum, humming and listening to Spacey Jane’s How to Kill Houseplants, feeling completely wrapped in the moment. How lucky I was to be there.
Of all places — for no reason other than having met a few strangers at a pool party in Ibiza that Lex and I had almost skipped — I was in London on a week’s notice. Hours passed that day before I realized I had to beat BF home from the office.
Somewhere in that museum, a visceral, uncharted self-love unfolded within me, one I had never experienced before. When people talk about “loving yourself,” no one mentions that it can just quietly happen on a random Friday morning at 11 a.m. It’s not some cosmic, messy, ecstatic “thing,” but rather a beautiful reality of leading with your gut and accepting where you land.
Though I was alone for much of these journeys, learning to sit with my feelings for hours at a time, I moved entirely on instinct. Outwardly it showed, but inwardly I felt a confidence I had never known. For the first time in my life, someone told me I seemed “like the most confident person ever.” I remember thinking, Huh? — especially with my father’s old comment still echoing in my mind, that I didn’t have confidence and that it showed. Yet somehow, I had outgrown it.
Whenever doubt crept in, a sign appeared to guide me. When I didn’t know which ferry to take, Reagan showed up, laughing and saying, “God is good, God is real, God loves you — we’ll find this damn ferry.” We matched each other’s energy instantly and ended up spending the next 7 days together, drifting through Croatia with ease and trust finding 111 on every corner. The Aussies continued to appear out of nowhere at bars and hostel dorms, each time revealing their homes were closer and closer to my eventual landing spot, I just didn’t know it at the time.
When I decided to move to Australia, I didn’t even know which city go to. I carried that question for weeks until one afternoon in Croatia, sitting on a park bench with tears in my eyes, frustrated and asking, Where? I looked up and noticed crosses surrounding me. The answer landed clearly: Sydney. My immediate reaction was resistance — I held so much resentment toward that place for a plethora of reasons. But I realized that the things we resist most are often the very things we’re meant to lean into, wholeheartedly, in order to heal.
Two days later, I was lying in my hostel dorm, surfing Flatmates.com for an apartment. It was 11 p.m. on a Friday, and almost everyone was out in the city except for one guy two bunks over.
“Hey, what are you doing?” I asked. “Apartment hunting,” he replied. “Oh yeah, me too actually. Whereabouts?” “You wouldn’t know it, but in Sydney.” “Ha, me too. Try me. Where?” I questioned. “Frenchs Forest.” — “Same” I mimicked.
He put his laptop down and looked at me. “What the hell — that’s where I grew up, and I’m looking at it right now.” He showed a map and We both laughed. He only had a week to find a place; I had six. That night, I ended up shutting my laptop and going out to run into more Aussies. They all grew up in Dee Why. They didn’t have any leads but gave me good vibes.This felt like I was getting somewhere after all.
After choosing Sydney, everything fell into place. I landed a job with my former internship company, which was based in Frenchs Forest. The Owner, Scott and I had rapport thus graciously taking me in with open arms. Housing eventually came together after weeks of stress, prayer, and uncertainty — until the right person reached out with a lead just 6 days before. Suddenly, I was here, after 33 hours of travel, living in Dee Why. Even now, it feels as though I’m reliving a chapter I once missed. Old characters have reappeared from the past to support me with kind words of encouragement, while new faces continue to arrive, in support of my journey like PS, MT & MC.
Early in my transition into European life, I began tutoring English to create some stability while quietly chasing a dream I hadn’t fully named. I’ll never forget sitting in the front seat of a moving van at Event Hire Services in Australia in 2018, on my first day as an intern. My coworker David asked, “What do you want to be when you’re older?” Without thinking, I blurted, “A teacher — an English teacher.” I still don’t know where that came from considering I was in my final year of business school.
David smiled and said, “In Australia, anything can come true. Just chase it — but enjoy the journey One day, I want to be a pilot.” That moment stayed with me. He had fled a country {Venezuela}that unraveled within a decade, learned a second language, and rebuilt his life from nothing. If he could start over so completely, why couldn’t I? The thought stayed with me even when my life looked neat on the surface, while inside I simmered, knowing it felt mediocre at best.
Eventually, I acted — I started tutoring. Demand grew quickly, and I found myself locked in my room, working twelve-hour days for six straight weeks, until I finally chose to stop and let myself travel. “Teacher” became a recurring theme as I met dozens of people who reshaped my worldview — from teaching SS kitchen vocabulary late at night on a terrace to critiquing a Croatian taxi driver’s fake English accent. I’m profoundly grateful for those who held my hand when I was afraid to step into the unknown, guided me when I couldn’t see the path, and refused to let me sit alone in my grief.
By the end of September, I’d grown tired of cold showers and changing in public restrooms, so I left Europe at the close of summer. I needed a haircut, and my skin looked as if it had aged twenty years from ignoring sunscreen. The soles of my white sneakers had turned dusty brown and were coming apart at the glue.
I did it, I muttered. I managed to jump off a bridge, visit twelve countries, and not end up hospitalised. One of the highlights was linking up with three of my best friends from home and driving through coastal towns in Sardinia. We sat in the shallows of the ocean for hours, just picking up rocks like little kids between snorkelling and tanning. They even let me drive the rental car, despite me aggressively hitting every speed bump (I can’t see very well at night) and complaining about the cell service for the aux. Paige had to let me know too of my fatal error, one I couldn’t correct either.
On the flip side, the brutal reality of backpacking hit later when I found myself squatting over toilets in Montenegro after the chain-smoking bus driver said, “This is the only option.” There was also that worm in my salad where the waiter comped my meal but only if I got out of there, fast. He at least filled my wine to the rim and I chugged it but not after dry heaving a few times. That was nearly as bad as eating almost an entire, raw hamburger in Xativa.But hey, I live for the plot, and the gang lives for the voice notes.
I can’t forget about Dragan either, the taxi driver who charged my 90$ for a 10 min taxi drive from the airport. The same guy I asked to take me out to visit this castle they filmed a movie at because he said he’d it for free. He bought me 6 drinks, a full pizza, Nutella donuts and gave me change to use the bathroom at the gas station. My concerns over safety never really rose despite eluding to illegal sports car laundering in visible signs of illegal gun ownership.No alarm bells rang out either when he told me to clip my seat belt behind me as we went 190km in a 65km zone 40 miles outside Split. Hey, at least I had his plate number and life 360 on if I disappeared. He texted me a month later:
In Johnsonville, everything was a mess — my life packed into boxes scattered across five different rooms, including the dining room, my car, and a trailer. I had to tie up loose ends and say those fateful goodbyes once again, this time with so much uncertainty. I shoved an entire life into two suitcases in about three hours, with zero research. I spent time with Katie and CC whenever I could and tutored well beyond what was necessary.
My student portfolio grew rapidly, and my students shaped my worldview with ease and grace. I developed my own courses, learned to articulate English on my terms, and kept gaining bookings. As I write this, I’ve completed 340 lessons with over 50 students, and for the first time, I feel genuinely proud of teaching myself how to lead a classroom.
Now I’m back in Australia, in the very place where it all began. I heard David is now a pilot for the military, and I’m back in the same role — but with a far more refined view of the world. I can now speak to the immigrants I once struggled to communicate with, connecting in their own language. New faces, familiar ground — the same place that first inspired me to learn another language.
Interestingly, one of my closest friends since returning is also one of my very first students, MT. Though he’s no longer my student, I still correct his mistakes whenever we meet for drinks in the CBD or when he calls to rant about a Hinge date.
This past November, crossing the Sydney Harbour Bridge, I couldn’t stop smiling. Goosebumps rose in places I didn’t know could feel — like I had slipped back onto the right timeline.I returned to northhead sanctuary, I found myself on a trail at the back of the park I’d never seen before. Northhead was my favorite place to walk and watch the sunset over Sydney. The moon was full, and where the cliffs dropped away there was a small sign: Lifeline Hotline. The chill running through me felt direct, not fearful, guiding me back down the trail toward safety.
An orange-and-black butterfly landed on my hand and lingered as I glided back down the trail, the sunsetting in front of me. Fragile yet resilient, it carried the quiet power of transformation — a reminder of how we survive, adapt, and keep moving even after everything. That butterfly had found me once again, continents away. Only later did I understand its symbolism. Gram confirmed on the phone, yapping she’d bought a butterfly for Janice and placed it on the tree. A butterfly is a symbol of transformation, resilience, and the soul in motion — proof that even in moments of uncertainty, I was being watched, guided, and gently returned to myself. As Katie says #wings2025
Being near the ocean was healing after months of anguish and feeling misunderstood. I’d say did so much of nothing this year but the one thing I did best was hundreds of hours walking. between pacing, and listening to music, I was slowly reclaiming myself after eight years of losing touch with who I was. All that nothing was leading me to something, it just felt slow going.The Year of the Snake taught me to shed what no longer serves me. I thank God for a second chance. This year, I’ve lived in three countries and experienced a dozen lives — learning a second language, navigating bureaucracies, closing my beloved business, moving nine times, and living with someone in hospice. Growth and resilience often go unseen, and our journeys are ours alone. Moving away didn’t erase the feelings I carried or the love I felt , but I’m inching closer to the right path. It’s learning to listen to my inner voice, and realizing it’s okay to change. Accepting failure is apart of the process even which was hard to accept as I nearly drowned in my diving course three weeks back.
At my desk, as I chipped away at this, I could hear the radio in the warehouse below. I was toggling between writing and applying to university for yet another Master’s — this time in Teaching, which would give me another two years here. But was that the right choice? I hadn’t hit submit on my application. In that moment, I heard through the piping an echo of Chris Martin singing, “No one ever said it would be this hard… Oh, take me back to the start.”
The Scientist played once more, and I realized again that I was exactly where I needed to be — back to the start, in the same neighborhood as before, at the same job, but now with a different degree. And again, I thought, “Oh, F me, I can’t do this again…” But I clicked submit anyway.
To end, I wanted to share, I haven’t been able to reclaim my life back yet but im inching away at it. “Piano Piano” as they say in Italy.Embracing spirit and reflecting how beautifully orchestrated my reality is, has helped stitch parts of me back together.
As I finish this, my aunt sent me Jeremiah 29:11: “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” I smile, reminded that the word of the Lord always arrives in divine timing. (Thank you.)
( Note: This was originally posted as an end of year review in 2025 amongst close friends. I’m resharing here as a placeholder 🥲)
