Don’t play about your mental and emotional wellbeing.
If you’d told me a year ago that I’d be hopping from Kuwait to China to South Africa, all in a restless search for something resembling happiness, I might’ve rolled my eyes and topped off my cosmopolitan. Yet there I was: three years in Kuwait, spiraling through an existential crisis in designer flats and a cloud of sand. (Existential crisis: that not-so-chic moment when you’re sweating over life’s big questions about who you are, what you’re doing, and why your favorite brunch spot suddenly feels meaningless.) I tried to shake things up—a quick contract in Chengdu, China (where, yes, I taught English and mastered the art of ordering dumplings without tears). When that ended, I found myself back in South Africa, clutching another short-term gig and hoping I’d finally found my way off the emotional merry-go-round.
Honestly, landing in South Africa was the universe’s version of pressing pause. For the first time in ages, I got to breathe. I swapped late-night lesson planning for family dinners, and yoga pants for actual yoga. I recommitted to church, rediscovered my relationship with God, and even joined a gym (not just for the athleisure, I promise). A nutritionist coached me into seeing food as more than just heartbreak relief, and a neurologist gave me the full tune-up. I was determined—no, obsessed—with getting better. I knew I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine when it so clearly wasn’t.
Picture this: months spent crying to God, paging through the Bible, and taking long, soul-searching walks. I’d been so busy being ‘fine’ for everyone else that I’d actually misplaced myself. My parents—absolute saints—let me move in, wrapped me in love, and checked in on me more than my old boss ever did. Living abroad alone had turned me into a chronic survivor; it’s wild how much you miss having someone ask, “How was your day?” until nobody’s asking anymore.
Here’s what I learned: Real self-reflection means being brutally honest about your emotional reality, and sometimes, optimism is just denial in a cute outfit. Growing up, I’d been silently trained to keep my struggles private, to smile through storms, always expecting the sun to come out. But ignoring all the red flags didn’t make them any less red.
So here I am, starting fresh in Saudi Arabia, heels a little scuffed, heart a little wiser, and finally ready to write my next chapter – one where I don’t sweep my feelings under the rug, but let them dance in the living room, adidas sambas and all.
