Planning is important. I need to plan. The future is here. It is now. Who knows what it’s going to bring?
They are nice to me, they must mean well. I have to be kind to everyone. We are nice to each other, therefore we are friends.
I need to be the best. All the time. Everywhere.
While I rest, others get ahead. I can’t rest.
No one can get on my nerves. I should stay composed—at all times.
Most importantly, I have to prove: there’s nothing I can’t do.
Those up there—those were the things I believed for myself. Was it that clear to me? No. I just went on automatic for such a long time. Planning guaranteed outcomes. Politeness meant sincerity. Success was equal to constant productivity and overachievement. Saying no meant failure and selfishness. And emotions—especially anger—had no place in the picture.
Planning was a response to instability—an act of foresight, responsibility, and even hope. It gave me structure when life didn’t. Politeness became a survival tool. Kindness and composure helped me reduce risk—externally and emotionally, in a context where danger and discrimination were part of daily life.
Anger was hard to express. I often felt judged for feeling it, or simply didn’t know how to give it shape through words and healthy behavior. So it got tucked away.
Achievement was definitely celebrated—loudly. I remember this classroom called homogenous, where about 30–40 students (out of 150–200 in the grade) were selected based on academic performance. It was competitive. I grew up surrounded by high-performing siblings and classmates. I internalized that being valuable meant being excellent.
That planning style—the one that used to feel like a strength—started to fray in my 30s. Especially as life (and the world—remember the pandemic?) refused to follow a linear script. I entered a cycle of proving my worth through excellence and outcomes. It felt good—for a very short time. Needing rest, help, or softness brought shame instead of relief. They didn’t fit the identity I’d built.
Eventually, my body said: enough is enough. The two herniated discs in my lumbar area were not just physical. They were a message.
Recovery took five years. It demanded money, attention, care, rhythm. It changed the way I treated myself. It taught me that caring for my body isn’t optional. It’s my responsibility.
My lifestyle shifted. I prioritized sustainable habits. I adjusted my workouts to include rest days. I looked for work that allowed me to move and not be stuck in a chair all day. I talked more openly with others about health. That made me feel less alone. Vulnerability became connection. Rest, once a source of guilt, became a source of peace. Silence, which used to feel punishing, now feels sacred.
Some writers reminded me that writing, too, is a form of healing. These past years I read Orhan Pamuk, whose way of writing about Istanbul made me want to observe and write about everything I saw, heard, and lived. Edith Eger, whose story of reclaiming freedom after surviving the Holocaust was unforgettable. Irvin D. Yalom, whose passion for psychotherapy and self-compassion moved something deep in me.
Therapy grounded me. It helped me separate my identity from my outcomes. Kindness became something I offered to myself, not just others. Uncertainty stopped being a threat and became an invitation to imagine a different way forward.
One day, I sat with my best friend to talk about the future. She gave herself time to let things sit and sink in. I was jealous of that patience. I wondered why I was always in a rush. Perhaps most touchingly—her slowness helped me reconsider my own pace.
Now I tell myself it’s okay when I don’t know things. When I don’t know how to do things. When I don’t know what the future will bring.
I’m learning to accept the unpredictability of external forces—political, social, economic. I’m learning to read beyond appearances and honor deeper authenticity, in myself and others.
My body feels calmer and healthier. I take time to rest—from working out, from working, from people, even from my own to-do list. I’ve realized success isn’t speed or output. It’s alignment—with my values and with my health.
I’ve started establishing real and clear boundaries. I no longer feel guilty for saying what isn’t okay for me. There are moments when this new version of me feels strange. But I can see all the goodness that’s come with the change. And I’m still unlearning how to be hard on myself for not knowing better.
Strength, now, means being able to say how I feel. I allow myself the full spectrum of emotion—anger, joy, fear, delight—not to control or hide, but to feel and name.
And that, finally, feels like home.
Ave Migratoria 