Author: fortuitouspurpose

Someone very close to me recently shared a handmade poster with a quote by Paulo Coelho on it:

I stared at it longer than I expected to.

Because for me, having a dream come true has always felt like living in a fantasy. Unreal. Almost miraculous. As if something extraordinary had to happen for it to even be possible. So somewhere along the way, I stopped dreaming.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, more like quiet self-preservation. I let life, or the universe, decide what happened next. Personally, professionally, spiritually. It was safer that way. Safer not to want too much. Safer not to picture something beautiful and risk watching it crumble.

Having a vision used to terrify me. Because what if it didn’t happen? What if no matter how hard I tried, it all still fell apart? I couldn’t bear the thought of failing myself, let alone the shame of failing in my family’s eyes. So, I learned to live inside my head. In that world, everything worked out. It was peaceful there. Predictable. Dreams could unfold without fear of disappointment, because they weren’t real.

But the irony is when you stop dreaming to avoid pain, you also stop feeling alive. You mistake numbness for peace. You start mistaking control for safety.

I’m realizing now that dreams aren’t promises, they’re invitations. Not all of them come true, but each one teaches you something about who you are and what you’re capable of. Maybe Coelho was right. Maybe it’s not the dream coming true that makes life interesting, but the possibility—the movement, the hope, the pulse it gives to an otherwise monotonous existence.

Lately, I’ve also been thinking that maybe not having one dream isn’t such a bad thing after all. For the longest time, I felt guilty for not knowing what I wanted. I thought I was supposed to have that one big vision—the kind that gives your life direction and makes everything else fall into place. But what if that kind of singular focus also blinds you to everything else that’s waiting to unfold?

I used to think my uncertainty meant I was lost. But maybe I was just open.

Not having one fixed dream has allowed me to stay receptive to the unexpected, the unimaginable, the bigger and better things that I couldn’t have possibly planned for. Because when you attach yourself to just one outcome, you close the door on everything else the universe might be trying to send your way.

Imagination and possibility aren’t flaws. They’re freedom.

I’ve been in a kind of decision paralysis for almost two years now, unsure what direction to take professionally since leaving teaching. But when I look back, I don’t see wasted time. I see exploration. I see curiosity. I see faith.

I’ve dabbled across roles, industries, and identities. Some fit for a while; others didn’t. But all of them were necessary detours leading me closer to alignment, closer to my highest self.

So no, maybe I haven’t been wrong. Maybe I’ve just been patient.

I’ve always believed that whatever happens next will unfold in divine timing, in alignment with who I’m becoming. Maybe that’s what it means to dream differently—not by holding on tightly to one vision, but by trusting that the right one will find you when you’re ready to receive it.

Because sometimes, life isn’t about chasing the dream. It’s about becoming the person who can hold it.

It started with anger. Not the fleeting kind, but the slow-burning fire that rises from years of being misunderstood. From people looking at my life from the outside and thinking, She’s so lucky. They see the travel, the “success,” the help I receive (which I’m not always open to receive), and assume it’s all effortless. Sometimes they accuse me, silently or outright, of asking for too much, of playing needy to avoid hard work.

To those people, I’ve often thought: Take it. Take the money, the attention, the so-called “privilege.” But take the rest too. Take the premature birth, the uncle who molested me as a child — not once, but multiple times. The strange man in my home who crossed a boundary when I was twelve. The father who beat me, the mother who couldn’t care for me. The ten-year relationship with a narcissist. Take the way emotional and physical trauma numbed my body so completely that, at 33, I am just now teaching it how to function properly for the first time.

During a session with my personal trainer, I activated my core and balanced myself in a way I never had before. It hurt, a deep, almost alien ache, as muscles long dormant came online. Pain radiated from my pinky toes up my legs. Every workout drags me back to the memory of what shut my body down in the first place. People see the privilege of affording a trainer; they don’t see the ghosts I fight in every rep.

The physical pain is just one part. The aftershocks of my past ripple through every system in my body — PCOS, ADHD, mild autism, gut issues, body dysmorphia, social anxiety, addiction, and more. I’ve stayed quiet about much of it because I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want to be treated like I’m fragile. Just treat me like a human being.

And yet, some people have used these wounds against me — knowingly. Those people no longer exist in my world. I’ve finally reached the point where I can feel anger without drowning in shame for it. The little versions of me didn’t have the space to stand up for themselves. I do now.

I could choose to live in the narrative that life has been unfair, and some days, I still go there. But more and more, I choose to look at what all of this has given me.

It’s given me a deep love for movement — dancing, skiing, hiking, crossfit, kickboxing, yoga. It’s given me friendships that became lifelines. It’s given me opportunities: AIESEC in college, working in Egypt, studying English in London, working with children and leaders shaping education policy in Australia, landing in the tech industry in Canada. It’s given me the resilience to navigate cultures and continents, to build a global circle of friends who would open their homes to me in a heartbeat.

The narcissistic relationship? It taught me financial independence, self-reliance, and skills I never would have learned if I’d followed the script handed to women in my culture. ADHD, autism, and anxiety? They led me to music — a constant, grounding presence. Health issues? They taught me more about nutrition and the body than I could have imagined.

Gratitude doesn’t erase the pain, but it reframes it.

I now find myself craving genuine connection. The kind where people take time to understand me instead of jumping to conclusions. Where they can sit with me through the layers, listen without judgement. My mind likes to peel everything apart, to overprepare, to make sure no detail is missed. But maybe, just maybe, I don’t always need to pull every thread.

I’m reminded how beautiful life is in its chaos. Years can feel wasted, aimless, only to reveal themselves later as part of a bigger pattern. Like that poster I once saw: You think you’re wasting your life… but then comes the turning point, and you realise you knew what you were doing all along. I started my inner work journey 5 years ago. It’s been difficult dealing with the monsters in my head, but I’d go back in time and do it again if it leads me to where I am right now.

By the end of the week, something had shifted. I finally understood non-duality — not just as a concept, but as a way of being. Triggers still come. I still feel fear, anger, grief. But now I can let them be what they are, without clinging or pushing them away. It’s not nothing, it’s just what it is.

I’ve lived most of my life in duality — stuck in the past, anxious about the future, rarely present. Now, I know how to stand here.

Here, in this moment.
Here, with both the heaviness and the gratitude.
Here, as I continue to heal and unfold.

I wrote about rebirth at 33. And it sounds beautiful, doesn’t it? Like a phoenix rising. But the truth is, starting over feels more like being reborn into a world where you don’t speak the language, don’t know the rules, and have to teach your nervous system how to feel safe again. It’s like I’m a newborn trying to build brand-new neural pathways, except I’m doing it with the weary bones of someone who’s already lived several lives.

Everything I once believed about the world, about myself, about how life should unfold, it’s all dissolving. The older version of me birthed this new version, sure, but she’s also standing there, blinking, lost, asking, “Now what?” Neither of us really knows what a healthy psyche feels like. I’ve read the theory, highlighted the books, nodded along in therapy. But living it? Walking around with this open heart and no blueprint? That’s a whole different thing.

No one talks about what happens after the awakening. The earthquake comes, the illusions fall, but then what? How do you build something real on a land that still trembles? Everything is clear now, terrifyingly clear. And after seeing the depths—your own, others’, the world’s, how are you supposed to just… grocery shop? Go on dates? Plan a five-year career trajectory?

That’s why lately, I’ve been oscillating between “What’s the point?” and “What if something terrible happens again?” Which, intellectually, I know is normal. Trauma loops are persuasive bastards. They whisper that safety lies in staying small, staying still, staying stuck. That’s the loop. But I also know the only way out is action—messy, imperfect, “I-have-no-idea-if-this-will-work” kind of action.

And let’s be honest, starting over in your 30s is terrifying. The older you get, the scarier it feels. You’re not as naïvely bold as you were at 23. You’re more tired, more cautious, more aware of just how high the stakes are. You feel like life should’ve looked a certain way by now. Married. Kids. Career locked and loaded. And what hurts most is that it’s not like I’ve been slacking off. I’ve been working hard. Really. So where’s my reward?

But if I really got what I thought I wanted back then, I’d be married to someone emotionally unavailable. I’d have kids with a man who wouldn’t have been able to make space for my softness. I’d be successful in a career that rewarded burnout and martyrdom. I loved teaching, but being an empath in that world nearly broke me. I couldn’t separate their pain from mine.

So yeah, I’m grateful for all the failed timelines. Every single one. Because now I get to start again on my terms. It’s not too late. In fact, maybe this is exactly the right time. I’m no longer building a house of cards that collapses at the first gust of fear, pressure, or pain. I’ve lived through enough big, bad wolves to know better. No more straw, no more sticks—I’m laying bricks now. Solid. Intentional. Storm-tested. I’m building a life with deeper foundations, with pillars strong enough to hold the weight of all that I am and gentle enough to make space for all that I feel.