Hangers

My bed is a mess. Hundreds of hangers are scattered across it.

It’s been about two weeks since I lost my job. Somewhere between the ups and downs, the overthinking, and the endless scenarios of what comes next, I made a decision: I’m leaving Dubai. And now, it’s time to pack.

I’ve spent years building a life across different GCC countries, so it goes without saying—I’ve accumulated a lot.

A random fact about me: I usually love packing suitcases. But not this time.

This isn’t a trip. This is a decision. One that feels like the wisest choice right now, but not the one I would have chosen from the heart. For once, my mind took the lead.

I can’t take everything with me on a plane, so I have to be strategic—what I carry with me, what I ship, and what I leave behind.

And that’s where it begins.

First, I pack my essentials: clothes and items I’ll need for the European summer, and the ones I can’t (emotionally) afford to lose. These are coming with me. I refuse to leave behind my newest Sandro dress, my pair of Summer Walkers from LP, my custom-made perfume from Guerlain, my pink ALO Yoga mat… or my teddy bears.

Then comes the second batch: suitcases filled with winter clothes and everything that feels practical, but not essential.

And finally, there’s everything else—the things I’m not packing.

As I move through it all, I start to zone out. I come across pieces I had forgotten about, clothes that have been sitting in boxes for years. They belong to another version of me. Some make me cringe a little; others make me wonder why I ever spent money on them. I can’t imagine wearing them now.

But I remember when I did.

What started as a practical task quietly turns into something else—an exercise in self-reflection.

It’s not just fabric. It’s proof. Proof of who I thought I needed to be at different moments of my life. Some of these pieces feel like costumes now. Versions of me that were trying—maybe too hard—to belong somewhere, to be seen in a certain way, to convince others… or even myself. Each garment feels like an archive. A silent witness of a season, a mindset, a version of me that once made sense.

And maybe that’s what growth really is: not just adding more, doing more, becoming more—but refining. Having the discernment to say: this is no longer aligned. Not everything that once fit you is meant to follow you forward.

I will only take with me what feels true to who I am now. The rest… I can finally let go of.

Over the past months, I found myself reflecting deeply on the woman I want to become. Not in a superficial way, but in the quiet, daily choices.

I started asking myself simple but uncomfortable questions:

What does she choose, daily—without negotiation?
What does she allow into her body, her space, her time?

Would she wake up like this?
Would she eat this?
Would she spend her time here?

What kind of environment does she create—for herself, for her children?
Would her children look at her and feel proud?

And just as naturally—
would she stand beside the kind of man she envisions for her life?

And slowly, almost without noticing, my life began to shift.

The changes weren’t dramatic. They were small, almost invisible. Waking up earlier. Moving my body with intention. Nourishing my body mindfully. Saying no more often. Reducing external noise. Being more conscious of where I go, how I spend my time, who I allow into it.

Slowly, without announcement, my life began to reorganize itself around a different standard. It wasn’t always easy—but it felt right. I’ve been editing my life, piece by piece, intentionally.

I am 29, and for the first time, I can truly say I feel like a woman—not a girl anymore. Not because everything is figured out, but because my mind, my habits, my standards, my environment… they are finally aligned with someone who has direction. With someone who has purpose.

And that’s how I’m leaving Dubai. Not from a place of loss, but from a place of alignment.

What I’m leaving behind doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore. What I’m choosing not to carry no longer weighs on me.

For the first time, I feel like I’m leaving whole.

Maybe that’s why this doesn’t feel like an ending.

I’m not losing anything. I’m shedding versions of myself that no longer fit.

And wherever I go next, I know this: I’m bringing the woman I’ve been building. Because no matter what changes externally, I’ve learned that the real foundation is internal.

And maybe that’s the paradox of it all— I thought I was deciding what to take with me. But all along, I was deciding who I would no longer be.