When running aways comes 360°

Normally my canvas is a pen and paper, but let’s give this a shot. Hi. Perhaps I’m a little naive, or maybe just a hopeless dreamer. Let me give you some context: my country’s been in a bad place for a while now. There’s been this overwhelming sense of stagnation, of hopelessness, that seems to hang over everything. I got my bachelor’s degree, and from that moment on, I made up my mind - I needed out.

I thought, if I could just get away from all of this, if I could go somewhere new, I would start over. I imagined a fresh beginning, as if I could leave behind all the weight I was carrying: the depression that clung to me like a second skin, the panic attacks that left me gasping for breath, the unrelenting voice in my head that constantly told me I wasn’t enough. I thought, maybe, just maybe, if I could cross the Mediterranean, everything would magically change. Like I would take a sip of some magical elixir that would erase it all. I’d leave behind the version of myself I hated and step into something better, SOMEONE better.

I thought it would be like Cinderella, you know? I’d get a fairy godmother and suddenly be whisked away to a better life. Only, my version of that story would be different. Mine would last forever, and the fairy godmother would never leave, because I’d be living in my personal Neverland, my own Magicland, where everything would just be... perfect.

Expectedly, one month in, and everything feels the same. I thought crossing the ocean would mark the start of a new chapter, one where I was somehow different, happier, and free from the things that made me feel broken. Instead, I feel... stagnant. I feel like I am watching the world move on, because I am still the same depressed girl whose brain is too loud; the only difference is I get to experience the snow. It's ironic AF because at 22, I was practically shouting at anyone who would listen about how leaving my country would make everything better.  I fought so hard to get here, to start over, to escape. And yet, here I am. Still the same girl, with the same heavy heart. 

To be honest, the one thing I’ve learned in this month is that the only constant in my life is me. I’ve spent so much of my life running. I guess I am a coward like that. I left my country thinking I could leave myself behind, but it turns out, you can’t outrun the things that live inside of you.

I’ve been running from situations, from feelings, from people, and from conflict. Anything that made me uncomfortable, anything that challenged me, I’d leave it behind. But here’s the kicker: running doesn’t fix anything. The problem is me. I don’t know how to stop running. And I don’t know how to face what I’ve been running from. There’s this constant tension in my chest, this feeling that I’m not where I’m supposed to be, that I’m somehow always behind, always falling short. I thought I could outrun those feelings by going somewhere new, but they followed me here. They always do.

What’s even harder is the shame I feel. How do I admit to the community I left behind that I’m still struggling? That I ran across an ocean and fought for this life, only to face the same battles I’ve always faced? How do I tell them that I’m still that girl, still fighting the same internal wars, still unsure of myself, still afraid of failure?

How do I tell them that, despite everything I thought would change, I’m still not “better”? I’m not the brave, transformed person I told everyone I would be. I feel like a fraud, like I’ve let down the people who believed in me, who encouraged me to take this leap. The truth feels like a heavy weight on my chest—how do I tell them that I came all this way just to face the very things I was running from?. So instead, I’ll write this here, in the safety of a blank page. It’s easier to pour my heart out to strangers than to the people who know me best. It feels less scary somehow.

The thing is, I’m beginning to realize something important. Running cannot solve my problems, instead, it’s almost like I’ve been running from myself thinking that a new country, a new life, a new version of me would somehow fix all the things I’ve never been able to face. But that’s not how this works, is it? I need a change. And I know I sound like Rachel Green when she says "but what if i dont want to be a shoe anymore?"—but I genuinely cannot run anymore. I'm exhausted.

I’m not sure what that looks like yet, this change I’m talking about. I don’t know if it means therapy or just sitting with the discomfort instead of running from it. I don’t know if it’s about forgiving myself for not being perfect or accepting that I’m allowed to be messy, to be broken.

But I do know one thing: I can’t keep pretending that leaving everything behind will somehow make me whole. Maybe the key to healing isn’t in escaping the things that hurt me, but in learning how to face them. Slowly. Gently. One day at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll stop feeling so ashamed of my own journey. Maybe, I’ll stop being afraid to tell the people I left behind that I’m still working on myself. Because the truth is, starting over isn’t a one-time event. It’s a process. A long, messy, uncomfortable process. And I’m learning that it’s okay not to have it all figured out.