I left London for Australia at 22, not long after my mom died. I'd spent the final year of her life as her full-time caregiver as she battled with cancer. When she was gone, I needed to escape my hometown. I'll never forget my friend seeing me off, excitedly saying, 'You're so lucky to move to Australia!' I forced a smile because I felt the complete opposite. I was literally running away from my grief.
It was Ramadan, and in Zanzibar - outside the tourist area - this meant closed restaurants, shuttered groceries, and recommendations to refrain from even drinking water in public until after dark. The cultural norms, so normal for our hosts and neighbors, were way out of our comfort zone and, unfortunately, our realm of understanding. Still, my family of four made it our mission to connect with our Tanzanian neighbors.
When I first moved to New York in 2017, I drank the Kool-Aid: work hard, play hard. I had just finished university and another journalism internship in Vienna, and flew across the Atlantic with one suitcase and my résumé in hand. It felt like a scene from a movie. For eight years, I lived a Sex and the City lifestyle on a budget: strutting down the streets in high heels, heading to my first corporate job with fire and hope in my heart.
