At 35, I lost everything I had. My husband, the man I had trusted with my heart, betrayed me with my best friend. The same woman who held my hand through labor, who promised she’d always have my back. He abandoned me and didn’t want anything to do with our daughter. As if that wasn’t enough, the very same month, my boss—who I had worked tirelessly for—called me into his office and told me they were “going in a new direction.”
I was directionless.
That night, I locked myself in the bathroom, slid down the wall, and sobbed until my body ached. My mind replayed everything on a loop—my marriage, my friendship, my job. My entire world had collapsed, and I didn’t know how to rebuild it.
Then, somewhere between the sobs and the silence, a thought pushed its way to the surface. I need to leave. Not just my apartment, not just my city—everything. I needed a fresh start, a place where no one knew my name, where no one pitied me or whispered behind my back.
Without hesitation, I opened my laptop, my fingers shaking as I searched for flights. The cursor blinked at me, daring me to make a move. Then I saw it—Santiago, Chile. A place I had never been, a country that held no memories of my past.
I clicked. One-way ticket. No plan, no backup. Just me and my three-year-old daughter, Lily.
For the first time in weeks, I felt something close to excitement.
The week leading up to the flight was a blur of packing, selling what I could, and trying to explain to Lily that we were going on an “adventure.” She was too young to understand the heartbreak behind my decision, but I prayed she’d feel my determination instead of my fear.
At the airport, as I handed over my passport, the enormity of what I was doing hit me like a wave. I was alone. No friends to call, no partner to reassure me, no safety net waiting on the other side. Just me and Lily, stepping into the unknown.
The flight was long, and when we landed in Santiago, exhaustion clung to me like a second skin. The air smelled different, the voices around me spoke in rapid Spanish, and the city pulsed with life. But there was no time to second-guess myself. I grabbed our bags, scooped Lily into my arms, and walked straight into our new life.
The first few weeks were hard. My Spanish was clunky at best, and the job market wasn’t exactly welcoming to a foreigner with no connections. I stretched every dollar I had, found a tiny apartment with peeling paint but a sturdy lock, and enrolled Lily in a small preschool.
Most nights, after she fell asleep, I lay awake questioning everything. Had I made a mistake? Had I been reckless? The fear clawed at me, but I refused to let it win.
Then, one evening, as I sat on a park bench watching Lily chase after a butterfly, a woman sat next to me.
“You’re not from here,” she said in accented English.
I looked up, startled. She smiled, her dark eyes warm. “I’m Ana. I see you here often with your daughter.”
I nodded. “I just moved here. Still trying to figure things out.”
Ana’s smile widened. “I moved here years ago. The first months are hard, but they get better. You just need to find your people.”
I didn’t know it then, but Ana would become my first real friend in Chile.
Through Ana, I met others. She introduced me to a community of expats and locals who understood what it was like to start over. Someone helped me polish my resume in Spanish, another guided me through job interviews, and before I knew it, I landed a job at a small publishing house. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was stable.
More than that, it was mine.
Slowly, life in Santiago began to feel like home. I learned how to navigate the city, picked up enough Spanish to haggle at the markets, and even started to laugh again.
But the real moment of change came one evening when I was helping Lily with her bedtime routine. As I tucked her in, she reached for my hand and said, “Mommy, I like it here. Can we stay forever?”
Tears burned behind my eyes, but this time, they weren’t from sadness.
“Yes, baby,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “We can stay as long as we want.”
Looking back, I realize that buying that ticket wasn’t an escape—it was a beginning.
Losing everything had felt like the end of my world, but in reality, it was just the end of a chapter. And as painful as it was, it forced me to write a new one, one where I was stronger, braver, and finally in control of my own happiness.
Today, I have a life I never imagined—one built from scratch, with people who became family and a city that became home.
If you’re reading this and you feel like everything is falling apart, maybe—just maybe—it’s falling into place.
Would you ever take a risk like this? Let me know in the comments, and if you enjoyed my story, don’t forget to like and share! ❤️
