Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

I still remember the weight of fear pressing on my chest the first time I stepped into a foreign country alone. The automatic doors of the airport slid open, and suddenly, I was on my own. No husband beside me. No one to guide or reassure me. Just me—and a suitcase full of nerves.

This trip wasn’t just about attending a medical conference in Sicily. It was about survival. I was still married, still living with my emotionally abusive husband, but quietly planning my exit. I had spent years shrinking myself, doubting my worth, and silencing my instincts. My confidence was shattered, and my identity buried beneath years of manipulation and control. But somewhere deep inside, the flicker of my old self remained. And she was ready to start clawing her way back.

The idea came through an email: the New York Section of the American Urological Association was hosting its annual meeting overseas. Sicily. I had never attended this section’s meeting before and knew I likely wouldn’t recognize a soul. That alone felt terrifying. But what struck me was the fact that they handled all the logistics—transportation, excursions, dinners. All I had to do was show up.

So I did.

And I was terrified.

The Fear in the Details

Getting off the plane, I was instantly disoriented. I had to navigate customs, find the right line, claim my baggage, figure out how to exchange currency without getting slammed by hidden fees. These might seem like routine travel hurdles, but to me, they felt enormous. My heart pounded as I emerged from the safe, fluorescent-lit baggage area into the unknown, scanning the crowd for a sign with my name. What if no one was there? Did I even know how to get to the hotel?

The Sicilian air was warm and fragrant, but I was too busy keeping my panic at bay to appreciate it. When I finally saw the sign with my name, it was all I could do to stop trembling.

The Reception: Alone in a Cocktail Dress

That evening was the welcome reception. The invitation said “business attire,” but I nervously chose a cocktail dress, hoping it would fit in. I arrived looking appropriate but feeling like an imposter. I knew no one. I hovered in the corners, wine glass in hand, sampling hors d’oeuvres my stomach could barely hold. I watched the laughter and hugs of colleagues reuniting, the easy confidence of friendships already formed. I felt invisible.

The conference organizers greeted me warmly and spent a few minutes with me. It helped, but the overwhelming sense of not belonging lingered. Still, I stayed. I stood in the shadows. I observed. I survived.

And that survival was a victory.

Year by Year, Step by Step

That trip changed me. Bit by bit.

I returned the following year. And the year after that. Italy. France. Spain. Malta. Morocco. Argentina. With each journey, I built a little more confidence. I met people who remembered meeting me—even when I didn’t recall them from the blur of my fear. One of the travel agents became a trusted friend and lifeline at future conferences. Eventually, I was invited to speak. It was the first time in a long time that my professional voice was recognized and respected.

What began as an act of desperation—just trying to escape the confines of my marriage and prove to myself that I could do something alone—turned into a powerful tradition of healing and growth. Each year, I raised my head a little higher. Each year, I wore a little less black.

A Series of First Steps

This is the first in a series of stories about reclaiming myself after years of emotional abuse. Some of the steps were timid. Some were terrifying. But every single one mattered. This first trip marked the beginning of my return—to myself.

Healing doesn’t happen all at once. Sometimes it begins with buying a plane ticket and daring to walk through an airport alone.