“Owning My Choices: The Cost of Giving Roots—And the Art of Moving On”

Today, my daughter is out on a boat, surrounded by friends who will never see the raw edges of her soul, captained by a father who has always been more concerned with appearances than connection. He’s the type who’ll invite me to Mother’s Day lunch for the sake of the family photo, but the moment his daughter suggests my presence on his precious boat, he recoils: “We’re not going to play happy family.”

As if the illusion of unity is more threatening than the reality of our fractured ties. He’s preoccupied with what the public thinks, even as he orchestrates these little performances of togetherness, careful never to let the mask slip too far.

And then there’s the soulmate, yes, that elusive character. He’s married again, not because he’s a hopeless romantic, but because a woman wanted him, and he said yes. Practicality dressed up as destiny.

I could have been on a plane to Düsseldorf this morning, chasing a story that was never really mine to finish. I didn’t go, because I know what I need, I stayed for myself—for the routine, the order, the rhythm that lets me rebuild from the inside out. To keep my head above water: routine, order, a rhythm that lets me rebuild from the inside out.

I’m not here out of some misplaced sense of faithfulness or martyrdom. I’m here because I’m strong. Not the kind of strength that needs applause or a hashtag, but the type that gets up, gets on and gets real—without the bullshit, without the show.

I’m not waiting for anyone’s gratitude or validation.

I’m not here to be the emotional safety net for people who only remember my number when the party’s over, and the silence gets loud.

I drink this glass of champagne not to toast my sacrifices but to mark my refusal to play the victim. I’m not less for staying; I’m more because I do it on my terms. I don’t measure myself by faithfulness. I stand firm, calling out the nonsense, refusing to dress up pain in polite language, and never pretending that being taken for granted is some kind of virtue.

So here’s to the ones who don’t sugarcoat, who don’t perform, who don’t need the world to clap for their strength.

Here’s to the ones who write, who rebuild, who refuse to be defined by other people’s lack of imagination.

Today, I raise my glass to be unapologetically myself: strong, authentic, clear-eyed, and no longer auditioning for anyone else’s story.

From here on out, I’m casting, directing, and producing the only film that matters: my own.

Curtain down on the old act. Next scene? I’m storyboarding it myself, graphic novel style.

May what Matters find us,

Irena Phaedra