The Sun Will Come Out for Me Too

On April 16th, I landed back in Montreal, but a part of me stayed suspended in the air, floating somewhere in between on the map. There are trips that aren't just a change of geographical coordinates, but a fracture in time. Spending two months in Mexico, temporarily stripped of my daily labels, forced me to look at myself in a clean mirror. For eight weeks, I wasn’t the professional who solves everyone else's crises, nor the day-to-day strategist, nor the other half of a couple, nor the mother holding a home together. I was simply a daughter. In a way, I was a single woman without children, walking through the streets of my past. And in that silence, I discovered something both terrifying and beautiful: I am still me. The spark is still there. The creative woman, the one who thinks fast, the one who analyzes the world with curious and hungry eyes, hadn’t been extinguished. She was just tucked away, waiting for winter to end.

However, returning to reality in Montreal brought an internal winter that refused to back down. This is the first day since I came back that I truly feel capable of sitting in front of the screen and pulling the words outward. A whole month of silence has passed. A month where I’ve had to process a highly unusual state, a quiet transition that weighs heavily on both the body and the mind. I catch myself thinking, almost guiltily, that I can no longer be the same person I was six years ago. I compare myself to that version who seemed to have everything under control, who ran without getting tired, who led with a strength that felt inexhaustible. And in doing so, I realize just how incredibly harsh we are on ourselves.

Expecting a body and a mind that have gone through a deep burnout to act, produce, and feel exactly the same as before the break is an invisible injustice. For nearly four years, I was at the peak of my health, taking care of every single detail, building a temple of well-being. But after the 2024 collapse, the path of rebuilding hasn't been a straight upward line. It has been winding terrain. I’ve tried everything. I’ve implemented systems, I’ve changed routines, I’ve looked for answers in discipline and structure, but the result is usually the same: a persistent feeling of fragility. A constant reminder that I am not made of stone. Sometimes, paralysis isn’t laziness or a lack of ambition; it is simply nervous system fatigue—a defence mechanism saying "slow down" when the environment demands that you "run."

Accepting this is complex when you face the famous midlife crisis. People talk a lot about it in a joking tone, but when you inhabit it, you discover its weight is real. It’s looking in the mirror and noticing physical changes you didn’t ask for: hair that seems to lose its strength, vitality that fluctuates, collagen saying goodbye, and that persistent feeling that, instead of designing a life, you are simply in a state of pure survival, trying to keep all the plates spinning in the air without letting a single one crash to the ground. On those gray days, my gaze shifts to what gives meaning to the chaos. I see my daughter, I see her light, her growth, and I immediately rediscover the anchor that keeps me grounded here in the present. She is the engine that won't let me give up.

But the real dilemma, the knot I am trying to untie with these lines today, isn't on the outside—it's in the very structure of my daily life. The big question spinning in my head is: how do I fit MYSELF back into this life of a partner and family that I have already built? How do you reclaim individual space when shared responsibilities demand so much room? The trip proved to me that my individual essence remains intact, but when I came back to fit into Montreal's routine, the mold felt tight, or perhaps I am the one who no longer fits into the old dynamics the same way. It’s a subtle transition, a kind of grief for absolute autonomy contrasted with a deep love for the home I have built.

This tension inevitably spills over into the professional arena. The creative side of my mind is right there, vibrating, full of ideas for my consultancy, visualizing perfect dashboards, optimized workflows, and writing that connects from a place of honesty. But at the same time, fear has taken the driver's seat. A dense, real fear of losing my income, of seeing the stability that took so much effort to build disappear. Currently, I am freelancing to support my own finances and systems practice, but I only have one client on retainer. I have spent two whole months with no drive, lacking the vital energy to go out and look for a new client, to sell my vision, to convince someone else of what I am capable of.

It is a state of total paralysis that is deeply frustrating for someone who defines herself through efficiency and order. I know exactly what I need to do, I know the tools, I know how to design a successful prospecting strategy, but when it comes time to execute, the body doesn’t respond. I freeze. I’ve gained weight, I’ve lost the desire to move and to start projects that used to excite me. It’s as if the engine is running, but the gear is stuck in neutral. I constantly ask myself what is wrong with me, why my mind wants to move forward while the rest of my being chooses to retreat.

However, seasons change, both outside and inside. Today, after two intense weeks working full-time to cover vacancies, I am finally returning to my part-time schedule. It’s a breather my body was screaming for. Fewer hours spent facing others' operational emergencies means more mental space to breathe, to process, and to inhabit myself once again. And on top of that, the sun has finally come out in Montreal. Those of us who live in this corner of the world know that the sun here isn't just a weather event; it’s a direct injection of energy to the soul, a visual reminder that light always returns, no matter how long or cold the winter was.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers today, nor do I expect to snap out of this paralysis with a magic productivity formula overnight. I’ve learned the hard way that self-compassion is an indispensable ingredient in rebuilding. I cannot be the Fabi of six years ago because time doesn’t run backward, but I can start to discover who the Fabi of today is: a more mature professional, a woman who knows her limits, a creative mind who, despite the fear and fragility, chooses to write again. The path is small, step by step. Today, the achievement was opening this document. Today, the achievement is recognizing the fear without letting it define me. I look out the window, see the brightness on the streets, and I have the quiet, internal certainty that very soon, the sun will come out for me too.

Love, Fabi

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