If you have stopped by this corner of the internet over the past few months and wondered where I went, the short answer is that life asked me to be entirely quiet. I haven’t published a post in what feels like ages, not because I ran out of things to say, but because I was moving through a season that demanded every single drop of my capacity just to get through the day.
Pull up a chair. Get comfortable with a cup of coffee. We need to catch up, and I want to tell you the unfiltered truth about where I’ve been.
The Numbness Nobody Talks About
Around July, my mental health entered territory I had never experienced before. I know burnout; I know the physical exhaustion that pins you to a bed, the racing thoughts, and the panic that makes breathing feel impossible. But this was something entirely different.
I felt nothing.
No sadness, no fatigue, no anxiety, no anger—and absolutely no joy. Nothing could spark happiness, enthusiasm, or even mild curiosity. My internal world went completely flat. It was as if someone had pulled the main circuit breaker on my nervous system. I withdrew from everyone because I simply didn't possess the emotional energy to generate basic human conversation.
The scariest part of deep numbness isn't the quiet; it’s the disconnection. During those weeks, for the first time in my life, I found myself understanding something I had never comprehended before: why some people inflict physical pain on themselves. When you are trapped in an absolute emotional void, you realize that pain is at least a sensation—proof that you are still alive inside your skin. I never hurt myself, but having my brain touch that realization terrified me.
I didn't know what was happening to me until my doctor audited my chart. We realized that my medication was doing its job with brutal efficiency—it had erased the dark lows, but it had completely obliterated the highs along with them. With medical supervision, we slowly lowered my dose until I finally tapered off. And slowly, like warm water returning to numb fingers, the fog lifted. I can finally say that I feel awake again. I feel like myself.
Aging Parents, Border Lines, and an Unforgiving Clock
Just as my mind was clearing, late August arrived, and I boarded a plane to Mexico to visit my family until early October.
It was precious to hug my parents, but if you are an immigrant navigating midlife, you know the heavy lump in the throat that comes with those visits. My parents are older now, and the reality is that they need more assistance. Watching that unfold up close while knowing that my home, my family, and my daily reality are thousands of miles away in Montreal brings a very specific kind of heartbreak. You do everything you can while you are there, but distance is an unyielding wall. You cannot clone yourself.
That trip forced me to look straight into the face of a terrifying math equation: my career timeline.
I made the conscious choice to emigrate in my thirties. I had my daughter at thirty-seven, and between infant care and raising a young child, I wasn't realistically ready to step back into the workforce until I was forty-two. That lost decade eats at me. It brings a profound wave of frustration and quiet panic because our society is not kind to women re-entering the professional landscape after forty. I look at corporate job descriptions and I know the unspoken reality: nobody is going to hire an employee who tells them, “By the way, I need to leave for an entire month every four months to take care of my parents in Mexico.”
That is simply not an option in the traditional corporate playbook. So the reality is stark: I have to build my own way through.
Ground Zero on the Ledger
That realization has made my financial uncertainty a heavy companion. Right now, I am working part-time in my finance role, but my corporate income was reduced to roughly twenty percent of what it used to be. Meanwhile, the entrepreneurial paths I have been tending to are in that fragile, sleepless phase where they are merely surviving.
Here in Canada, my side projects are barely keeping their heads above water. In Mexico, I have two small business initiatives—thankfully, I have a trusted partner on the ground handling daily logistics while I manage the operational and financial administration remotely—but we are just breaking even. There is no profit yet. There is only sweat equity, seed money, and patience.
Returning to Montreal this month didn’t feel like a victorious, energized reset. I arrived physically, mentally, and emotionally depleted from weeks of running around, worrying, and carrying a mental load that spans two countries and three currencies.
The hardest part of my routine right now is waking up in the morning. That split second when my eyes open is when the weight hits: the sheer uncertainty of what the day will bring. Will it bring good news, an unexpected expense, a family worry, or another logistical fire to put out? Once I get out of bed, make my coffee, and put my hands to work, momentum takes over and my day flows well. But facing that unknown every single morning takes courage.
Choosing to Show Up Anyway
I spent years believing that you should only share your story when you have reached the summit—when the businesses are thriving, the finances are fully automated, and you have neatly wrapped up your struggles with an inspiring lesson.
I don't believe that anymore.
I am writing this today not because I have arrived, but because I am right in the messy middle of the construction site. My budget is tight. My timeline feels compressed. My heart stays partially anchored in Mexico with two aging parents who need me, and my hands are busy building businesses that haven't paid off yet.
Yet, I am sitting here with my coffee, and I am grateful. The numbness is gone. I can feel the anxiety, yes, but I can also feel the deep love for my people, the sharp clarity in my mind, and the stubborn spark that refuses to stop building. Feeling the fear is proof that I am present.
If you are navigating an unpaved road where the traditional formulas don’t fit your life, you are not alone. Sometimes success isn't a massive breakthrough; sometimes success is simply waking up, acknowledging the uncertainty, and deciding to take the next small step anyway.
It is really, truly good to be back.
Love, Fabi
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