I feel like I will never know who I am: and that’s inspiring

“You should never view your challenges as a disadvantage. Instead, it’s important for you to understand that your experience facing and overcoming adversity is actually one of your biggest advantages.” Michelle Obama

It’s the kind of question that sounds philosophical when asked in a university lecture, but it hits differently when you’re 54, staring down the second act of your life with no map, no compass, and no one left to call for directions.

I’m not asking it because I’m lost. I’m asking it because I’ve outgrown the woman I used to be and I’m not entirely sure who’s stepping up to take her place.

I’ve lived many lives in one. Some I chose. Some I was thrown into. I was born just outside Belfast, in a city where your name, your accent, and your postcode could write a whole story before you ever spoke a word. It was a place divided by more than just roads. Walls, flags, whispered warnings, unspoken rules. As a kid, you didn’t always understand it, but you felt it, there was an undercurrent of tension humming beneath everything.

And yet, there was laughter too. Family. Community. The smell of your mum’s dinner floating down the street before you’d even opened the front door. That unique Northern Irish humour; dark, dry, and always delivered with a wink. I carry that with me still. It's stitched into my bones.

But I left. Eventually, inevitably. First in my head, then with a suitcase. I moved to Australia in my 30s, thinking I’d find peace, sun, space. Maybe even myself. I was looking for a fresh start, but as it turns out, you don’t get to leave your story behind just because you’ve changed your postcode. Grief has a way of finding you, even across oceans.

I lost my dad first. Then my sister. Then my brother. Each loss chipped away at something in me, not just grief, but the slow, aching realisation that my anchor points were vanishing. And just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, my mum passed. That loss unmoored me in ways I still can’t fully explain.

Then Maximus, my cat, and my constant, died suddenly just three weeks later as if he couldn’t bear the weight of the grief either. He was more than a pet. He was the one who sat with me in silence, who asked for nothing but gave me everything. When he went, it felt like the final thread holding me together had snapped.

So, who am I now, with no family left to call my own?

I am the woman who still sets the table for one, even though the silence can be deafening.

I am the woman who gets up and goes to work, who leads meetings, gives demos, sells ideas, and keeps a brave face even when her insides are unraveling.

I am the woman who lies awake at night, worrying if she’s done enough, been enough, is enough.

And I am also the woman who knows that survival is its own quiet kind of success.

These days, I work in medical technology, specifically rehabilitation. I help people regain movement, independence, and confidence. And some days I wonder if I was drawn to this work because I, too, am trying to rehabilitate myself. To rebuild after life knocked me flat. To regain movement in my own stalled spirit.

But truth be told, I’m tired.

I’m tired of always having to reinvent myself. Of having to prove myself again and again. Of fighting for job security, recognition, peace of mind. Of being the one who holds it together while quietly falling apart.

And yet, I keep showing up.

Because there is something inside me, stubbornness or hope that refuses to let me go under.

I live with my two Persian cats now, Monty and Leonardo Di Catprio. Monty is cheeky, playful, obsessed with sleeping on my sneakers. Leo, the greedy guts one, is never more than two feet away from me at any time. They are not just pets. They are anchors. They remind me that I still have something to care for. That life still needs me to show up, even if it’s just to refill the food bowl or try and fix the broken ball I got for them from Temu.

I share a house with Hoda, my Iranian housemate, who is studying for her PhD in Law at Bond University. She feeds the cats every morning, that’s her job, and she does it faithfully. She speaks four languages, works tirelessly, and tries to help with the cleaning even though we both know I’ll redo it because of my OCD tendencies. We joke that Monty is hers and Leonardo is mine, but really, they both belong to all of us. A little family, pieced together out of circumstance and necessity but real all the same.

Sometimes I say I live with a house full of Persians. And I laugh because it’s true in more ways than one.

I don’t wear cardigans. I don’t do activewear. I live in jeans and a nice top, with a spritz of fragrance that lasts all day and makes me feel like I’ve got my life together even when I don’t. I own a pair of Manolos I bought in London and a pair of glittery heels from New York that I’ve worn precisely once. They sit in my wardrobe like relics from a former life, a reminder of the girl who used to chase dreams in stilettos.

That girl still exists. She’s just wearing flats now.

I worry I’ve missed my chance. That I peaked too soon or not at all. That I’ll be stuck in this grind forever, always trying, always hustling, never quite catching the break I deserve. But then I remember something:

I’ve made it through every version of hell I’ve walked through. I’ve rebuilt from ashes more times than I can count. I’ve lived without the safety net that most people take for granted, I have no parents to lean on, no siblings to call, no family dinners or birthday cards. Just me. And yet, here I am.

That’s not failure. That’s strength.

I can’t always see it when I’m in the thick of it. Some days I feel like a fraud. Like I’m wearing someone else’s confidence, pretending I’ve got it all figured out when really, I’m just winging it like everyone else.

But maybe that’s the answer to the question. Maybe “Who am I?” isn’t something you answer once. Maybe it’s something you keep asking because every season of life writes a new chapter, and every version of you deserves to be known.

So, who am I?

I’m a survivor. A storyteller. A work in progress. I’m grief, grit, and grace rolled into one. I’m the woman who keeps going even when she doesn’t know where she’s going.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.