The End of a 13-Year Mourning

There are moments in life that arrive slowly, without grand gestures or clear turning points, but instead slip quietly into your reality and begin to rearrange something deep inside you, almost without you realizing it at first.

For me, this shift began with something that, on the surface, seemed almost insignificant – a chance encounter on an online dating app, the kind you would normally forget within minutes. And yet, this one didn’t fade. It stayed, and more than that, it reflected something back to me with a clarity that felt almost uncomfortable.

It bluntly reminded me of my own value and worth.

And in that moment, something inside me finally stood up.

For the first time in a very long time, I chose myself. I said no. And for someone who has spent years being a people pleaser, someone who struggled to set boundaries and who found it incredibly difficult to say no without guilt, this was not a small gesture. It was a rupture. A quiet, internal revolution.

Stepping into my own power

From that point on, something began to shift in ways I could both feel and observe.

I found myself in a place where I feel truly in my power. My intuition is booming, almost unmistakably present, guiding me with a certainty I had long forgotten – a strange kind of energy, one that does not ask for permission and does not seek validation, but simply knows.

At the same time, I became aware of something else returning into my life – the way I am seen.

I started noticing a shift in the way I am perceived – a certain openness in interactions, a warmth in the way people engage with me, a subtle sense of being seen that I had not felt in a long time. And I cannot deny how alive that makes me feel. There is something deeply affirming, almost electric, in that quiet exchange of energy – through a glance, a word, or simply the way presence is acknowledged.

And it feels… beautiful. Truly.

And yet, it is also slightly unsettling.

Because this is not entirely new. It is a familiar feeling, one I had known before, during high school and my college years, when being at ease in my own femininity came naturally, without analysis or restraint. But somewhere along the way, I lost touch with that version of myself, to the point where rediscovering her now feels both exhilarating and, at times, almost overwhelming.

Tracing it back

During a recent therapy session, I was asked a difficult question: when did this shift actually happen? When did I start disconnecting from my body, from my softness, from my femininity, and begin relying almost exclusively on strength, control and resilience?

And the answer, when it came, felt both obvious and heavy.

2013. The year my father died.

I have always known that this was a turning point in my life, but I don’t think I fully understood the depth of its impact until now.

Before he got sick, I was still, in many ways, an unawakened, perhaps even slightly naive version of myself. Life had not yet asked me to carry more than I could comfortably hold. But within a matter of months, everything changed.

We switched roles.

He became the child – helpless, scared, vulnerable in a way I had never seen before.

And I became the parent.

I had to take him to Switzerland every three weeks for treatment. I had to sit alone in a hospital cafeteria, amongst strangers, waiting while he was in surgery, not knowing whether he would come out of that operating room alive. I spent long hours by his side during chemotherapy, doing my best to lift his spirits and give him strength to keep fighting. I had to learn how to contain fear, how to function under pressure, how to keep going when stopping was simply not an option.

It was too much for me to carry.

And yet, there was no alternative but to endure it.

Holding everything together

After he died, there was no space left for grief in the way I imagine it exists for others.

There were things to take care of. Affairs to settle. A mother to support – a mother who was so deeply shattered by his loss that she seemed, at times, almost disconnected from life itself.

I remember the anger I carried during that period. It was immense, consuming, the kind of anger that feels like it could burn the entire world down. I was angry at God for taking away the one person I loved most, my accomplice, my rock, my lifeline.

People have said that my father was the kind of person who is born every thousand years. Perhaps that is true.

But for me, he was simply my dearest accomplice – the one who raised me with patience and humor, who taught me how to play basketball and badminton (chess and driving – not so much 🙃), who would gently make fun of me when something didn’t work our just to push me forward, and who would call me “Adriana” whenever he wanted to tease me. When I once asked him what I should do to become a “boss” someday, he taught me something far more important: to always smile and to treat everyone with kindness, regardless of their status or position. He even used to write my Romanian literature essays in middle school, with a care and dedication I only fully understand now.

Shortly after he passed away, my marriage began to show its first cracks. And in a way that still feels almost surreal, I later realized that my father had foreseen this long before it became visible to me.

A few years before he got sick, after retiring from his high-profile role in the Romanian Army, he sent me an email titled “Happiness!”. In it, he explained that he had carefully and patiently observed my life and my marriage, and that he did not believe I was on the right path. He urged me to reconsider my choices before it would be too late, and expressed a quiet wish for me to experience a different kind of love – one with more reciprocity, more balance.

I could not even finish reading that email.

I buried it somewhere deep in my Inbox and chose not to speak about it, not even to him. I acted as if I had never received it at all. I was not ready to hear those words, and so I simply refused to let them exist.

Building a life, losing myself

In the years that followed, life continued, and in many ways, it flourished.

My daughter was born – my greatest wish and biggest miracle – and with her came a new sense of purpose. Eventually, I made the difficult decision to end my marriage, despite the fear and the warnings that came with it. I was told that solitude would be hard to manage, that I might never find the kind of partner I was looking for, especially later in life.

And yet, I felt that I had no other choice. I had to save myself.

What followed was a period of growth that, from the outside, looked almost ideal. I built a career I am proud of, I found financial stability, I bought my own home, I became fully capable of providing for my child, I overcame fears, I grew, I learned, I was seen and acknowledged.

The outside world was alive, dynamic, full of movement.

On the inside, I became stronger, more grounded, more stable.

But also heavier.

Not just physically, although the weight did begin to accumulate steadily after my father’s death and continued after pregnancy, until it eventually felt unmanageable. 

I had disconnected from my body and retreated into my mind, where everything felt more predictable, more controlled, more safe.

It also served another purpose – it made me less visible as a woman.

Working in environments dominated by men, often competing for power and influence, I found it easier to rely entirely on my masculine energy. It was effective. It brought results. It protected me.

But it came at a cost.

My feminine side was left behind.

The moment everything stopped

Last year has been already difficult, filled with professional challenges, disillusionment, and the emotional toll of seeing something I cared deeply about begin to unravel.

And then, in October, when I thought I might finally have a moment to breathe, everything came to a halt.

I got sick.

What started as a weakened immune system turned into pneumonia and respiratory failure, and I found myself admitted to the hospital, for the first time since giving birth ten years earlier.

I was terrified.

Truly terrified in a way that stripped away all the layers of control I had built over the years.

My carefully structured life, the system I had created to manage everything, became suddenly irrelevant. My daughter and my mother were at home, struggling to keep up with daily life, while I was held prisoner in a hospital room, unable to do anything but wait.

Even the people I would normally rely on were unavailable.

And for the first time in years, I had no option but to stop.

Learning to listen

What initially felt like a breakdown slowly revealed itself as something else.

A standstill that had been imposed on me, but also one that I needed.

For an entire week, I had no responsibilities other than eating, sleeping, watching podcasts, and allowing myself to be taken care of. And in that space, something I had avoided for years finally surfaced.

I started reflecting on my journey – on what had brought me to that point, and on what needed to change in order for me to move forward.

I realized that I was not alone, even if I felt that way at times. The amount of support I received during those days, from people who showed up, listened, helped in practical ways, reminded me of how fortunate I truly am.

And slowly, I began to accept that this pause was not a punishment.

It was an invitation.

Coming back to myself

After years of giving everything to my mind, I understood that it was finally time to reconnect with my body, to give it the care and attention I had withheld for so long.

And something shifted again.

Without forcing it, without imposing strict rules or discipline, I began to change small things. I started walking. I paid more attention to what and when I eat. I listened.

And my body responded.

I lost 12 kilos since October, almost effortlessly.

But more than that, I began to feel different.

Lighter. More present. More alive.

I found music that resonates with this new state. I found a perfume that feels like an extension of who I am becoming. I feel beautiful in a way that does not depend on external validation, but still fully enjoys it when it comes.

Letting her return

And now, it feels like it is finally time to let my masculine side rest.

He has carried me through everything — through grief, through responsibility, through survival. He has protected me, pushed me, and helped me build the life I have today.

But he is no longer the only one who needs to lead.

It is time for my feminine side to come forward. Not as something fragile or secondary, but as something essential. As something powerful in its own way.

To move from my mind into my body.

To create from the heart, not just from logic.

To allow softness, intuition, presence, and even vulnerability to exist without immediately trying to control or suppress them.

A quiet ending, a new beginning

A couple of days ago, I went back to the hospital for my five-month check-up.

The doctor told me that my lungs are back to normal, that everything looks good, that the recovery is progressing well. She mentioned that losing more weight will continue to improve my health.

And then, almost casually, she said that I look good. Young.

She remembered that I have a daughter.

And in that moment, I felt something that is difficult to fully describe.

A sense of lightness.

Of relief.

Of quiet certainty.

Because I knew that what she was seeing was not just physical recovery.

It was something deeper.

A return.

Perhaps, finally, the end of a 13-year long mourning.

A moment where my mind and my heart begin to find balance again.

Where strength and intuition are no longer opposing forces, but parts of the same whole.

I feel incredibly grateful for everything that has brought me here.

For the pain.
For the lessons.
For the people who stayed.
For the ones who left.

And for the version of me that is now emerging, slowly but surely, into the light.

The road ahead still feels unknown, and at times, even frightening.

But I trust myself.

I trust life.

I trust God.

And maybe, just maybe… I am only just getting started. ✨