From Struggle to Sovereignty: An Expat Mother’s Journey of Courage and Transformation in the UAE

Some leaps terrify you not because they are risky—but because they are transformative. Twelve years ago, I stood at such a crossroads. I flew to the UAE for a job interview—and walked away rejected. Most would have turned back. I almost did. But something inside me refused to yield. I didn’t just confront rejection—I saw possibility. A chance to rewrite my story, to claim a future beyond anything I had dared to imagine. That moment became the spark for a journey from survival to sovereignty, from fear to fierce, unapologetic growth.

Back in Canada, with three young daughters depending on me, doubt gnawed at every decision. Yet the pull of possibility was stronger than the fear. I spent months researching, planning, and preparing, then returned to the UAE for ten whirlwind days—ten days that stretched beyond exhaustion: sunrises filled with research, back-to-back meetings, and relentless conversations with anyone willing to open a door. I came home not with a contract, but with something far more powerful: hope. Three companies showed interest. One made an offer. Without overthinking, without fully knowing the storm I was stepping into, I said yes. Six weeks later, we packed up our lives—clothes, toys, memories, and dreams—and moved across the world to a land where we knew no one.

I wasn’t just leaving my home—I was leaving the only life I had ever known. The laughter spilling from sleepovers at my parents’ house. The comfort of neighbours who had become family. The tiny routines that made every day familiar and safe. And most of all, the fragile hearts of three little girls clinging to me at the airport, their tears soaking into my shoulder, their small voices trembling as they begged to stay with the friends, schools, and family they had ever known.

I swallowed the fear that clawed at my chest, kissed their foreheads, and whispered a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep: Everything will be okay.

Every fibre of me wanted to turn back, to hold onto the world we were leaving behind. But beneath the fear, something stronger stirred—a quiet, fierce resolve. This was more than a move; it was a leap into the unknown, a step toward a life that would demand every ounce of courage I had, and yet, promise a transformation I could not yet imagine.

And in that moment, as the plane lifted off the ground, I realized: leaving wasn’t losing—it was the first heartbeat of the life I was meant to live.

But that promise fractured on my very first day.

I walked into a boardroom thick with cigarette smoke, a long table lined with men. I was the only expat woman. The only one who didn’t speak Arabic. Polite English greetings quickly faded, leaving me stranded in silence, invisible in plain sight. Shock slammed into me. Isolation pressed my chest tight. Every instinct screamed: Run. Go home. But home no longer existed. I had sold our house, uprooted my children, and bet everything on this leap. There was no turning back.

So, I did what women have done for generations: I straightened my back, lifted my chin, and stepped into the storm. I forced a smile. I pretended I belonged. Pretended I wasn’t suffocating. Pretended—for my daughters’ sake—that their mother was unshakable. And in the quiet, when no one was watching, I reminded myself: life can hand you bitter lemons, but you can still craft the sweetest, most powerful lemonade—and in doing so, you teach your children how to rise, no matter the odds.

The early months were relentless. I was the only one with a job, yet every step forward required a battle. Securing visas for my family in 2014 by a female felt nearly impossible—unless you were a doctor or teacher, the doors were firmly closed. But I refused to accept “no.” I spent endless hours in immigration offices, navigating language barriers and systems never designed for women like me. My next battle was schools. I wanted one anchor of stability for my girls, but the only solution meant two schools miles apart. Each day became a marathon of logistics, patience, and endurance. Then, six months in, my husband took a role in Qatar and left. Suddenly, I was alone. Alone to raise three daughters. Alone to build a home. Alone to carry dreams that often felt far too heavy for my shoulders. Yet, with every challenge, something inside me grew stronger.

I applied endlessly for new roles—each rejection a wound, each silence a reminder of how fragile everything felt. Fear of failing my daughters haunted me daily. But almost a year later, when hope was threadbare, Mubadala reached out. It felt like divine intervention. Relief flooded me. This was my break—the start of a chapter that would transform me forever.

The juggle was relentless. Two school drop-offs in the morning. Three newsletters to read. A demanding job that devoured every ounce of my energy. A household that rested entirely on my shoulders.

On only my second day at Mubadala, the school called: my daughter had been badly injured—a broken arm, requiring three physiotherapy sessions a week for seven long weeks, all during working hours. I handled it alone, with a smile, because there was no other option.

Every evening, as I drove through the glowing blur of city lights, fear whispered: What if I got into an accident on the way home? Who will care for my children? I had no family, no safety net, no emergency contact. And yet, that fear did not paralyze me—it became my fuel. It pushed me to build a community, brick by brick, until I created a village that became my anchor, my lifeline, and my strength.

There were nights my daughters cried, longing for home, begging to go back. My heart broke, but I held them close and reminded them—and myself—that home is not a place. Home is love. Home is resilience. Home is us, together, wherever we stand.

Looking back, I no longer see exhaustion and fear. I see courage etched into my bones. I see determination that refused to bend. I see daughters who watched me rise from struggle and learned that they, too, are unbreakable.

The UAE was never just a place I lived. It became the crucible where invisibility was shed, where my voice found strength, and where I stepped fully into my power. Here, I gave birth to my son. Here, I faced cancer—and survived. Here, I walked away from a 27-year marriage, embraced single parenthood, and found the courage to speak my truth aloud with pride. This land didn’t just give me a career—it gave me freedom, growth, and the audacity to live unapologetically as myself.

Today, my daughters remind me why I took that leap.“Mama,” one says, “watching you face everything taught me to believe in myself.”Another says, “We carry your strength wherever we go.”And my youngest, with quiet wisdom, once whispered, “Home wasn’t Canada or the UAE. Home was you.”

What began as a move for survival became a legacy. I didn’t just build a career—I built courage, resilience, and hope. These are the gifts my children carry forward, the blueprint for fearless living.

So, listen carefully, to anyone standing at the edge of change: fear is never a stop sign. Fear is a compass pointing toward growth. You will stumble. You will doubt. You will feel isolated. But if you step forward anyway, you will discover strength you never knew, a community you never expected, and a life far more extraordinary than you imagined.

If I could speak to my younger self, I would say this: I see you. I honour you. I am in awe of you. I know the fear feels crushing, the uncertainty endless, the path invisible. But every step you take—especially the ones that terrify you—is forging the extraordinary woman you were always meant to be.

Do not shrink. Do not apologize for your courage. Stand tall. Step forward. Keep believing. One day, you will look back and realize the leaps that shook you to your core were the very milestones that defined your life.

You once trembled at the thought of sharing your voice. And now? Look at the fire you’ve sparked. Your courage does not just change your life—it lights the way for others. It shows them what is possible: to rise, to heal, to rebuild, to dream. That is your gift. That is your power.

So here is what I say to anyone standing at the edge of fear: jump. Leap boldly. Leap loudly. Leap into fear with everything you have—the life you were born to live is waiting on the other side.

From Struggle to Sovereignty

“The fear you feel now is the strength you will need tomorrow. Keep going, always.” — Faiza Chaudhary