The Journey Back to You

I will never forget the moment—fifteen years ago—when my friend leaned in and whispered the wildest, most daring idea: a girls’ trip. At first, we laughed nervously, our hearts pounding with equal parts longing and fear. Back then, carving out space for ourselves felt like treason. It wasn’t just rare—it was unthinkable. Forbidden. Bold. Reckless. Audacious. We planned our first trip, too afraid to let the world in and set-off for an adventure. 

But what I didn’t know then was this quiet act of defiance, this fragile seed of freedom, would one day grow into a lifeline. A tradition that wouldn’t just sustain me—it would save me.

I still see us at Toronto Pearson airport—beach hats in hand, food packed tight, ready to steal a moment just for ourselves. But the journey didn’t start at the destination. It began in the air, passing burgers down the aisle, our laughter breaking through the drone of the plane, drawing curious glances from strangers witnessing four women reclaiming their joy. In that stolen moment, our happiness became an act of defiance.

On the surface, it was just a weekend escape. But beneath that, it was a radical stand—a fierce refusal to stay shackled by the invisible chains of motherhood, careers, and the relentless demand to be everything for everyone.

We were young then, unaware of the power we already carried, unaware how much of ourselves we had surrendered—piece by piece—to a world that demanded perfection but punished authenticity.

That weekend in Fort Lauderdale was a spark—a beginning. A tradition born that would shape our lives forever.

Under the golden sun, something inside us shifted. We laughed until our ribs ached, confessed dreams long buried, and named fears we’d hidden deep in silence. For the first time in years, we breathed—not as mothers, not as wives, not as workers—but as women. Whole. Untamed. Unapologetic.

Since that first escape, these journeys have become sacred rituals.

No matter what life hurled our way—cross-continental moves, newborns, career upheavels, shattered marriages—we showed up. Every single time. I still remember going to Oman with my five-month-old son in tow, stealing slivers of myself between feedings and diaper changes. Because skipping a girls’ trip was never an option. It was our unspoken vow—our quiet rebellion—that no matter how much life tried to break us, we would not break.

Paris. Spain. Italy. UAE. Oman.

Each place was just the backdrop to a far greater journey—the journey back to ourselves.

I’ll never forget April 2024 in Spain. I tried to cancel. Tried to hide and excape from the world. But my friends would not accept it.  I was told to come even for a few days or they would all cancel.  Unable to bear the guilt of everyone cancelling,  I agreed to join them for three nights.

I arrived wearing a mask of composure so tight it felt like it was suffocating me. But my tribe—my sisters—saw straight through the cracks. They didn’t buy the forced smiles or hollow reassurances. To them, I looked like a ghost of the woman I once was—frail, hollow-eyed, and lost.

Their concern cut deeper than they knew. With fear in their voices, they asked if my cancer had returned, remembering how I had retreated into isolation the last time life had broken me. They saw the familiar pattern, the walls I had built around my pain, and without hesitation, they threw me a lifeline—a net woven of love, support, and safety.

Little did they know, my marriage was crumbling. My world was imploding. And I was silently drowning in a sea of despair, too ashamed, too broken to call for help.

They didn’t rush to fix me or offer empty words. They simply held space—steady, unshakable—letting me untangle the knots inside.

They sat with me in the darkness, refusing to let me drown.

Their love became my anchor. Their presence reflected back the shattered pieces of myself I thought were lost forever.

They didn’t save me.

They reminded me that the power to save myself had never left me—it had been there all along, quietly waiting for the moment I would summon the courage to reach for it. They spoke my strength back into existence, holding up a mirror to show me the battles I had already fought—and won—even when I couldn’t see the warrior in my own reflection.

It felt surreal, almost disorienting, like I was staring at a stranger—broken, weary, unrecognizable. But in the presence of this tribe—these women who refused to let me drown—I let my guard down. I let them breathe life into the embers of my spirit, sparking the faintest light of hope in a darkness I thought would consume me.

Piece by piece, I rose—undaunted, unbroken, unstoppable.

When you see a friend unraveling, don’t turn away. Stand your ground. Be her anchor in the crashing waves, her safe harbor when the world feels merciless. Sit with her in the heart of her storm—not to fix her, but to remind her of the fire raging in her veins, the power roaring in her bones.

Look her in the eye and tell her: You are stronger than you’ve ever imagined. You have survived every battle so far. And at any moment, you can rise, reclaim your power, and rewrite your story.

Because she holds the pen. She always has.

As I share these stories with my daughters, I see it—the flicker of recognition, the fire sparking in their eyes, mirroring my own. I tell them: One day, find your tribe. Hold them fiercely. Protect them like sacred ground. Because when life comes for you—and it will—these women will lock arms with you and stand unflinching in the flames. When you forget your power, they will speak it back into your bones. They will remind you exactly who you are—and all that you are capable of becoming.

Because these journeys? They’re not vacations.They’re revolutions.

Revolutions that roar:

🔥 We are never too broken to rebuild.

🔥 Never too weary to rise again.

🔥 Never too lost to find our way back home.

So say yes to that trip.

Say yes to the joy that shakes your soul awake.

To the laughter that splinters your walls.

To the conversations that crack you open—and set you free.

Say yes to rediscovering the woman you’ve always been—the one beneath the roles, the expectations, the quiet dreams still burning inside.

Because she’s waiting for you.

Not in some faraway place. Not in the noise.

But in the stillness of your own heart.

She is your fiercest advocate.

She is the light breaking through the cracks.

She is the voice whispering:

“I am still here. I have always been here. And I am ready for more.”

The journey back to you is not selfish.

It is not frivolous.

It is the bravest, most radical act of defiance you will ever commit.

So rise.

Pack your bags. Gather your sisters.

And take that trip—not just to a place, but to the fierce, unbreakable woman waiting inside you.

Because rising isn’t a destination.

It’s the blazing fire that guides you home.

Every step you take toward yourself shatters the ground beneath a world desperate to keep you small.

Rise with fierce purpose.

Remember the power that lives in your bones.

Return—whole, wild, unstoppable.

If they don’t support your growth, grow anyway.

You are the guardian of your flame, the fierce gardener of your soul.

You have one life—one wild, precious chance.

Make it legendary.

Take the journey back to you—and claim everything you were born to be.

Jouney Back to you:

“The journey back to you starts here: the power was never lost. It was always yours.”– Faiza Chaudhary