What do you do when, at forty, you finally arrive at the life you once dreamed of—only to find yourself hollow?

That was me.

I had the successful career, the home, the man who loved me. From the outside, everything looked “right.” But inside, I was unraveling. Crying behind closed doors. Pretending to be strong. Numbing with socializing, wine, and surface-level connection.

Everyone said I was lucky.

I felt like a fraud.

So I did what I had never done before: I stopped searching outward for answers. I turned inward. And what I found wasn’t just emotional pain—it was ancestral grief. It was trauma. It was the buried silence of a little girl who had endured more than most ever knew.

That was the beginning of my return.