The mud squelched under my boots as I made my way up the slope, the scent of damp earth mingling with the sharp resin of fir trees. Racha’s forests always had a way of reminding me of my childhood in Tlughi, Georgia, even now, at 32. I’d grown up watching men climb these towering trees, their movements as graceful as dancers in a perilous performance. Now, I was one of them.

Three years ago, I fell victim to a cryptocurrency scam. At the time, I was obsessed with the idea of traveling the world. Most of my friends were doing it, financed by their parents. For me, though, it was a distant dream—I couldn’t afford it on my barista salary, and my family in the suburbs of Paris, France, couldn’t help. I was 21 and desperate to find a way.

It was a grey afternoon in Dublin, Ireland, when I stood outside the philosophy department, my breath misting in the cold. The city had become my sanctuary in the past year, far enough from Waterford to feel the distance, but close enough for its shadows to linger. I had just finished a lecture on Nietzsche, a thinker who seemed to scorn everything that once defined my life.

The whispers started long before I even understood their weight. At the marketplace, women would glance at me, their voices hushed but sharp enough to pierce. At family gatherings, the unspoken questions hung heavier than the aroma of jollof rice. In Chachi, Nigeria, where the streets are filled with children’s laughter and mothers sling babies on their backs with effortless grace, I became the silence in a chorus.

In Sfax, Tunesia, the sea has always been part of life—its rhythm, its bounty, and sometimes, its cruelty. It fed me when I was young and eager, mending nets alongside my father, the salt spray in my face as we brought in sardines or sea bream. It carried me through my early years as a fisherman, a life I thought would be mine until I grew old.

When I walked out of the law firm that day, box of pens and desk clutter in hand, I didn't bother to say goodbye. Twelve years of taking minutes at meetings where my name barely registered, answering phones for men who forgot I had a degree, watching them pat each other on the back for six-figure wins while I budgeted my grocery list—it was enough.

The morning sunlight filters through the latticework of my shop window, scattering soft shadows over porcelain vases and carved jade. The smell of aged wood and musty paper greets me as I unlock the cabinets. It’s comforting now, though it wasn’t always. My father opened this shop thirty years ago in the heart of Beijing, China, pouring his life into it. He loved its rhythms—the haggling, the stories behind every artifact. But when I told him I wanted to leave all this behind and become an artist, it was as though I’d committed a betrayal.

I live with my two sons, their wives, and my five grandchildren in a remote village high in the Pamir Mountains, Tajikistan, at over 3,000 meters above sea level. The world here is one of towering peaks and silence, where tourists sometimes stumble in awe of the rugged beauty. Life is hard but simple, and I find peace in the rhythm of the seasons.

I woke up early, as I always do, to the sound of gulls squabbling outside my window. The smell of salt air drifted in, sharp and familiar. I sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my hands together, staring at the floorboards worn smooth by years of footsteps. For a moment, I thought I heard my wife humming in the kitchen, the way she used to when the kettle was just about to whistle. Then I remembered—Anne’s been gone five years now.

Last summer felt like a dream that turned into a nightmare. There was a boy—he wasn’t from my class but close enough for our paths to cross often. It started with shy smiles and accidental conversations. At first, I didn’t think much of it, but soon, every glance exchanged in the hallways felt electric.

The captain's voice echoed through the cabin, calm and steady, as he informed passengers of an unexpected bout of turbulence. Outside, the clouds darkened, and flashes of lightning illuminated the cockpit. My hands were steady on the controls, guiding the aircraft through the storm with precision honed over years of rigorous training. At 38 years old, I had flown countless flights like this, but the weight of my reality always felt heavier than the sky I navigated.

The sound of boots hitting the forest floor was constant, like a metronome marking the hours of my days at the camp in Krosno Odrzańskie, Poland. Orders barked through the humid air, and my fingers gripped the unfamiliar texture of a rifle. They trembled at first, but less so with every passing drill. The camp wasn’t just a challenge—it was an initiation into a mindset I hadn’t known before.

When people ask me where I was born, I brace myself for the questions that follow. The answer—Goa, India—usually sparks curiosity, and I get it. It’s not the typical birthplace for someone like me, a 32-year-old Dutchman now living in Amsterdam. But my early years were anything but typical.

The wind here carries memories. I felt it again this morning as I walked through the dry grasses near Okahandja, Namibia, my home. The same sun that scorches the land today once bore witness to my great-grandmother's flight into the Omaheke sands. She left the camp with nothing but willpower, forging survival in a place that wanted no one. If she had faltered, if her resolve had cracked even slightly, there would be no me—no 52 years of life.

The mountains above Rincon, Puerto Rico, have been my home for longer than I care to count. I built this house with my own hands, plank by plank, when the world felt slower and the soil more forgiving. It was here, on this plot of land overlooking the sea, that I raised my family, planted guava and mango trees, and tended chickens whose descendants still strut across the yard. Yet, as I sit on my porch now, I hardly recognize the town below.

The jasmine vines tangled above the café’s patio, offering shade from Phnom Penh’s relentless sun. As I flipped through the menu, two waitresses approached with shy but eager smiles. “We know your videos,” one said. “We all watch them.” This happens often now, but it still surprises me. At 27, I’ve grown used to being recognized as the woman who speaks openly about sex, consent, and equality.

When we moved to Hungary a year ago, I thought we’d found the perfect escape. South of Lake Balaton, the countryside is peaceful and feels a world away from the tension we left behind in Bavaria. Back in Germany, the nights felt unsafe, and I couldn’t bear the thought of my wife walking alone. Here, things are different—quiet streets, distant neighbors, and an old house that I restored myself with calloused hands and a stubborn determination to start fresh.

The clinic smells faintly of antiseptic and something softer—like freshly washed linens. I spend most of my mornings in therapy sessions or walking quietly in the small garden. My mother often sits with me, knitting or reading while I sketch in a notebook. She’s been my anchor, though I catch the worry in her eyes when she thinks I’m not looking.

Kuumba wasn’t crowded that Saturday afternoon. I had arrived early for Adrien Bawayi’s dance class, slipping into the rhythm of the district as I walked through Matongé’s streets. The air buzzed with life—shops spilling onto pavements, bright fabrics billowing like flags of identity. It’s a feeling I’ve grown familiar with living here in Brussels, Belgium, a city where histories overlap and sometimes clash. Yet beneath the vibrancy, an unease lingered, the kind that comes with histories too long untold.

The noise of Kiev’s morning traffic outside my office was a dull hum, a stark contrast to the chaos spinning in my mind. I stared at the file on my desk—a list of names, ages, and vague locations. Children. Just children. At 38, I am a mother of two—Marta, with her sleepy smile as she tugged on her school uniform this morning, and Taras, who stubbornly refused to eat his porridge. The thought of their faces erased, their voices speaking a language of propaganda, sent a cold shiver down my spine.