rebuilding my life from zero in Barcelona
To the version of me who couldn’t see a single way out.
Before Barcelona, Istanbul had me so drained it felt like I was just… disappearing. It wasn’t just a “rough patch”—it was unsafe. Not emotionally, not mentally, not physically. I didn’t get to sit around and hope for a miracle. I needed out, and freelancing was honestly the only open door. Not the romantic kind you see on motivational threads either—I’m talking locked-in-your-room, grinding-just-to-survive freelancing. The kind you do when there is literally no Plan B.
That year just about broke me. Survival mode, every damn day. I worked until I had nothing left. Sleep? Forget it. I pushed and pushed in ways I’d never tell someone else to do, but honestly, it was the only shot I had. My whole life was building that freelance income from zero—enough to finally try for a digital nomad visa (which is pretty much a miracle if you’re doing it from Turkey). Every month felt like the dream was slipping away; every month, I doubled down. Looking back? I’m proud as hell of that girl, because she’s the reason I’m breathing right now. But my heart still aches for her, too, because she had to do that just to survive.
Let’s be real—I didn’t show up in Barcelona out of nowhere and “find myself.” Freelancing was my lifeline, my way out. The only reason I got on that plane, the only reason I could ever even hope for something new.
Landing in Barcelona didn’t feel like the beginning of some new chapter—it felt like dropping into the middle of someone else’s story. I was beat. Hollowed out. Still hopeful, but scared in a way I’d never really known. No friends, no safety net, just me and a city that didn’t know my name. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t freeing. Mostly, it was lonely as hell. It kind of forces you to stare down all the stuff you’ve been running from, all at once.
And then, really slowly, something shifted. Barcelona didn’t magically fix everything, but for the first time, I wasn’t fighting my own environment just to exist. I wasn’t living in someone else’s chaos. I started living on my own clock, my own rules. And only then did any of it make sense.
All the chaos and desperation of freelancing just to escape, the slow and messy way I had to reinvent myself, the fact that I actually run an agency now—still wild to say out loud—this mentorship community I’ve built for women who get it, and the woman I am (plus the one I’m still becoming), it finally started to mean something. Here’s the truth: Barcelona didn’t “save” me. I did that part. Barcelona just gave me the room to finally breathe, and breathing, as it turns out, is everything.
And listen, I still drag some of those old survival habits with me. I still overwork. I still fall back into burnout mode, because it’s what I know. I’m unlearning it, bit by bit. I’m softer than I was, but I’m always going to be grateful for that version of me who did what had to be done when it felt like the world was closing in.
So, if you’re stuck in your own in-between—where everything feels impossible and you have zero idea how or if things will ever get better—just know I’ve lived there too. The you who survives this season? She might just be the one who builds the whole life you’re dreaming of. You’re not behind. You’re just rebuilding. And I’m right here, still in it with you, figuring it out day by day.
Before Barcelona, Istanbul had me so drained it felt like I was just… disappearing. It wasn’t just a “rough patch”—it was unsafe. Not emotionally, not mentally, not physically. I didn’t get to sit around and hope for a miracle. I needed out, and freelancing was honestly the only open door. Not the romantic kind you see on motivational threads either—I’m talking locked-in-your-room, grinding-just-to-survive freelancing. The kind you do when there is literally no Plan B.
That year just about broke me. Survival mode, every damn day. I worked until I had nothing left. Sleep? Forget it. I pushed and pushed in ways I’d never tell someone else to do, but honestly, it was the only shot I had. My whole life was building that freelance income from zero—enough to finally try for a digital nomad visa (which is pretty much a miracle if you’re doing it from Turkey). Every month felt like the dream was slipping away; every month, I doubled down. Looking back? I’m proud as hell of that girl, because she’s the reason I’m breathing right now. But my heart still aches for her, too, because she had to do that just to survive.
Let’s be real—I didn’t show up in Barcelona out of nowhere and “find myself.” Freelancing was my lifeline, my way out. The only reason I got on that plane, the only reason I could ever even hope for something new.
Landing in Barcelona didn’t feel like the beginning of some new chapter—it felt like dropping into the middle of someone else’s story. I was beat. Hollowed out. Still hopeful, but scared in a way I’d never really known. No friends, no safety net, just me and a city that didn’t know my name. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t freeing. Mostly, it was lonely as hell. It kind of forces you to stare down all the stuff you’ve been running from, all at once.
And then, really slowly, something shifted. Barcelona didn’t magically fix everything, but for the first time, I wasn’t fighting my own environment just to exist. I wasn’t living in someone else’s chaos. I started living on my own clock, my own rules. And only then did any of it make sense.
All the chaos and desperation of freelancing just to escape, the slow and messy way I had to reinvent myself, the fact that I actually run an agency now—still wild to say out loud—this mentorship community I’ve built for women who get it, and the woman I am (plus the one I’m still becoming), it finally started to mean something. Here’s the truth: Barcelona didn’t “save” me. I did that part. Barcelona just gave me the room to finally breathe, and breathing, as it turns out, is everything.
And listen, I still drag some of those old survival habits with me. I still overwork. I still fall back into burnout mode, because it’s what I know. I’m unlearning it, bit by bit. I’m softer than I was, but I’m always going to be grateful for that version of me who did what had to be done when it felt like the world was closing in.
So, if you’re stuck in your own in-between—where everything feels impossible and you have zero idea how or if things will ever get better—just know I’ve lived there too. The you who survives this season? She might just be the one who builds the whole life you’re dreaming of. You’re not behind. You’re just rebuilding. And I’m right here, still in it with you, figuring it out day by day.
Before Barcelona, Istanbul had me so drained it felt like I was just… disappearing. It wasn’t just a “rough patch”—it was unsafe. Not emotionally, not mentally, not physically. I didn’t get to sit around and hope for a miracle. I needed out, and freelancing was honestly the only open door. Not the romantic kind you see on motivational threads either—I’m talking locked-in-your-room, grinding-just-to-survive freelancing. The kind you do when there is literally no Plan B.
That year just about broke me. Survival mode, every damn day. I worked until I had nothing left. Sleep? Forget it. I pushed and pushed in ways I’d never tell someone else to do, but honestly, it was the only shot I had. My whole life was building that freelance income from zero—enough to finally try for a digital nomad visa (which is pretty much a miracle if you’re doing it from Turkey). Every month felt like the dream was slipping away; every month, I doubled down. Looking back? I’m proud as hell of that girl, because she’s the reason I’m breathing right now. But my heart still aches for her, too, because she had to do that just to survive.
Let’s be real—I didn’t show up in Barcelona out of nowhere and “find myself.” Freelancing was my lifeline, my way out. The only reason I got on that plane, the only reason I could ever even hope for something new.
Landing in Barcelona didn’t feel like the beginning of some new chapter—it felt like dropping into the middle of someone else’s story. I was beat. Hollowed out. Still hopeful, but scared in a way I’d never really known. No friends, no safety net, just me and a city that didn’t know my name. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t freeing. Mostly, it was lonely as hell. It kind of forces you to stare down all the stuff you’ve been running from, all at once.
And then, really slowly, something shifted. Barcelona didn’t magically fix everything, but for the first time, I wasn’t fighting my own environment just to exist. I wasn’t living in someone else’s chaos. I started living on my own clock, my own rules. And only then did any of it make sense.
All the chaos and desperation of freelancing just to escape, the slow and messy way I had to reinvent myself, the fact that I actually run an agency now—still wild to say out loud—this mentorship community I’ve built for women who get it, and the woman I am (plus the one I’m still becoming), it finally started to mean something. Here’s the truth: Barcelona didn’t “save” me. I did that part. Barcelona just gave me the room to finally breathe, and breathing, as it turns out, is everything.
And listen, I still drag some of those old survival habits with me. I still overwork. I still fall back into burnout mode, because it’s what I know. I’m unlearning it, bit by bit. I’m softer than I was, but I’m always going to be grateful for that version of me who did what had to be done when it felt like the world was closing in.
So, if you’re stuck in your own in-between—where everything feels impossible and you have zero idea how or if things will ever get better—just know I’ve lived there too. The you who survives this season? She might just be the one who builds the whole life you’re dreaming of. You’re not behind. You’re just rebuilding. And I’m right here, still in it with you, figuring it out day by day.
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