No escape. Just growth.

 I Ran Away. Then I Came Back.

I never liked asking for help. I don’t know if society, family, or simply life taught me that, but I know that when things get tough – you grit your teeth and push through. Who needs weakness? Who needs to show they don’t know something? That they can’t handle it? Here, you either figure it out or you disappear. In this country, in this time.

And everyone who knows me also knows that I worked abroad. That I ran away, but that I also returned. Always returned.

And here I am now, once again. With her. My coach.

They told me she was good. That she cuts to the bone, but that it’s worth it. I told myself I could handle it. That I wanted to.

Coaching. A word that people here misunderstand, dismiss, or mock. Why would anyone pay someone to ask them questions? they say. But coaching is not about the questions—it’s about the answers you don’t want to hear. And she knows exactly which ones to bring out.

The first time I sat across from her, I felt relief. She was calm. Confident. She didn’t pity me, didn’t offer false comfort. I thought – this is okay, I feel safe here.

But then she started digging.

And every time she touched on something I didn’t want to see, something I had neatly buried, I felt my body tense up. I told myself I was here to grow, but a part of me wanted to prove to her that I didn’t need this. That I was already strong enough.

Sometimes, while she spoke, I had the urge to interrupt her. To say: You know what? I’m better than you. I have more experience. I can be more successful. And yet, I sit there. Because I know that’s not true.

What hurts the most is that she doesn’t play my game. She doesn’t react to my attempts to withdraw, to change the topic, to prove that I’m already where I need to be. She just watches. Waits. Knows.

And then I break.

I stop coming—just in my head. I tell myself it was a mistake. She went too far. There’s no need to go this deep. Who in this country even has the luxury to deal with themselves? To dig up layers that were carefully swept under the rug, when life doesn’t stop, when bills have to be paid, when mental hygiene doesn’t pay the rent?

But what she said – it lingers.

It’s like she held up a mirror to my face and glued my hands to it so I couldn’t move away.

Days go by, but her words remain.

“You can’t run away from yourself.”

Ridiculous. Haven’t I been taught to run? Everyone runs. And me? I come here, I come back here just to dig even deeper?

And what if being a little bit of a masochist is actually healthy?

I hear that a lot from successful people. No pain, no growth, they say.

So, am I a masochist for coming back to this when it hurts so much?

Is this how it’s supposed to be?

One day, without prior planning, I return. I sit across from her.

She doesn’t ask where I’ve been.

She just looks at me, the way someone looks when they know you’re back not because you have to be, but because you’re finally ready.

And all I can say is:

"Let’s continue. Bring it on."