When the Path You Choose Isn’t the One You’re Meant to Walk

After I graduated from college and went on to finish my BA in Social Work, I was sure I wanted to become a therapist. I truly believed I had what it takes to help heal other refugees, those who’ve experienced trauma, PTSD, depression, and other mental health challenges caused by war, displacement, racism, and violence.

I thought that being patient, empathetic, and people-centered was enough. That my lived experience and deep connection to the refugee community would guide me to where I needed to be. That my passion alone would carry me through.

So, I took a leap of faith and continued my education. Right after completing my BSW, I started a Master of Social Work program. In my second year, I had to choose a practicum site, and without hesitation, I picked Survivors of Torture, International. It felt like the perfect fit, given my goals and passion.

The interview process was intense, but I was eventually selected to intern with them. I remember my supervisor being very clear with me. She gently warned that, as a war survivor myself, I was at high risk for vicarious trauma. But I told her I’d be fine. I had “good” self-care tools. I thought I was strong enough. I told myself I had heard it all, seen it all, and could separate their stories from mine.

It only took one semester to prove otherwise.

One semester of hearing survivors’ stories, reading the horrific details in their case files, and carrying their pain inside me. My supervisor noticed the shift in me before I did. She urged me to take a break. She even suggested I consider switching to a different internship.

But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

I convinced myself that backing out meant failing. That stepping away would mean giving up on my purpose. I had no backup plan. I didn’t even want one. I was so sure this was it for me, that if I quit now, I’d lose everything I had worked for.

So I stayed. I kept pushing. I kept absorbing.

And slowly, it started to show: nightmares, insomnia, loss of appetite, mood swings, brain fog, zero focus. Just two weeks later, my body gave out. My mind shut down.

Everything changed after that.

From December 2019 to November 2020, I went through one of the hardest seasons of my life. And funny, but not really, it all happened during the COVID-19 pandemic, so while the world was paused, I was breaking down.

It took me a long time to accept that being a therapist wasn’t the right path for me. I thought my life was over. I felt like a complete failure, for stepping away from my internship, for leaving the master’s program, for letting go of what I thought was my calling.

I couldn’t see the other skills, talents, or possibilities within me because I was too focused on what I thought I lacked. I started to see my empathy, the very thing I once believed was my strength, as a weakness.

But over time and through the love of my family, my relatives, and my closest friends, I started to see myself again. They believed in me when I couldn’t. They reminded me that my story wasn’t over.

At 25, I learned what real miracles look like: being surrounded by people who see you, who carry you, and who help you find your way back to yourself.

Four years later, I’ve realized something powerful: sometimes, the version of success we hold onto so tightly isn’t meant for us. That doesn’t mean we’ve failed. It just means there’s another path, one that actually fits who we are and where we’re meant to go. A path that honors our healing, our gifts, and our truth.

“When we have the courage to walk into our story and own it, we get to write the ending. And when we don’t own our stories of failure, setbacks, and hurt—they own us.”
—Brené Brown

I’m still walking my story. Still writing my ending. And this time, I’m doing it with more softness, more honesty, and a deeper love for the person I’m becoming.