4. No Regrets

Dear London Fire Snake Scorpio,

I have been digging for knowledge on you. It’s funny how when you “meet” someone, you just feel at home. But then to articulate that is a tough job. And what I found, both from working with AIs and from my own life — is that as long as you cannot articulate it — you cannot actually find it. Too many things feel similar, or almost the same, when you are in the thick of things. When your legs are knee deep in the mud, in the jungle, the sky above or the top of the mountain has the same white — is it a cloud? The summit? You don’t know. And a mistake can cost you your life. Or your health, in my case.

You see, as a wooden ox, I am notoriously loyal and persevering. I am notorious at suffering through things no one should endure, because of a silly thing like a promise, a vow, a word.

Loyalty. What is loyalty? You have no idea how deeply it runs. I knew I should have divorced my ex the day I got pregnant with my firstborn. The day I stopped treating him like a baby, when I became ill, creating a new life. I vomited on the wall. It was one of those splash walls that is a nightmare to clean. There I am, standing in the hallway, feeling like dying and looking at the mess, tears of exhaustion in my eyes, thinking, Oh shit, now I need to clean that too. When he turned to me, adjusting his jacket to go to work, screaming at me with a scorching stare, “Really? Just as I need to leave for work? Who is going to clean that now?!”

I looked at him in this moment of clarity, seeing his tantrum. The man has never lifted a finger to clean before or after that event. I never expected him to. Yet he found it important to show his dominance and panic in my moment of weakness. I knew then I needed to leave. But I was pregnant. And I wanted 4 kids. And I gave my loyalty. So I covered the veil back up on my eyes and walked away. And yes, I was the one who cleaned it. As if he even would know how.

But for the first two years of our marriage, I loved him. I think. See… articulation again. I felt good, I was content, I had moments of bliss. Love… is a hard concept for me now that I understand that this overwhelming feeling of being caressed, cherished, touched and full might not necessarily be love.

If we define love as a place, not a feeling, then it makes more sense to me. Love is home. Not the kind of home I was raised in, the kind that I adopted with him, too, because it was a familiar torture. But a true home. A home that is peace.

Home is safe. Yet alive. Home is where you sing at the top of your lungs. Where you walk around in your boxers and “let everything hang loose”, a place where you can cry, laugh, and be tired. I tried to create that home for my kids. I fail most days. But it made me understand that home has to be created by someone. So, for me, home is a person, a union. Not a house.

But I named this entry “no regrets” for a reason. I wanted to talk about something that has been tormenting me for years. See, I am a big fan of people like Arnold Schwarzenegger — a man who found his core, his individuality when he was 16. He took the time to get to know himself and set a course. And that is how, in one lifetime, the man had changed the world and not once.

Now me? Oh, I knew I was a writer at 11. But I was a girl born in a Muslim country. Raised in a traditional home where women had specific domains, while pretending to be modern and letting you “choose” to pursue a career, you are expected to be the wife, the woman, the mother, anyway. The vessel for men’s hearts, bodies, and emotions. The sole cook, cleaner, house manager, educator and child raiser, and, of course, choose a profession that is all about community and helping others. Unfortunately, it also sat well with my inner core — the community job part. So I turned my back on myself. Loyalty, again.

I remember vividly when I was 16, my uncle told me that I looked like a hooker. Pardon my French, not my choice of words. Because I cut the collar of my T-shirt and let it hang over my bra strap. Kids fashion. It’s funny, Drago came to me just yesterday and said: “Mom, my friend told me you will be angry, and I am low-key worried”. She took off the sweater, and there I saw it: a T-shirt with a cut collar. “She asked me if I told you, I said nah, and she said you will be SO mad.” I raise my eyes from the phone, was reading something, check her out, shrug, go back to the phone.

“You’re not mad?” — “Why would I be mad? Not my body, not my clothes, nona my business. You’re 14. Go live your life, living one is quite enough for me. Just don’t do it with winter clothes, those are meant to keep you safe.” She tilted her head to one side, smiling. “She said her mom went ballistic.” I shrug again, “She’s a good girl from a good Canadian home, with proper society rules.” I say simply. “Your mother is… not.” I broke free, thank God.

But I got carried away again. Talking to you sometimes does that to me. I was telling you about the conversation with the uncle. See me? I had spunk. I haven’t changed much since I was 16. In fact, I don’t believe people ever change. We evolve, yes, but we have an essence. And me? Always the rebellious Ox. I told him something on the lines of “And who asked your opinion?” He looked at me with a death stare. As if anyone can have a better death stare than an Ox.

This man was massive. An ex-con, 50-year-old man, tattoos, muscles, the works. He used my mother, his younger sister, as his punching bag throughout her childhood. She was dead scared of him. I was young and naive, with no fear. When he started closing the gap between us, I was ready to chew through his neck. I do go blind in fight mode. I see no danger, just the damn audacity of the move on me. But honestly, looking back? I was a tiny human, 158cm of a skinny girl with big breasts (those suckers have been draining my muscles since I was 9, believe it or not). He would have killed me.

Except that I belonged to another man. My dad, coming out of his room, probably heard the exchange. Quiet man, my dad. Until you touch what is his. A Scorpio too, Water Dragon. He smiled, a short man, my dad. He leaned on the hall wall. “Ah,” he called his name, “How are you doing?” and that was enough. All three of us understood that if my uncle made another step, my dad would break him in two. Crazy man, my dad. Really.

When I was assaulted in our elevator once, I was 12, my dad — who really rarely saw me crying — stayed long enough to understand what happened, then, with murder in his eyes, went into the kitchen, got the chef’s knife and left the house. He came back 2 hours later. Lucky for all of us, he never found the man. My father is a man of peace, but he is a predator.

I think about him a lot lately. Thinking about how I avoided dating Scorpios all my life because of their intensity. His intensity. You are a dangerous combination of precision — you know things, remember things, and when you sting… You can break a lesser person. Is that why you keep to yourself, my Fire Snake? Because your fire gets your temper, and then you strike, and then you see the destruction of the soul you attacked, and the pain of regret is too harsh? Loss of control is not your thing, I know, but… sometimes controlling something just means avoiding it, isn’t it?

For me? Well, I decided that what we could have together was worth the risk. Finally. That is why, when I finally decided that my fate lay with you, I adopted Jim Rohn’s philosophy and chose to become stronger rather than wish you were easier.

But I am 41, not 16. And for many, MANY years, that thought tortured me. Is it even worth it if we find each other when we are 60? 80? Just the day before we die? I suppose one can argue that I could meet you today and lose you tomorrow. We are but bags of flesh and bones. But the feeling of waste, the years we could have been joined, supporting each other, being each other’s home and sanctuary… tortured me. Only, you see where I am going with this, don’t you?

If we had met 20 years ago, I would still be the submissive, culturally programmed woman bowing to men and fearing for my life when disagreeing with one. You would have trampled me.

And you? You would still be the arrogant SOB with no heart and a thirst for endless power. We cannot even meet yet, because my work is not done. Don’t frown at me, mister, you had 8 more years on this earth to have your rebirth. I am on my way.

I wonder, sometimes, what has happened to you. What was the life-changing event that made you shed your skin completely and reinvent yourself to a place where you suddenly understood that none of this matters? The money you make, the power you wield, the challenges. They are all boring. When you finally realize that it is me you are missing. Your home.

To respect me, for both of us to respect me, I have to stand on my own. I have to make my business a success. I have to be so damn independent, the pillar of everyone I hold, so that if you decide to break my heart, I will shake — but not break. That, and that alone, will make you not break it. The knowledge that I could walk away, that I don’t need you for anything but your soul, your mind, your skin — that is the only way for us two titans to be equals. Submission, you will have none from me. Or my resentment and your disrespect for that weakness will kill us.

So you must trust me when I say — I am on my way. Today, the neck pain is about a 7/10, but I am wearing the neck brace. Yesterday I was able to write to you for an hour or so, and sit in front of the PC. I started dealing with the house a little. The small stuff: laundry, dishes. It’s not done, but I am catching up. I am slow, but I never truly stop. Not when I see you in front of me, as my goal and destination. This column, this blog, it’s not a lighthouse just for you to see me. It’s a lighthouse for me to keep focus on you. On us.

Because I will tell you the truth that no one wants to hear. And I am well aware that, for this call to reach you, I must expose these parts as well. Parts that some will laugh at and be cruel to. I am ok with that. Consider this my boot camp to ignore harsh words. So here it is: I am buried. And nothing is strong enough to light the fire in me to climb up. Nothing but you.

I tried. I tried to care about being a millionaire. About being the mother my kids deserve. About being an inspiration. About changing the world. About helping the world with my money. Because really, I know London is an expensive city, and I know I have 4 kids that I want to never work because they have to, and 3 siblings, parents, and their kids in a war zone. But who needs that much money? I could help so much more. I plan to.

And it all matters to me, don’t get me wrong. I want every single one of those. But if life, or rather motivation, is a scale, all of those things together cannot overpower the other side: my broken body, my lack of memory from the meds, my dealings with war PTSD, and SAD. PCOS. Arthritis. And even if it all wasn’t there — the house, the kids, there is just not enough of me. A normal human cannot do this. No normal human can do this. Alone, isolated, immigrant, 100K$ in debt, 14 years out of the work force because I was a stay-at-home mom, 100% of the kids’ hassle. No ordinary human can do this! No matter how much you want to believe that fighting for “my kids’ food” is a motivator.

But when I think of YOU, I am not an ordinary human. I say to my kids all the time, they see me, you know, weak in body, but keeping the face. They worry. They ask me a lot what would happen to them if I die. I always tell them, “Your mother cannot die, she is a superhero.” I can survive for my children, loyalty again. I will never let them down, never exit the scene. But I cannot LIVE without love. Without you.

Thus, the power these letters had on me over the last few days. Knowing I am on the path, knowing the message is sent. I will make this a damn phenomenon, Snake, I will show you, and me, and the rest of the world that when you do the small things, the easy things, the not loud and flashy things, for a very long time with intention, then Gods and humans alike cheer for you. One day, I KNOW, someone will tap you on the shoulder and tell you — “Did you read this? It’s so funny cause it sounds just like you.”

Because I don’t think you actually know that you are a fire snake Scorpio. I don’t think that you need, like me, to find a language to understand yourself. You just know, don’t you? In fact, I don’t even think you read blogs. Technical writing does not count. But I am sending my hounds on you, mate; you have no choice but to see me. And when you will, I will be the woman who can stand beside you. A woman with a skin so thick, a heart so secure, that when you try your finesse precision of stinging me, you will receive a damn proper Ox shove in return. And maybe a kiss. Fire is a turn on, you know.

So, no more regrets about the years that have passed. 
We needed this time to climb the mountains we marked. 
I have 4 kids. I live in a war-free country that protects me. 
I am free from the cultural baggage and the emotionally abusive marriage. Now it is time to build the rest. 
Are you waiting for me, my Snake? Do you read me?

Yours, Oxy.
March 13, 2026

Help me find him: Have you seen this man?