At least five years before I moved to Toronto, the process of untethering my life in London was instigated in the most unsuspecting of ways. 

Early on in my career, I’d intuitively recognised that neither the corporate rat race nor the hustle-culture-inspired belief that my self-worth was connected to productivity would ever make sense to me. The prospect of a life in which I simply lived to work felt both depressing and oppressive, and the only time my soul truly lit up was when I wrote in my journal about my dreams of life in another country. I envisaged building my own business, travelling, learning languages, and engaging in work that I actually considered meaningful. 

In an arguably more enthusiastic way than I’d studied for my BA and MA degrees, I educated myself on the law of attraction, taking note of the resounding emphasis on “receptivity” to the abundance life has to offer. As a result, I began asking – dare I admit, desperately begging – for a sign.