Life really does feel like a rollercoaster. Some days you scream, some days you just throw your hands up and let it take you.
I was born in a small Swiss town, the youngest in a family of five. The only girl. My two brothers were close in age to me, and trust me, being the little sister wasn’t always easy. Most of my early memories are simple ones: running in the woods, building treehouses, playing cowboys and Indians, sometimes sitting on the floor with Legos beside my closest brother. Life was busy and loud.
My best friend back then was Arnaud, a boy who lived upstairs. We’d have playdates, eat Nutella sandwiches, and make up silly games. I was always surrounded by boys, so naturally I turned into a bit of a tomboy. Winters were about skiing. My family loved the slopes, and even now, those days remain some of my favorite childhood memories.
When I was six, everything shifted. My dad, who worked in banking, got a position in New York. We moved to Larchmont for about a year. My mom, being half British, had taught us some English, so we weren’t completely lost. My brothers became obsessed with basketball and the NBA. I tagged along, trying to keep up. Honestly, I don’t remember too much from that year it was short, and I was little but coming back to Switzerland changed everything for me.
School was hard. I was ahead by a year, I spoke fluent English, and instead of being celebrated, that made me a target. Kids can be cruel. I was bullied, laughed at, made to feel like I didn’t belong. My grades slipped. I cried a lot. At night, nightmares haunted me. I lost all confidence. I wanted desperately to fit in, to be loved, but instead I carried anxiety everywhere.
By my teens, I was looking for escapes. Cigarettes, alcohol. Anything to numb what I felt. I hated being different. I’d wander to a field near my house, sit under a big tree, and just stare, wishing my life felt safer. At fifteen, things got worse. I skipped school, smoked weed, drank. I even started cutting. I was lost.
And then came the day that shattered me. A boy in town, everyone knew him drug addict, guitar slung over his shoulder, acting like Jim Morrison. I avoided him. He scared me. But one afternoon, he cornered me on a bus. Asked me to help carry groceries. I didn’t want a scene, so I agreed, planning to drop the bags and leave. Instead, he locked the door. He forced me. I was fifteen. That moment broke me. For years, I blamed myself. I carried shame, fear, anger.
Therapy was the first step out. My mom pushed me, and eventually I started seeing someone. For the first time, I could talk, even if it hurt. But home wasn’t stable. Between sixteen and eighteen, I bounced through foster families. My parents couldn’t handle me. I dropped out of high school, barely finished an apprenticeship, and by eighteen I was waitressing, renting a tiny studio above the bar I worked at. Work, party, repeat.
One night, I noticed him Steve. Six-foot-six, booming voice, larger than life. He barely noticed me at first, flirting with other girls, but later we talked. He was charming. Too charming. I fell fast. We dated, broke up, got back together. Eventually, he proposed, on the condition I move to the U.S. with him. I had nothing tying me down in Switzerland, so I said yes.
Landing in Newark in 2001 was surreal. Exciting, terrifying. He was protective overly so. Didn’t want me leaving the house alone. I brushed it off then, but looking back, the red flags were everywhere. Still, I married him. We had two kids Adrien in 2005, Jasmine in 2007. Becoming a mom changed me. For the first time, I felt real purpose. I wanted to live authentically for my children.
But the marriage… it wasn’t healthy. I tried everything counseling, retreats, compromise but deep down, I knew. Eventually I left, then went back, then left again for good. By 2014, I was a single mom, broke, exhausted, but free. Starting over was brutal. Court battles, debts, jobs stacked on jobs. But slowly, painfully, I built a life.
Co-parenting hasn’t been easy, even eight years later. But it taught me a lot. I learned I can’t control others, only myself. That reacting in anger never helps. That my kids watch everything I do, so I need to show them strength, calm, and love even in chaos. I’ve learned to let go, to stop beating myself up for things outside my control.
I won’t say I’m perfect. Far from it. But I keep trying. I keep breathing. I remind myself, “This too shall pass.” And it always does.
Because life really is that rollercoaster. You don’t always get to choose the track, but you do get to choose how you ride it.
