Suitcases Don't Just Carry Clothes. They Carry Versions of You

Deciding to move from Pakistan to Estonia was one of the hardest choices I have ever made. It was not just about distance, it was about detaching from everything familiar. I had been married for three years to the love of my life, yet something inside me whispered that I needed more. More from life. More from myself. More from the world.

The month before the flight was dreadful. I was leaving my husband behind, travelling alone for the first time, and stepping into a life I could not quite picture. On top of it all, I dreaded the flight itself; motion sickness has always been my companion. At 32, I was about to restart my life from scratch, and the weight of that decision sat heavy on my chest.

On the day of departure, I remember thinking, 'I know this moment hurts.' It is probably the hardest thing I have ever done, walking away from the only person who brings me peace, putting thousands of miles between us, with no promise of when we would be together again.

The silence around me was deafening. I kept wondering if I was strong enough for this. Then I thought of everything I had already survived, heartbreak, uncertainty, loss, and realized strength does not always roar. Sometimes, it is quiet. It is showing up, even when you are terrified. It is in taking one small step forward when you would rather stand still.

The flight from Lahore to Istanbul was every bit as long and uncomfortable as I had feared. I spent six hours anxious, waiting for the motion sickness to hit and it did, the moment I landed. Dizzy and nauseous, I still had to deal with a security officer who seemed convinced I was hiding a knife in my bag. My mind was foggy, my body weak, and all I wanted was to lie down and disappear for a while.

I somehow found the transfer gate and spent another six hours in limbo. I could not eat, could not explore, and could not even think straight. The world around me was moving, yet I felt suspended in stillness.

Then came the final flight: Istanbul to Tallinn. Moreover, when I stepped off that plane, something inside me shifted.

I made it. I had done it. I had crossed the bridge between who I was and who I was becoming.

From that moment on, I started to feel like a free bird, untethered, light, and curious. For the first time in years, my life felt like an open page. Every street I walked down, every café I entered, every new face I met, it all felt like rediscovering parts of myself I never knew existed. I learned to enjoy my own company. I learned to try new foods, wander without a plan, and embrace silence without fear.

Now, when I think back, I realize something simple but profound:
Suitcases don’t just carry clothes — they carry versions of you.

When I think about the clothes I left behind and what they meant to me, I realize that girl will never exist again, the one who danced at weddings, who learned to drive and hated goodbyes. The life I built there, the little paintings, my favorite beanbag, belonged to someone who valued certainty above all else. Now, when I look in the mirror, I barely recognize her. She left it all behind, the clothes, the friends, the family, the home that once held her. She packed certainty neatly with the goodbyes. Today, I carry only a suitcase with a few essentials. The suitcase feels lighter, a reflection of how I feel inside a little empty, a little free.
Still, there is a bright sun waiting for a new day, a quiet thrill for what has to come, for the life I will build from the pieces I chose to carry.

Though I know this path will one day lead me back to him, I am grateful I chose myself first. Because sometimes love means growing apart for a while, so when you find each other again, you meet as fuller versions of who you were meant to be.