After watching Heated Rivalry for the sixth time — yes, sixth — I decided it was for research.

Purely analytical.

I needed to confirm whether they were actually kissing or if it was clever camera angles.

That is why I replayed certain scenes.

Paused.

Rewound.

Zoomed in mentally.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that they have Greek-god bodies, are offensively gorgeous, beautifully directed, and wrapped in emotionally devastating storytelling.

No.

I am a serious retired woman conducting investigative work.

Meanwhile my husband — bless him — entered “Fix My Wife” mode.

He began sending me podcasts.

Thoughtful ones.

Educational ones.

“Maybe this will spark something,” he’d say.

One was about quantum physics in solar systems.

Another about how to better converse with AI.

Nothing says “reclaim your identity” like black holes and machine learning.

I fell asleep on both.

Not metaphorically.

Physically.

AirPods still in. Drooling slightly. Enlightenment nowhere to be found.

Apparently my next chapter was not going to be astrophysics.

I just wanted to feel busy. And happy. And interesting.

I wanted to have something to say when someone asked “So what are you up to these days?”

Because “rewatching fictional hockey players kiss in high definition” does not feel aligned with my former executive energy.

And then came the lowest point.

The bargaining phase.

Should I call them?

Could I email?

“Hi, it’s me. Remember the woman who dramatically rode off into the sunset? Slight change of heart. I can start Monday.”

I would go back for half the salary.

Half.

That’s how hopeless I felt about never finding myself again.

It wasn’t about the money.

It was about the certainty.

The title.

The proof that I existed.

So I tried something else entirely.

What app can I download to reprogram my brain so I can feel happy and grateful despite having no identity?

Surely there’s a subscription for that.

“This is your year.”

“Good things are about to happen.”

“You are enough.”

Help me, Lord. I cannot take one more pastel-coloured affirmation floating over a sunrise.

My negative self-talk? Elite level. Olympic athlete. Comes naturally. No subscription fee required.

The affirmations felt like gaslighting myself.

I’m not glowing. I’m spiralling.

To soothe myself I called former colleagues.

Purely for research.

I needed confirmation that nothing had improved. That the chaos remained. That the circus was still circling.

Gratefully they confirmed: “It’s worse.”

Music to my ears.

I immediately relayed this to my husband:

“See? It’s worse than when I left.”

Just to be clear.

Just to reinforce.

Just to make sure he understood.

I do not regret this decision.

Reader, I absolutely regret it.

But underneath all the spiraling I kept coming back to one thing — I have always loved human connection. Listening. Understanding. Connecting dots between people.

So I asked myself: what can I actually learn that enhances this part of me?

And then during my 10:00 AM doom-scroll the algorithm — which at this point knew me better than I knew myself — served me an ad.

NLP. Neuro Linguistic Programming.

It sounds scientific.

There are three words. Two are long.

I was sold.

I started reading. It caught my interest.

And 46 intense hours later — because when I spiral I spiral efficiently — I became a certified NLP Practitioner.

Yes.

Forty-six hours ago I was rewatching fictional hockey players kiss in slow motion.

Now I am rewiring minds.

Applause from me.

Applause from my husband.

I was busy. I learned something. I achieved something.

Identity: temporarily restored.

But the real breakthrough was still coming.

And it was not going to arrive in a certification.