“In the hush of that airport bathroom, I stared into the mirror and surrendered—I trusted life to guide me.”
The second flight of my life was the one that changed everything. The first had been a short hop across Brazil, no more than half an hour. But this time, I was stepping into a twelve–hour journey across the Atlantic, leaving behind everything I knew.
As I boarded the plane to London, I remember how much I enjoyed being in that environment. The hum of the engines, the rows of seats, the weight of the unknown pressing against the windows — it all felt alive. For the entire flight, I thought only of what was ahead: a new life, a new beginning, a chance to learn, to expand, to discover. At no moment did fear creep in. I never once thought, What if I don’t find a job? What if it doesn’t work out? Instead, I was filled with excitement.
Looking back as a therapist now, I see clearly what was happening in my body. My heart was racing, my palms sweaty, my stomach fluttering. The same physical signals that people call anxiety. But I didn’t label it that way. I interpreted it as excitement. And because of that, I lived it as excitement. Years later, when people asked me, “Weren’t you afraid to move to London by yourself?” my answer came without hesitation: I was too excited to be afraid. That, to me, is the power of the mind — the frame we put around an experience shapes the reality we live.
When the plane finally landed and the wheels touched British soil, my heart felt like it might leap out of my mouth. I was trembling, but I never thought of it as anxiety. It was the thrill of stepping into a new world. I walked through Heathrow’s corridors with an open heart — only to be met with a wall.
At immigration, an officer asked me: “Do you speak English?” He didn’t even look at me. I didn’t understand the question fully, but I caught the words speak and English. With all the naivety of my 23 years, I answered, “Me not to speak English.” That was the best I could do.
That answer was enough to stop me. My luggage hadn’t even been collected before I was ushered into a side room. Inside was a square of hard chairs attached to the wall, filled with people lying down, sleeping, waiting. The atmosphere was heavy, drained of hope. Among them, a man caught my eye — slim, in a blue suit, shiny black shoes, and unforgettable yellow socks. He called me over, speaking Spanish. “Show me your letter,” he said. I was relieved to understand him. After reading, he looked at me and said flatly: You are in trouble. Everyone here is waiting to be deported.
His words hit me like a tennis ball swallowed whole, lodging painfully in my throat. Trouble. Deportation. The dream I had carried across the ocean suddenly seemed fragile, slipping from my hands.
The next five hours were an ordeal of waiting. I cried in the toilet again and again, washing my face before returning to my seat, only to repeat the cycle minutes later. Despair pressed in with every passing hour. What if I had risked everything for nothing? What if London was never meant to be?
And then, something shifted. On one of those trips to the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and, for the first time, surrendered. A deep calm came over me. If this is not meant for me, then I accept it. If being in London is not good for my life, if it is unsafe or not aligned with me, then I am willing to be deported. I trust that this, too, would be for my best.
It was as if I handed my life over to something larger than me — to God, to life, to fate. In that moment, the weight lifted. I returned to the room lighter, no longer fighting what was.
Minutes later, the door opened. A tall, slim, blond English officer called my name. He gestured for me to follow. I was led into an interview room where a Brazilian translator sat beside him. She didn’t look at me once. For an hour and a half, I was questioned, my every answer tested and re-tested.
“Are you really here to study?”
“Is this man, who is waiting for you, your boyfriend?”
“Why have you come?”
I answered with truth: no, he was my friend; yes, I had paid for an English course. My plan was to stay for six months, then see what came next.
And then came the question that cut me to the core: Are you coming here to be a prostitute?
Anger rose immediately. I had left Brazil to escape precisely those stereotypes — the sexualized image of the Brazilian woman, the shadows of carnival, the reality of exploitation. To be reduced to that as soon as I arrived was unbearable.
I looked the translator in the eye and spoke with all the fire I had: Do you really think I would cross an ocean, travel to the other side of the world, to do something I could easily do in my own city? In São Paulo, in the very area where I lived, prostitution was on every corner. If that’s what I wanted, I could have done it there, at least in my own language. Do you think I am that stupid?
My answer was sharp, assertive, and full of emotion. And it was enough. The officer closed the folder, looked at me, and simply said, “Let’s go.” Moments later, my luggage was placed on a trolley. Just like that, I was released into London.
That day taught me the raw power of surrender. I cried, I despaired, I fought within myself. But only when I accepted, when I let go of control and trusted life itself, did the path open.
Surrender is not giving up. It is releasing the illusion that we are in charge of every outcome. It is trusting that life knows more than we do. On that day, surrender carried me through the gates of London. It was the first of many times in my life when I would learn to stop fighting and instead lean into trust — trust in myself, and in something greater than myself.