Have you ever thought about closing a chapter completely and stepping into a brand-new adventure?
I’ve felt that urge — many times. With work, with a relationship… with a place.
But it’s not just about why we need to change. It’s about the weight that change carries. And that weight? Sometimes it’s paralyzed me. Fear of what might happen. Fear of making a mistake.
Or maybe… after investing so much time and energy into something, I start to wonder if walking away is giving up — and if staying would somehow prove I tried hard enough.
But here’s the truth: walking away isn’t escaping. It’s not irresponsible. It’s not avoiding the consequences of choices that once felt so right. I made my decisions. I took risks. I believed in them. And honestly? I still believe they were the right choices — for who I was in that moment.
Life moves. Circumstances shift. Everything changes. And my mind? It never stops spinning.
Some things in life are permanent commitments — having a child, for instance. You give yourself fully. But staying in a situation just because it once worked? That serves no one. We grow, we outgrow. We move forward. Staying in guilt keeps us chained to patterns that no longer fit. Life is fast, but also long — and when you spend too much of it in a job or relationship that brings no joy, it begins to feel endless in the worst way.
I’ve packed my life into a suitcase and started over — not once. Many times.
When I was younger, before I had my daughter, starting over was easy. Those moves were mostly career-driven. And when you’re twenty, you have nothing to lose. Today, if you ask me how I feel about all those changes, I’d say they were part of some master plan that led me exactly here.
I truly believe everything — the good and the bad — ends up being part of the good. Even if I didn’t understand it in the moment. Even if I never fully do. The woman I am now is the sum of every twist and turn. That’s just life.
I was born in Córdoba. At 15, I moved to Buenos Aires to dive into the fashion world — modeling, specifically. Was I running away? Maybe. Was I searching for something more exciting? Definitely. I had no idea what I wanted to study or “be.” I saw many highly educated people with no work, barely getting by — that shook me. So I thought: why not take a couple of years to figure it out? After all, plenty of kids finish school and go backpacking around the world. And honestly? That’s amazing.
Who really knows what they want to do at 17? Okay — my brother did. He always knew he wanted to be a doctor. But he’s one of those exceptional souls.
So I left for Buenos Aires. And that adventure? It deserves its own chapter.
Two years later, I realized the fashion world didn’t begin or end in Argentina. Not even close.
Then came Japan. I packed my bags and flew to Tokyo after a connection I made during the Elite Model Look contest. Luck? Destiny? A detour written in the stars?
Let’s just say… Tokyo was intense. A full-blown culture shock. I got fired multiple times for trying to speak Japanese (I quickly learned to keep quiet — not my strongest skill). The culture and food were incredible… but the lack of affection, the absence of eye contact… I missed home. I missed warmth. I missed being seen.
I stayed almost a year. And yes — I eventually ran away.
Not everything was hard, though. I made friends from all over the world, learned the business, and traveled across Japan. And that experience fueled my next leap: Paris.
I closed my apartment in Argentina, packed up, and went to the most beautiful city in the world.
Paris is… wow. The architecture, the cafés, the language — I fell in love with French, and within a year, I was fluent. People warned me that the French were cold or arrogant, but I never felt that. Paris felt like home. Every time I landed back at CDG after a job abroad, I’d exhale. I was home.
Three years later — and after a failed marriage (he does not deserve a chapter, though my madness in choosing him deserves an encyclopedia) — I moved to New York.
I was 22, I think. I’d been going back and forth for work, with places in both cities, but Paris was my base. This was another big move: documents, bureaucracy, taxes… ugh. But America? They master bureaucracy. Fast. Efficient. After spending so much time in Madrid now, everything feels like a step backward in that department.
But New York… what a ride. A cultural, artistic, chaotic wave that swallowed me whole. I met brilliant, creative, wild people. And then I met Maia’s father.
Motherhood. Marriage. A whole new chapter. I planted real roots.
We lived in New York for ten intense years. But as always, change started knocking.
New York is a bullet train — no stops. You jump on while it’s moving or you miss it. And getting off? Good luck.
Was it worth it? Absolutely. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?
Maia was three and a half when her dad and I separated. I stayed in NYC a little longer, but eventually, I chose Miami — slower pace, more nature, close to her father, closer to Argentina. And the Latin energy? It felt like home.
And once again: pack, move, start over. But this time, I wasn’t alone. Every decision affected my daughter.
Miami embraced me. My people were there. Familiarity, warmth, culture. I remember my mom telling me to choose a partner from my own culture. I used to think that was limiting. But there’s truth in it. Some things you don’t have to explain — you just feel understood.
I had met the man who would become my third husband in New York. He lived between Miami and Guayaquil. My move to Miami wasn’t because of him — but it was the icing on the cake.
Ernesto was the kind of love you feel in your gut, in your bones. A love that hurts and heals at the same time. Our connection and chemistry were so deep… impossible not to call him the greatest love of my life.
We were together for just over 10 years. The three of us were a family. Maia loved him. Still does. And I do too.
But it ended. And it broke me. I couldn’t imagine life without him. But I learned to love him without being married to him. Because a relationship ends doesn’t mean the love disappears. In my heart, it felt like a burial — but it didn’t have to be. Learning to love without possessing… that’s where real growth happens.
Twenty years in Miami. Still home. My house, my community, my chosen family. Maia grew up there. I did too, in a way. Being a single mom wasn’t easy, but it shaped me deeply.
Then the bombshell: in 2019, I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.
That thing you think happens to other people. Suddenly, it was my name on the chart.
I was terrified. Confused. Why me? Why now?
But slowly, I learned. MS is a spectrum. No one knows the cause, no one knows the cure. But I made changes. I reevaluated stress, conflict, anything that stole my peace. I had to. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I needed to do something different. So I flipped things: if I usually went left, I went right. If I’d choose white, I tried black. I didn’t know which came first — the chicken or the egg — but I needed a starting point. That was mine.
Today, I’m calmer. Stronger. I still burn with passion, but the flame is steady. It doesn’t scorch me — or anyone else.
Then came the big question: Am I happy? Am I where I want to be? Am I doing what I love?
Maia left for university in Philadelphia. The nest was empty.
I was 43. And for the first time in forever… I had my life back. Just me. Inés.
What now?
Time to move again. I’ve got a nomadic soul — call it gypsy if you like. I needed to shake up the energy. Like rearranging furniture — same objects, different feeling.
So I moved cities.
I wanted Europe — quality of life, proximity to everywhere. A train ride to Italy, France, Spain…
I picked Madrid. It reminded me of Buenos Aires — the culture, the rhythm. People put family over work. There’s balance.
The move was spontaneous, impulsive, but also part of a bigger plan: divide my time between the U.S. and Spain.
And yet — despite all my experience starting over — this time hit me hard. I fell into a deep depression.
I’d survived heartbreak, illness, loss. But this was different. I was 48. My life was stable. My daughter, my dogs, my friends — all left behind. And for the first time, I felt loneliness. Real loneliness.
I spoke to myself out loud. I cried — a lot. The decision haunted me. The house was empty. Literally. No furniture except a few kitchen chairs. Winter. Cold. Darkness. It didn’t help.
But slowly… spring came. The sofa arrived. And finally… it felt like home.
Looking back, the move to Spain was exactly what I needed. The right call at the right time.
Friends told me they admired my courage. My thirst for adventure. Maybe it was courage. But really? It was desperation. I had abandoned myself. And I needed to return home — to me.
I’d given two decades to others. No one forced me. But blaming others is easier. Guilty.
The truth?
At 20, we leap. Nothing to lose.
At 30, we build: families, businesses. If something breaks, there’s time to rebuild.
At 40, we hesitate. We measure. Fear creeps in.
I used to be a daredevil — skydiving, scuba, polo, snowboarding. Tell me where not to go, and I’d go.
Then at 43, I thought: maybe skiing is safer than snowboarding. The danger felt real.
That caution spilled into everything. We hold back. We want to see our kids grow. We fear losing what we’ve worked for. The unknown — once our playground — becomes something we tiptoe around.
Where did that fire go?
Sometimes life needs to shake us. Throw us into chaos so we wake up.
To my surprise, everyone applauded my move. They said I looked lighter. More myself.
I’m back.
I started a new project — designing objects and furniture. I’ve always loved design, architecture, interiors — the expression of space.
Now I’m waking up parts of myself I thought were gone. Renewal. Energy. Joy. A version of me that feels true.
How could I have missed this?
Not everyone needs to start over. Not everyone wants to explore new paths. But for those of us who do — beginning again at 50 is not impossible.
Adi Dassler founded Adidas at 49. Colonel Sanders launched KFC in his 60s. Vera Wang at 46. James Dyson too. Success has no age.
Life isn’t short or long. Life is today — this 24-hour gift we’re handed.
I have no idea what tomorrow will bring. But today? Today I’m here for it.
I’m no guru. Just a woman who’s lived a thousand lives.
And I know this: I still have chapters to write.
The highs, the lows — I’ll savor every second.
