For the longest time, I lived a life that wasn’t truly my own.
This led to finding myself rolled up in the fœtal position on the floor of my Park Avenue office with fists clenched in such intense pain I thought I’d pass out. I was in my early thirties and, according to society’s standards anyway, living the dream: working as a corporate lawyer on Wall Street, negotiating multi-million dollar transactions while dressed to the nines in the season’s it bag and shoes. I was at the top of my game but deep down I was dragging my soul through the lowest depths of misery. The reality was that I was utterly unhappy and making myself ill with Crohn’s disease in the process. I was ignoring all the signs the universe was throwing my way. And there were many, many signs – the kind you find on a billboard in Times Square. I was in total denial, collecting my fat paycheck and spending it all on frivolous nonsense.