I was twenty years old when I boarded a plane with two suitcases, a one-way ticket to New York, and no real understanding of what it meant to start over. I remember walking through the airport trying to look confident, even though my chest felt tight, my eyes were fighting back tears and my hands were shaking. I was terrified my mom would see how unsure I actually was.
I didn’t leave Australia because I was fearless. I left because something in me knew that staying would mean shrinking. What I didn’t anticipate was how lonely ambition could feel when it is paired with distance. Real, physical distance from everyone who knows the sound of your laugh, the rhythm of your moods, and the history that made you who you are.
When I landed in America, my entire family was still on the other side of the world. I had five hundred dollars to my name and no safety net. No familiar faces. No one who could show up if things went wrong. No one to sit beside me on the floor when the tears came and I didn’t know how to explain why I felt so hollow. My life became phone calls across time zones and grainy FaceTime screens where birthdays, holidays, deaths, goodbyes, and milestones happened without me.
I told myself independence was enough. That if I stayed busy, stayed productive, and stayed strong, the ache would eventually quiet. But there is a difference between being independent and being alone, and I learned that difference the hard way. There were nights I cried myself to sleep wondering if I had made the biggest mistake of my life.
There were moments I wanted the comfort of being known without explanation. A mother’s hug. Someone who could read my face and know I was not okay before I had to say it out loud. I questioned whether ambition was worth the emotional cost of distance, and whether success meant anything if I had no one nearby to share it with. But going back was never really an option. I hadn’t crossed an ocean just to retreat the first time things felt heavy.
So I did what many women do when they don’t have the luxury of falling apart. I built.
I built routines because structure gave my days shape when my emotions felt unsteady. I built resilience because no one else could do it for me. I built a version of myself that could handle uncertainty without collapsing under it, even on the days when I wanted to. I learned how to make decisions without needing permission or reassurance. I learned how to trust my own judgment because there was no one nearby to lean on when I doubted myself.
That distance from family, from familiarity, from comfort forced clarity. When you are alone in a new country, you stop performing. You stop pretending. You learn quickly what matters and what doesn’t. You either grow, or you stay stuck.
I chose growth, even when it hurt.
Over time, that same resilience became the backbone of my career. I didn’t just learn how to build a business. I learned how to build systems that create stability when everything feels uncertain. I learned how to operate under pressure without showing it, how to lead when doubt is loud, and how to create structure because I know firsthand what it feels like to live without it.
What I didn’t expect was how deeply my personal journey would shape how I support others.
I recognize the look in business owners who are holding everything together while quietly unraveling inside. I understand the weight of being the one everyone relies on while feeling like there is no one to rely on yourself. I know what it is like to make decisions without a safety net, emotionally, financially, and professionally.
Leaving home at twenty taught me that adversity does not just shape you. It exposes you. It strips you down and forces you to meet yourself honestly. If you survive it, it sharpens you.
I did not build my career despite that experience. I built it because of it.
The distance taught me self-trust. The loneliness taught me empathy. The uncertainty taught me how to create stability, not just for myself, but for others who are quietly carrying more than they admit. I learned that success is not about grinding endlessly or proving worth. It is about building something strong enough to support you when life stretches you thin.
I still miss my family every day. That ache never fully goes away. But I have learned that roots do not disappear just because they grow in different soil. Sometimes, distance is what reveals how strong those roots truly are.
At twenty, I thought I was just moving countries. I did not realize I was laying the foundation for the life and leadership I would one day grow into.
Ellen Sacher
