As any self-respecting female protagonist, I was born with that innate craving for a "happily ever after." You know, the whole fairytale package "prince, castle, oh, honey, like in honeymoon forever! As a kid, I used to joke that one day, my prince would sweep me off my feet...on a black horse and mandatory white hair. My mom, of course, had questions. "Why white hair? " she'd ask, eyebrows raised. Well, even at that age, I knew I needed to stand out because every other prince had perfect blonde or raven-black waves. Boring. Mine was going to have character and a specific charm!

Fast forward to adult life, and I realized I'd been duped. Trapped in that age-old belief that true happiness only comes when you're married with kids. All the women in my family preached the same gospel your duty as a wife, blah blah blah, while I quietly dreamt of my curly-haired prince. Well, as luck would have it, the universe took my childhood joke literally. My prince arrived, all right, riding in on a metaphorical black horse, rocking some glorious curly grey hair. Oh, joy. Here I thought I was getting wisdom and chivalry, seeing as he was past forty and I was a fresh 34. Nope. What I got was the shocking realization that those fairytales leave out one crucial detail: sometimes, the prince is a charming, mother-fortune fool who couldn't spell "honesty " if you handed him a dictionary. As for the kids' part... he was in total denial, as we don't need any because of my thyroid issues; he thought that my kids would be some cursed creature from Notre Dame ("mine" like I was going to get them by myself!).

So, in 2009, there I was in a new country, dealing with a new language, culture and, oh yeah, this new thing called married life. As if juggling all that wasn't enough, the immigration officer in Frankfurt (aka the first gatekeeper of the Canadian Dream) took one look at me and thought, "Russian bride!" Ouch! Try Romanian, mister! I guess my "just-married, deer-in-headlights vibe" gave him ideas. I wasn't just adjusting to Canada, I was auditioning for stereotypes along the way! Damn it, and he was not even that rich to meet the cotta and fulfil the stereotype of sugar daddy!

As you see, not exactly Cinderella but close enough, slaving away not for some evil stepfamily, but for my beloved  husband. Was he ever satisfied? Absolutely not! I could've turned water into wine (forgive me, Jesus), and he'd have asked why it wasn't Pinot Noir (yup, the mother fortune was throwing away some French vibes. As he knew how to "speak" wine in all languages). I was living a modern-day Cinderella story, minus the glass slipper and the fairy godmother. Instead of a prince, I had a husband who was more interested in his own comfort than in my well-being. So, I had to navigate this tangled mess we call life, and God helped me, I found a way somehow. I threw myself into studying like I was cramming for finals at the school of life, determined to make something of myself. And let me tell you, when you move to another country, aka Canada, what are all your degrees and experience? Nothing! Nada! Zerooooo! Niente, aqua caliente! Yeah, they get erased at customs. It's like, "Welcome! Now start over!" So, what did I do? I reinvented myself. And then, again... and again. Seriously, I'm currently on my fourth reinvention. At this rate, I'm one reinvention away from becoming Jeanne d'Arc! So welcome to Isa 4.0 version! Ready and film! I am now the "The Bold and the Beautiful!"

Looking back, I now see that I was roped into this entire circus by family pressure. Yep, that's right. My family pushed me into the wrong arms because, apparently, I needed to be married with kids. So how did I survive? Every time I found myself knee-deep in the trenches of life, I clung to one beautiful thought: Sunrise kissing the ocean, an eternal love affair. That was my refrain from any provocation. Because let's face it the Ocean has never betrayed me. Sure, it's tossed me around like I owed it money, but even then, it was playful. We've always had that kind of relationship, no hard feelings, just a little roughhousing.

I remember my first trip to Cuba in 2013 two glorious weeks where I had the ocean all to myself. Technically, I was with my ex, but emotionally? I was "romantically solo." I mean, the man had all the romantic instincts of a paperclip. The sun was too hot, the ocean too wavy, sunsets were 'meh,' and sunrises? Too early for his delicate soul. So, naturally, I did what any ocean-loving romantic would do: I cheated! My new Lover? The OCEAN. And let me tell you, he was a total catch; mysterious, unpredictable, multilingual. He spoke in crashing waves, soft whispers, and the occasional "Hey, watch out for that riptide! " We had a thing, me and Mr. Ocean full of emotions...motions.

Forget romance novels; this was my real love story. The Ocean was more than just an escape "it was a sanctuary, a fling that made everything better. I'd spend all year working just for that one week of freedom, like Leda from Swan Queen; I was going backwards when Christmas came, and I'd reverse-engineer myself into a swan ready for action. My Frogs' companion complaints were on mute, and I'd gear up for days of laughing, swimming, and recharging my soul. Early mornings were for watching the tide recede, leaving behind fresh sand just waiting to tickle my toes. I played hide-and-seek with the waves, dancing to my Lover's rhythm, the Ocean, while the sun and I had our own little morning ritual. How I'd wished to lock myself in this bliss forever, but reality is hard medicine to swallow.

Back then, he lived for the all-inclusive buffet, while I was for the all-inclusive fun in the sun. He was stacking plates like it was the Olympics, and I was collecting tan lines like they were limited edition. Meanwhile, even though I was on the same all-inclusive deal, I had to be "careful with my figure." Go figure! The way I was looking, you'd think Free Willy had just checked into the resort pool. And despite eating like a bird, my body had other plans "stress was packing on the pounds like it was going out of style. I swear, I gained weight just "thinking" about dessert! So, I did what I knew best: keep on swimming, Dory, dear!