The Day I Picked Up a Microphone and Fell Apart and Why I’m Glad I Did
Today I had a moment…
I was invited to an open mic event in Dubai, called I Have Something to Say," organized by my dear friend, a woman with a big heart, Olga, who is behind the “People of the Future. “ The concept was simple and beautiful: a space where anyone could come and share. Questions, dreams, thoughts, reflections. A room full of people willing to listen.
I went because I had something prepared to say. A speech about widows in the UAE, about the system that fails them, about HerSphere, and why I built it. I had practiced the words. I felt as ready as I could be. But I was wrong.. I was not prepared as I thought I was, and I failed.
What I wasn’t ready for was what actually happened.
Before the open mic portion,Olga passed a microphone around the room wtih only one question for every person sitting there: “What makes you happy?”
Four words. And they stopped me completely. I sat there watching the microphone move from person to person, getting closer, and I felt dread settling in my chest. Not nerves about public speaking. Something deeper than that. Because I knew that when that microphone reached me, I would have to answer honestly. And the honest answer is complicated right now.
Five months ago, I lost my husband.
We had built 25 years of life together in the UAE. This was our home, not a temporary posting, not a stepping stone. Our home. We raised children here. We built a family here. And then, overnight, everything changed.
So when someone asks me what makes me happy, I don’t have the easy answer. I don’t have the quick smile and the confident response. I have something messier and more real than that. My hands were shaking before I even took it. My voice started shaking the moment I began to speak. I said something like: “This is a very difficult question for me at the moment, because I have recently lost my husband. But I will try.”
And I tried. I spoke about HerSphere, the project I am building for women who find themselves in impossible situations and need somewhere to turn, about the community I was building and looking for meaningful partnerships that share the same value. I said that building something meaningful is what gets me out of bed every morning and just be... That having a purpose, even a painful one, even one born from grief is what keeps me moving forward, hour by hour, day by day. And then… I cried. In front of a room full of strangers, most of whom had never met me, had no idea what I had been through, and were simply waiting for their turn to answer a question about happiness.
I cried. And I felt embarrassed. And I wanted to disappear.
But I didn’t disappear. I stayed in the room. I handed the microphone over. I breathed. Olga's daughter sent me a cup of coffee (how sweet of her! ). And then, at the end of the event, something unexpected happened. First of all, I got plenty of hugs that I needed, just hugs, not the usual words you would normally hear from people in these situations, but hugs. I made meaningful connections, I stayed longer, and I spoke. The embarrassment passed, and underneath it was relief. Quiet, real, unexpected relief.
Because I had said something true out loud. Not to my readers, no to the fellow widows, who already know and understand. To a mixed room of strangers who were not expecting it and most of whom will never fully understand what this kind of loss feels like in a country with no social safety net, no family nearby, and a legal system that was simply not built with you in mind.
I didn’t do it for them.
I did it for myself.
And that distinction matters more than I can properly explain. For months, I have been processing this grief mostly inward, writing it, building with it, channelling it into something productive because that is how I survive. But saying it out loud, in a room, with a shaking voice and tears running down my face,- that was different. That was something I didn’t know I needed. Go anyway. Not because it will be easy. Not because you will hold it together. But because showing up, even imperfectly, even tearfully, even with shaking hands is how you slowly, gradually, build yourself back.
You don’t have to be ready. You just have to be there. That is what today taught me.
And if you are a woman in the UAE who is rebuilding after loss, whether that is the death of a husband, a marriage ending, or simply finding yourself alone in a country that can feel very unforgiving, HerSphere exists for you. Because you deserve support that is actually there when you need it.
Come and find us at hersphere.ae.
Anna Heenan is the founder of HerSphere — a platform supporting women in the UAE who are rebuilding their lives. She writes about grief, resilience, legal realities for expat widows, and what it actually takes to start again.
