Preface

Preface

Switzerland is a very special place for me, not simply because of her beauty and order, but because she offered me something far more intimate: a new encounter with myself.  Naturally, change was expected after I moved here. What I didn’t expect was transformation. 

Arriving here from the United States by way of Jamaica, I carried a worldview already shaped by movement, ambition, and layered cultural identities. But in Switzerland’s quiet rhythms and preciseness, I found an unexpected mirror. This place stirred in me a kind of existential reckoning -one that demanded introspection, re-evaluation, and change. This was not just a new environment – it was a stillness that asked: Who are you now, when the world no longer defines you by what you do? Who was I, stripped of the familiar titles, routines, and cultural comforts that had shaped me for decades? Being confronted by these questions was in itself, transformative. I didn’t arrive at all of the answers at once. What followed was a quiet, sometimes uncomfortable path of reflection, resistance, adaptation, and unexpected grace. That is why Switzerland is, in ways I never expected, a profoundly special place for me.  

Perhaps it was the sheer uniqueness of Switzerland that triggered these reflections. A country at the heart of Europe yet famously apart, a land of postcard-perfect landscapes, disciplined language structures, and an efficient political system. None of that complexity crossed my mind when I first arrived. I only knew that, suddenly being out of the work force and off the treadmill, so to speak,  I was forced to sit with myself in ways I never had before.  I had the time and mental space to reflect and to grapple with what makes me tick and where I  truly belong. For years, my identity had been tied to productivity, purpose and movement. In Jamaica, education was my ladder to a better life. In the U.S., my nursing career became both my livelihood and my validation – I was needed. I was contributing, I was somebody. But in Switzerland, that framework no longer existed. With no title, no clear societal role, I felt stripped down to my core. I had always thought of myself as strong, independent, capable – but was that strength rooted in who I was or what I did?  Without the structure of work, was I still the same person?

As a black woman in her fifties, finding my place in this society has felt, at times, like living through a midlife crisis with a unique twist. My identities- formed in Jamaica, sharpened in the United States, and now tested in Switzerland – were the lenses through which I experienced this new chapter of life. It all hit me like a brick in the head and I discovered that journaling was the only way that I could sort things out. These identities were both my armor and my challenge. Was I Jamaican or American? Or was I something else entirely- a global citizen navigating a world that didn’t always make space for me?

Nothing in my life would have prepared me for a life in Switzerland at this stage of my journey. Nothing, except the wise, old sayings of my mother’s voice. Her wisdom, born in the hills of Jamaica and shaped by hardship and hope, reminded me that identity was forged. She taught me that  survival is not only about pushing forward, but about knowing when to pause, to listen, and to adapt without losing yourself. As a young girl, her sayings were like riddles wrapped in rhythm – simple, but never shallow. ”Drink milk, don’t count cows,” she’d say when I was distracted from my goals. Back then, I understood it as practical advice. But here, they became anchors in unfamiliar waters.  Growing up in a small, developing country, education and determination were my tools for transcending poverty. In the bustling, competitive cities of the U.S., I carved out a life that felt empowered and self-defined. But here, in this quiet, measured land, the rules of engagement were different.  There was no rush, no urgent demand for my skills or story. Suddenly, I was no longer the professional, the mother in motion, or reliable caregiver. I was simply a woman – Black, foreign, fifty – and no longer easily categorized or affirmed by the roles I once wore like an armor.

Switzerland held up a mirror that I couldn’t look away from. She didn’t just ask who I was – she asked who I was without. Without a title. Without fluency. Without recognition. For the first time in my life, I couldn’t anchor my worth in what I gave others. I had to meet myself all over again – softly, honestly, and without distraction.

Was I searching for a new home, or was this simply another chapter in an evolving story?

And yet, there is an ironic symmetry to it all. My earliest connection to Switzerland was through the 1962 James Bond film Dr. No, where Ursula Andress -a Swiss actress- emerged from the waters of my Jamaican homeland as the iconic “Bond girl.” It was fascinating to know that, even then, Jamaica and Switzerland shared this unlikely cinematic link. My family still chuckles at the idea, often joking that my Swedish-born husband must be from Switzerland too!

This book is a collection of reflections from the paths I’ve walked. In these pages, I share what it has meant to start over while reflecting on identity, change, and belonging. It is an exploration of the ways we grow and adapt when life demands it. It is about navigating a new culture while carrying the weight of old ones. Most of all, it is about finding oneself in the unlikeliest of places – and discovering that every step, even the uncertain ones- has something to teach us. It is about finding resonance.

 

Chapter  1. A Journey of Firsts: Beginnings are always Difficult

How did you end up here in Switzerland? I would be rich if I had a dollar for every time I’ve been asked that question. No matter how many times I hear it, I stop whatever I am doing, turn the question over in my head, adjust my composure, and analyze the tone and expression of the person asking. Only then do I coin some sort of a response. Sometimes I’d grin and say, ” Oh I flew in with Air Swiss” , a cheeky nod to the usual answer of “by plane”, or perhaps an imagined journey on a boat or on a raft.   And each time, I try very hard to hide the annoyance that bubbles up within me.  Incidentally, what does that question mean anyway?  Are you asking if I’m running away from something or am I running to something? Or is the question more existential: why did I come here, why am I here in Switzerland? 

 After all, I was not accustomed to being asked such a question in America. No one ever questioned why someone would move to the U.S. – it was simply understood as the “land of opportunity,” the place where dreams could be realized. For many in the Caribbean, including myself, America symbolized success and endless possibilities. Switzerland, on the other hand though well-known for its prosperity and was even referred to as the “land of milk and money” -seemed to lack the same  aspirational allure.  Its reputation, at least where I came from, was more practical than mythic.  I was very much open to being surprised.

In any case, this simple question seemed to carry more weight than it should. And I often wondered if it would be asked as often if I were a white woman.  As time passed I began skipping the sarcasm, looking directly at the person and asking back, “How much time do you have?”  After a while it became clear that no one really wanted to hear the full story – because ain’t nobody got time for that.  My response may sound cliché but the truth is, I would have loved to sit and talk to someone, anyone, about my life’s twists and turns that led me here.

A deep conversation in English about my challenges- my perceived BFF-challenges- would have been a lifeline during the early months as I navigated new landscapes, new people, and a new language. Skills that I had mastered in English felt slippery and distant when wrapped in the awkward syllables of German, making it impossible to verbalize my feelings in any meaningful way. So I labelled my journey’s hurdles the BFF intersectionality: Black, Female, and Fifty. Each characteristic carries its own weight, but together they add up to a life – my Swiss life – that despite the challenges I’ve learned to love in this very foreign land.

 

 Chapter 2.   Moving to Switzerland Was Not my First Migratory Act  

I had packed my bags before, at the age of twenty-two, with that youthful mix of adrenalin and ambition. Back then, I was a young Caribbean girl with big dreams, stepping onto the streets of New York, albeit the Bronx, for the first time, heart pounding with excitement. The city was alive buzzing with a rhythm that was both exhilarating and terrifying.  New York awaited me- the Big Apple, a place where everything was possible. I was young, determined and ready to conquer the world. Because at twenty-two, you do believe you can conquer the world. I had big dreams for myself, but also carried the weight of my family’s expectations on my shoulders. The family believed that once you landed in America, success was only a matter of time. Everyone back home believed that if I could make it in America, I would be able to help them – and I did.

Perhaps one has to be an immigrant from a poor family to fully appreciate the weight of familial expectations. For me, being the first child to complete post-secondary education came with a profound sense of responsibility. I wasn’t just earning a degree for myself, I was paving the way for my younger siblings and becoming a source of financial support for my family. In a home where potential often felt like an elusive dream, my success became a beacon of hope, a symbol of what was possible for all of us.

A child among many, I was fortunate that my mother recognized and supported my potential, doing what she could to push me forward even when resources were scarce. Growing up in Jamaica, education wasn’t just a pathway – it was the pathway. It was seen as the ultimate means to transcend poverty, to break free from the limitations of circumstance and create a better future. In a society where opportunities often felt out of reach, education held a near-sacred status. It was the great equalizer, the one thing that could elevate a child from humble beginnings to a position of respect and achievement.

Parents and communities invested heavily in education, not just financially but emotionally, believing that success in school could unlock doors that had been closed for generations. From an early age, it was instilled in us that academic achievement wasn’t merely personal-it was communal. If one child excelled, it was a victory for the family, for the neighborhood, for everyone who had sacrificed to make it possible.

Completing my nursing studies felt like a monumental achievement, but being recruited to work in New York elevated that sense of accomplishment to something even greater. This wasn’t just my victory – it was ours: to be shared by my family and my community back home. It was my turn to repay the sacrifices that had been made for me.

At twenty-two, I didn’t mind that weight; it felt almost like an honor to be the one they were counting on. The one, who had a chance to break the cycle of poverty that had shaped much of our lives.  I embraced it with open arms, believing that my success would open doors for my siblings and create opportunities that none of us had dared to dream of before. I was young and full of energy: their hopes didn’t feel like a burden then. In fact, their hopes became my fuel, giving me the energy to push through the struggles of starting life in a foreign country.  Every challenge felt like a stepping stone toward something greater. Every long workday, every bitter winter, every homesick night was just another test that I knew I could pass. I was running on pure adrenaline and a naïve certainty that things would work out. I thought of my family constantly, sending money and barrels of goods home whenever I could knowing that my success could change their lives as well as mine. The bonds of family were strong, and though I missed them, the excitement of carving out a new life filled me with purpose.

Even now, I reflect on what it means to carry the dreams of others on your back. It’s both a privilege and a responsibility, and it has shaped me in ways I couldn’t fully appreciate at twenty-two. My mother’s words would often echo in my ears, “mi come yah fi drink milk, mi nuh come yah fi count cow”. The phrase rooted in Jamaican wisdom, was her way of reminding me to focus on the task at hand and not get lost in distractions. It was a call to purpose and practicality, a warning not to waste energy on what didn’t serve the ultimate goal. 

In its simplicity, the saying carried a wealth of meaning. It taught me to prioritize, to avoid unnecessary detours, and to concentrate on what truly mattered. When my mother said it, her voice carried both affection and steel-a mixture of encouragement and expectation that was impossible to ignore. For her, this wasn’t just advice, it was a survival strategy. Growing up in a poor family, there wasn’t room for indulgence in distractions. Every effort had to count, every step had to move us closer to a better life.

Her words became a mantra for me, especially during the most challenging moments of my journey. When I was balancing long shifts as a nurse with night classes, when I felt overwhelmed by the weight of expectations or when societal inequalities loomed too large to ignore. I would hear her voice in my mind. “Drink milk,” she seemed to say, “don’t count cows.” In other words, focus on the opportunities in front of you, not the obstacles.

As I grew older, I began to see that her wisdom held a dual edge. While it pushed me forward and kept me grounded, it also encouraged a kind of tunnel vision. There were moments when I avoided engaging with the larger societal issue around me- inequalities, racial discontentment- not because I didn’t care, but because they felt too vast and beyond my control. I poured my energy into my work, into achieving the goals I had set for myself, as though success could be a shield against the world’s harsher realities.

But still, my mother‘s saying wasn’t about ignoring the world, it was about surviving it. It was about knowing when to fight and when to focus, when to push back and when to move forward. It was a philosophy born out of resilience, shaped by a life where survival often depended on staying focused on the tangible and achievable.

Her words would stay with me as I navigated life in Switzerland. In a country so different from my own, where the challenges of integration-language, culture, identity-often felt overwhelming, her advice became a touchstone. Whenever I felt the pull to count every cow – to obsess over every barrier, every injustice – I reminded myself to drink the milk. To take each day as it came, to focus on what I could control, and to trust that the rest would follow.

But above all, my earlier experience has also taught me that success is never an individual journey- it’s a collective one, rooted in the sacrifices and hopes of those who came before us and those who stand beside us.