Exactly two months ago today, I arrived on this magical island, so let’s take a little “retrospective” (just to stay true to my professional life before dive instructing): what series of decisions (coincidences?) led me exactly to where I’m meant to be right now..

If someone had told me a few years ago that I’d find myself – and my path – on Gozo (Malta’s little sister), I’d have laughed in their face. Why? For one, I was never really drawn to these islands. Then, right at the start of COVID, I came here with my then-partner because it had been a lifelong dream of his – and it turned out to be the worst vacation of my entire life. No exaggeration: by the end, we were arriving at the Maltese airport separately to fly home, the trip had gone so sour. So, unsurprisingly, I didn’t leave with fond memories of the place.

Yet, when I became a divemaster, I considered working here. I wanted to stay in Europe (the Canary Islands were also in the running), but due to strict local regulations, it’s nearly impossible to get a job below instructor level..so, I went to the Dominican Republic instead (don’t look for logic here: I just found it funny to live and work on an island with the same name as mine). But that’s another story.

Gozo wasn’t originally on my radar. It only landed on my map thanks to a chain of unexpected connections that started with a French guy I met in the Dominican Republic – and then, another French guy (yes, I know). In Punta Cana, he was doing an interview with a Bulgarian guy who trains technical diving instructors in a little town called Nikiti. The name stuck in my head because, well, it sounded funny.

A year later, I saw “Nikiti” again on the PADI jobs site, and that odd little memory pushed me to land the same job a season later – and to do my technical instructor course by the way! That period led to a new friendship with another French colleague who never stopped raving about Gozo. Since we share the same taste in diving (read: rocks, caves, and more rocks), I trusted his judgment. Before that, I’d only ever considered Malta anyway – never Gozo.

And if my life hadn’t come crashing down in Egypt, I wouldn’t have been job-hunting in the first place. So really, this journey wasn’t planned at all. It unfolded through a string of accidents, chance meetings, and gut decisions.

Interestingly, everyone I’ve ever talked to about Gozo loved it, not just divers. And it seems I won’t be disappointed either: the locals are very kind, curious, and helpful (just don’t try driving here; it’s like people shed their skin behind the wheel). I love walking into a shop where people recognize me, where we chat like neighbors instead of just exchanging money over a counter. I love the sense of community, even among divers. Just yesterday I found a reel, my colleague passed around the photo, and its owner claimed it right away. A week ago, one of the guys was walking around with a flashlight he found at a divesite, asking every diver if it was theirs.

To give you a sense of scale, I live in a village with a population of 1,600. All of Gozo has only about 30,000 residents. We’re at the easternmost point of the island, and in just a 20-minute drive, you’re at the western end (around the Blue Hole, by the way). So yeah, it’s tiny!

The language here is fascinating: a mix of English, various Latin languages (mainly Italian and French), and Arabic. The island has an incredible history and culture thanks to all these influences, and it’s as if it took the best of each. Arabic hospitality and portion sizes, Italian flavors. (Although, to be fair, I wish they’d kept driving on the RIGHT side of the road..but hey, nobody’s perfect).

And then there’s the land itself: quiet and endlessly surprising. The rocky coastline carved by wind and waves, the golden limestone cliffs and the deep blue of the sea: it all feels like a dreamscape tailor-made for slowing down. There’s a kind of raw, ancient stillness here that feels grounding, even healing. Sometimes I catch myself just standing still, looking out over the terraced hills or the shimmering water, and thinking: I was never meant to be here, but I’m so glad I am.

Of course, I didn’t just land in paradise, this opportunity came with its own trials. During my final week in Egypt, I broke my ankle, just days before I was meant to attempt a personal best: my first 100-metre dive. Looking back, I can’t help but feel the universe stepped in to protect me from something worse. I wasn’t in a good place, physically or emotionally. I didn’t trust the local healthcare system and already had a flight home, so I decided to wait. As soon as I landed in Hungary, I went straight to the hospital for an X-ray..and didn’t leave. I was admitted on the spot and had surgery the next day: six screws and a metal plate. It was my first time getting an epidural, and staying awake during the operation was a surreal experience. I’d never broken a bone before either, so the first few weeks were emotionally tough.

But eventually, I got used to it. It was actually nice to spend a month at home, with my family, having friends visit instead of me always running around. I was forced to slow down and reflect. The injury made me rethink the patterns I keep repeating that led to this accident and how I could change them. I let go of a lot of things and people who no longer served me. I even dared to be a little selfish for once, to put my own needs first (it’s really hard, by the way).

Since I’d already had the ticket booked for Gozo months in advance, I arrived in a cast and spent the first two weeks mostly helping out in the shop and the B&B. My boss had already revealed his compassionate side when I reached out from Hungary to explain the situation. Instead of turning me down, he supported me fully: from encouraging me to come anyway to arranging hospital visits, rehab, and my gradual return to diving. My colleagues were equally amazing, understanding and super helpful. Sadly, I wasn’t used to this kind of support before, so I was genuinely touched.

And trust me, divesite entries and exits here are no joke. Some places require you to scramble over rocks with all your gear, or climb metre-long ladders built into cliff walls.

But I think the hardest part is behind me now. The day after they removed my cast, I was already diving. Turns out, there’s no better physiotherapy than using my fins twice a day, six days a week. At my 6-week orthopedic checkup, my (by the way Hungarian) doctor was shocked: he hadn’t seen such a quick ankle recovery in ages. Daily walking (with dive gear or otherwise), horseback riding, and biking all helped rebuild my strength and muscles.

And I’m working on myself internally too: back to EMDR therapy, taking online Spanish and French classes..and of course, it’s no coincidence I’m writing here too!

So here I am, two months in. A little battered, a little wiser, but deeply grateful. For the unexpected turns, for the people who showed up when I needed them the most, and for this tiny island that somehow managed to fit my heart just right. I don’t know what’s next, and that’s okay. For now, I’m exactly where I need to be: on land, in water, and within myself.