The Life I Almost Lived in the UAE

Over a year ago, I was supposed to move my family to the UAE.

Not for a vacation.
Not for a “let’s try something new” season.

For the dream.

The kind of dream that makes the old version of you sit up straighter.

The kind with a salary that whispers, You made it.
A housing package that screams, Look what you accomplished.

I was offered the opportunity to lead American schools in both Dubai and Abu Dhabi.

They flew me out. Again and again.
Five-star hotels.
Private tours.
Skyline views that looked like the future had decided to build itself early.

For years, I said no.

Until my pride got tired of pretending it wasn’t interested.

We were set to leave in December 2025.
Our bags weren’t packed yet, but our minds were.
Our kids were preparing to say goodbye.
We had started telling the story of our next chapter.

And then—one month before we were scheduled to board that plane—
God said no.

Not gently.
Not symbolically.
Not in a whisper.

Through my accident.

A mistake I will never excuse.
A choice I will never be proud of.
A fall that broke more than bone.

Something I will never forgive myself for because of what I did.
And something I will forever be grateful for because of who it removed...

The old Mike didn’t survive that November.

The one obsessed with titles.
The one measuring his worth in commas.
The one who thought prestige was purpose.

Gone.

What remained wasn’t impressive.
It wasn’t polished.
It wasn’t LinkedIn-ready.

It was humility.

It was repentance.

It was a man who finally understood that being important is not the same thing as being good.

—

Now I turn on the news.

I see unrest across the Middle East.
I see drones striking places I once stood.
Roads I drove.
Neighborhoods where my family most likely would have lived.

When I was there, I was told over and over:
“Americans are safe here.”
“Expats live beautifully.”
“Don’t worry about what’s happening to the north, south, east, or west.”

And maybe that was true.

But today I see Americans being told to leave.
Families scrambling.
Embassies closing.

I see headlines that make my stomach turn and I think:

If we had gone… would we be trying to find a way out right now?
Would my kids be scared?
Would I be helpless?

I will never know.

I only know this:

Sometimes what feels like devastation is protection.

Sometimes the door that slams is the one that saves your life.

There are extraordinary, beautiful, generous people in the UAE and across the Middle East. Families I laughed with. Educators I admired. Children who deserve nothing but safety and hope. I pray for them constantly.

I am not naïve about geopolitics.
I am not pretending the world is simple.

But I do know this:

Violence does not plant peace.
Fear does not build freedom.
And power without humility is just destruction wearing a uniform.

I am home tonight.

That is not something I earned.
It is something I was given.

The accident I once begged God to undo
may have been the mercy I didn’t understand.

The old Mike chased a skyline.

The new one thanks God for a kitchen table.

And if you’re standing at a door that just slammed shut—
if your dream just collapsed—
if the life you were building just evaporated—

Pause.

It might not be punishment.

It might be protection.

And one day, when the headlines change and the dust settles,
you may look back at the thing that broke you
and whisper with tears in your eyes:

“Thank You for not letting me go.”