I left everything behind and moved to Antarctica without telling a single soul. No, this ain’t a joke… or maybe it is.

I don’t even know where to start with this but here goes. I’m 24 now. Moroccan. Been living in Montréal the last few years. Had a regular ass life, like most people. Rent, bills, fake smiles, scrolling TikTok at 2am, wondering where I f*cked up. You know the drill.

But since I was a kid, I had this weird obsession with Antarctica. I know it sounds dumb. Everyone wanted to go to Dubai, or the U.S., or Tokyo or whatever. Me? I wanted ice. Emptiness. I used to stare at Google Earth zoomed in on Antarctica like it was my escape button.

I never told people seriously cause they’d just laugh. So I made it a joke. “Bro, one day I’mma vanish to Antarctica, watch me.” Haha. Ha. But I wasn’t joking.

It started as a dream. Then it became a plan. Then it became an obsession.

I was broke most of the time in college. Still managed to put aside like $200-300 a month, sometimes $50 if shit was tight. I had a “fuck-this-life” fund in a separate bank account with no card linked to it. I deleted Uber Eats, canceled Netflix, used cracked software, even learned how to cut my own hair on YouTube. (Ugly fades, but I saved like $300/year.)

Every night I’d fall asleep listening to Antarctic wind sounds. Literally. White noise on loop. Friends thought I was just quirky. Nah. I was mentally already there.

At 22 I started applying to random research stations—McMurdo, Palmer, Davis, Concordia—you name it. No science degree, no chance. But then I found out you can go as support staff. Cooks, janitors, electricians, waste disposal.

Guess what job I got?

Shit cleaner. Literally. Waste Management Technician. McMurdo Station. 6 months. $4,700 USD/month. Free housing. Free food.

The only requirement: mental toughness and not minding freezing your balls off.

So I dipped.

Didn’t tell anyone. Not even my mom. I scheduled an email that was gonna send 2 months later just so people wouldn’t report me missing. “I’m alive. Don’t worry. I needed to do this. I’ll explain later.” That’s all it said.

Deleted Insta. Blocked my WhatsApp groups. Packed one bag. Left my lease with a note and $200 cash to the landlord: “Keep the deposit. Sorry.”

I flew from Montréal to L.A. to Christchurch, New Zealand. From there, a U.S. military cargo plane took us to McMurdo. The cold hit me in the chest like a punch. -31°C. I couldn’t feel my face after 3 minutes.

The crazy thing is… I’ve never felt more alive.

Waking up at 5:45am to shovel ice. Cleaning frozen toilets. Eating powdered eggs with people who don’t ask what you do, just who you are. We were all misfits in some way. One dude was a failed musician from Texas. Another used to work on Wall Street before his wife left him. Me? Just a kid who wanted silence.

We had no phones, no scrolling. Just books, weird board games, dumb conversations and infinite sky. I saw auroras so bright they made me cry. I saw penguins waddling like they were late for something. I saw myself—really saw myself—for the first time in years.

I didn’t post. I didn’t check the time. I didn’t pretend.

I stayed 187 days.

Came back in March 2025. The world felt loud. Angry. Fast. I didn’t know how to re-enter society. Still don’t. I live in a tiny room in Laval now. Got a boring job again. Smile at coworkers. Pretend I’m okay.

But every night, before I sleep, I hear the wind again.

Not wind from here.

Antarctica wind.

And part of me still lives there.

Except… that’s not exactly true.
At least not anymore.

Last week, my doctor looked me in the eyes—real slow, careful like he didn’t want to scare me—and told me I’ve got early-onset dementia.

24 years old.

I laughed. Honestly, I laughed. Thought it was a mistake. Then he showed me scans. Tests. Notes. Patterns I’d forgotten. Appointments I missed. People I don’t remember meeting. Gaps in my own life story.

I swore I went to Antarctica. I still remember it. The sky. The way the snow tasted. The smell of the cold. But there’s no record. No flight. No contract. No station ever had me on file.

I asked my mom about the email. She never got it.

My lease was never broken. I never disappeared. I just… faded. Started telling people weird stories. Started isolating. Started making up a whole other life while I was right here.

So yeah, maybe I never went.

Or maybe I did.

Or maybe I’m still there right now, dreaming about Montréal and rent and doctors who look at me like I’m disappearing in real time.

I don’t know anymore.

But if you ever hear wind at night, like a whisper that sounds too far away to be real—

Maybe it’s not the wind.

Maybe it’s me.

Still there.

Still trying to remember what was real.