Exactly one year after he proposed to me, my fiance and I were due to sign our papers at the register office in Cairo, the city where we had been living together for four years. We were both journalists, there to cover the dramatic events that unfolded after the revolution that ousted the president. Our plan was to move to New York afterwards, where my fiance had a job lined up. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. I had just quit my job as Sky News’s Middle East correspondent, exasperated with journalism and its limitations. It was clear that I was burning out, despite the awards and accolades my team and I were receiving. I felt I was doing nothing to change the lives of the people I reported on. My interest was no longer in explaining the bad things going on in the world. Rather, it was in trying to stop these injustices from happening. I had started looking into the work of Amnesty International. They were recruiting for a head of their office at the UN in New York. Despite my lack of human rights experience, they agreed to interview me remotely via Zoom, but the only time they could make was the morning on the day we were due at the register office. I was hesitant to make such a drastic career change; journalism was all I knew and everyone told me I was crazy to give up such a great job when I was at the height of my career. I was wrestling with these thoughts when I heard the front door slam and seconds later, my fiance appeared. “We need to talk.” His face was pale, his voice trembling. I had seen him in dangerous situations before – we had worked together in Egypt and in Yemen – but I’d never seen him like this. He started talking about an argument our parents were having over wedding invitations. And then it came: he didn’t want to get married. “I don’t think I love you enough,” he said. He packed his things and left. By the time my parents turned up, 45 minutes later, I was filling rubbish bags with my belongings. I took my engagement ring off and placed it on the table, beside the wedding bands we were meant to have worn that afternoon. The three of us took the next flight out of Cairo. When I arrived back to my family home in London, I slept deeply. The next morning, just as the sun was rising, I walked out of the front door still wearing my pyjamas. I could barely feel my legs moving. I crossed the road and stood dazed in the middle of the dual carriageway. Seconds later, my father appeared. He ran into the road and grabbed my arm, pulling me to the pavement. We sat on the hard concrete for a few minutes to catch our breath, before my father led us silently back inside the house. I don’t know what I was trying to do that day. I don’t believe I really wanted to get run over; I hope I would have moved out of the way if I had seen a car coming. But I can’t be sure. After breakfast and a deep conversation with my parents, I felt a little better and decided to check my phone. I sifted through all the messages from concerned friends until I found an email from Amnesty International, saying that my interview had been cancelled after I had failed to show up. I replied saying that I’d had a personal emergency, apologising profusely, and asked for another chance. I informed them that I was now in London and could meet in person. I was determined to get the job. It was as if when all was lost and I could start again, I knew exactly what I needed to do. Away from Egypt, my ex and everyone’s expectations, my hesitation over joining Amnesty dissipated. Leaving journalism was no longer the hard choice but the only one that made any sense. Amnesty replied, informing me that the panel could convene to interview me, but it had to be that afternoon. By the end of the day, against all odds, I had got the job. And although my life as I knew it had fallen apart less than 48 hours earlier, it had given me the courage I needed to begin the work I was meant to do. Seven years later, I am still at Amnesty International, working as their representative to the UN. It’s now my job to make sure something is done about the suffering I witnessed and documented during my time as a reporter. Whether it’s finding justice for survivors of war crimes, or fighting to protect human rights in different countries, it’s my responsibility to try to make a difference in people’s lives by helping to change policy. It was only after my fiance left me that I was able to be honest about who I really was and acknowledge the part of me that wanted to devote myself to activism. It’s that realisation that led me to New York and eventually to finding happiness with someone who truly loves me and makes me feel safe. My life didn’t go the way I had planned, but I’ve ended up exactly where I needed to be, and with the person I was meant to be with. Taking Sides: A Memoir About Love, War and Changing the World by Sherine Tadros is out now from Scribe UK