The Doha Diaries #1: One-Way Tickets and Indemnity Forms, Confiscated and Stripped

I’ve spent the last decade helping authors find the heart of their stories, acting as that voice on their shoulder between a messy first draft and a polished, ready-to-publish book. But lately, I’ve realized I’ve been ignoring a story of my own—one that’s been sitting on a dusty hard drive for nearly two decades. Okay, not dusty, it was in a drawer. I’m digging into my archives and treating my old journals with the same clinical yet caring eye I give my clients—this is terrifying. This will be a series of essays I’m calling "The Doha Diaries," where I’ll be sharing the raw, unvarnished, and very messy lessons of a year that broke me down and built me back up, all while showing you exactly how a publishing partner turns life’s chaos into a narrative that matters.

Settle in and buckle up, you’ll want your beverage of choice for this ride…

On November 1, 2008, I signed a document at an airline counter in Kuala Lumpur. It was an indemnity form, a piece of legal boilerplate stating that if the country of Qatar refused me entry, I would be solely responsible for my own fate. My husband, Steve—or Hubby, as you’ll come to know him—had a work visa. I had a one-way ticket and not much else besides a stubborn hope that I hadn't just ruined my life. And if I’m being honest, I had no idea at the time what I was actually signing away.

My journal entry from that day reads:

“The bank had only bought one way tickets for Steve and me into Doha. I prayed that the Lord would see us through this expediently… they (the airline) agreed to let me fly if I signed an indemnity agreeing to take responsibility for my own person and my travel affairs in and out of Doha when I arrive there. So, our check-in time which usually would have taken 10 minutes took over an hour.”

I found that journal recently, buried deep in a folder on a forgotten hard drive—I was clearing out a desk drawer! It was a digital time capsule from a life I barely recognize from almost two decades ago. Reading it was a throwback into the past and it was, frankly, a most uncomfortable kind of throwback—the kind that makes your skin itch because you’re in a place where you never quite fit. It’s not like the fun ones you see on social media and the internet these days. And as I read, the publishing partner in me sat up and took notice. If this were a manuscript from a client, I would have called them immediately. “This isn’t just a travel diary,” I’d say. “This is the story.”

The story isn’t about the logistics of moving to the Middle East. It’s about what happens when you’re stripped of everything that defines you. At 37, I was a corporate IT consultant and a change management specialist. My identity was shaped and defined by project plans and timelines, and the boardrooms I sat in, the people I wrangled into delivering a project on time and on budget. I had a title, a career path, a purpose, and “on time and on budget” was my mantra.

In Doha, I had a new title: “wife of.”

My professional identity, it turned out, wasn’t on the packing list. It had been unceremoniously (rather rudely, I want to say) confiscated at customs, right alongside my sense of agency. A few days into our exploratory trip, I made a discovery that was a punch in the gut. It was an “ouch” moment I never expected.

“It was also very disturbing because I found out that I could not work in the bank if Steve worked there, since it would make him look bad and impede his effectiveness. Expletives deleted on the topic of medieval work practices and mind set of some of the local culture. Lots of expletives deleted actually.”

And just like that, the woman who managed multi-million dollar projects was reduced to managing her own spiraling thoughts in a beige apartment (it was very beige! Ugh!), wondering what on earth she was supposed to do all day. This project manager had no project.

That was then.

This is now. It is 2026.

The Doha I documented in those journals—a city of frantic, dusty construction, of bewildering roundabouts and growing ambition—has since hosted a FIFA World Cup. It now boasts a state-of-the-art Metro system, gleaming new cities like Lusail, and a global profile we could barely imagine as we navigated its chaotic streets. The IKEA we desperately wished for has been open for over a decade. The hypermarket Carrefour, which felt like our sole lifeline to the Western world, is now just one of many players in a massive retail landscape. And let’s not forget the recent hostilities with its neighboring countries, driven by the same messy politics that is keeping everyone on edge right now. I still have friends who live there and I read their daily journals and updates with a broken heart.

My journals, I realize now, are a snapshot of a specific, pivotal moment. They are a record of a Doha—and a self—that no longer exist.

So, I’m becoming my own client. I’m taking this raw, emotional, sometimes painfully honest (ugh!) material and turning it into the series of essays you are about to read. This is my ultimate case study—a real-time demonstration of how a publishing partner finds the universal story within a personal history. And in doing so, I hope that you will be able to find your story and consider it worth sharing with the world.

The first step I take with any author, before a single chapter is written, is to create a project manifesto—okay, that’s just a fancy term for a chat, a bunch of notes, and a healthy amount of soul-searching. I get to ask all the tough questions my authors need to answer. But it’s a foundational document that defines the story’s direction: its core themes, its voice, its intended audience, and its ultimate purpose.

You should know that this process can look different for everyone.

An experienced author might have this blueprint internalized, a kind of muscle memory that allows them to start with just a broad outline. But whether it’s an instinct or a document, the process is always there. It’s the strategic work that turns a box of old memories into a coherent and compelling narrative or a gem of an idea into a novel.

This very essay you are reading is, in effect, that manifesto made public—the blueprint for the journey ahead. It would be inauthentic of me to put my authors through the paces and take them on this journey without having lived it myself. And in the last few years two words have defined most of my actions—authenticity and intentionality.

Over this and the next twelve essays (give or take, I haven’t decided on the final number yet), we will journey back to that sun-scorched land together—it gets to 55°C in the height of summer. We will explore the monumental frustration hidden in the most mundane tasks, like the maddening quest to find bedsheets for a “super king” bed. We will dissect the hilarious absurdity of social etiquette, like the time a simple elevator ride devolved into a study in chaos theory. We will be bluntly honest about the emotional lows—the days I became what I called a “watering pot,” crying at the drop of a hat, drowning in a sea of homesickness and displacement.

And we will confront the terrifying end of our time there, a period when the political machinations of Steve’s workplace turned our expatriate adventure into a genuine crisis, forcing an escape that resembled the kind of extradition plan you’d see in a Jason Statham action movie. Believe me when I say that in recent years, now that the memories are not quite so fresh and traumatic, I have watched movies, paused them and said something to this effect to Hubby: that scene looks like how we were planning to get out of Doha if they hadn’t eventually returned our passports.

This project is an exercise in sense-making. It’s about looking back with the perspective of someone who survived it to understand what that year was truly about. It was about partnership, faith, and resilience, and most importantly, the enduring love of a spouse, and the kindness and generosity of friendships built in adversity. It was about discovering that my identity is not my job title. It’s what is left after the job title is taken away.

Every one of us has a “Doha” in our past—a period of dislocation, a crisis, a move, a loss, a break—that forced us to ask, “Who am I now?” This is the story of mine.

I hope you’ll join me.

xoxo, Deanna.

Let’s Chat!

If this journey through my archives has sparked a thought about your own "Doha" moment—or if you just want to see how this escape plan ends—come find me on Substack. That’s where I’m spending most of my time these days, digging into the weeds of story and strategy. You can also catch my latest updates via my newsletter, or reach out the old-fashioned way via email or Facebook. I’d love to hear from you.

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