On aging, awakening, and the long road back to myself

Hello loves,

I woke up this morning in a strange head space—one that’s probably been lingering under the surface since I got back from vacation. A little restless. A little sad. A little uncertain.

Monday, I’ll turn 42.

Now, I know that’s not exactly old—but it’s not exactly young either. It feels like I’m walking up the staircase of midlife, and I’ve stopped on the landing to catch my breath and look back. And what I see is… hard to hold.

I’ve been reflecting a lot lately on how much of my life I’ve spent hiding. Not just physically, but emotionally and spiritually—shaping myself to be what others needed me to be. A daughter, a wife (twice), a mother, a peacemaker, a helper, a doer. I’ve lived a kind of half-life, always looking over my shoulder, worried I might fail someone—especially my kids. And in trying not to fail anyone, I ended up failing myself. And in some ways, I think I failed them too.

My oldest son, who turns 20 next week, said something recently that struck a nerve. He told me I’m not the same person I used to be. That I used to be more vibrant, more independent—the mom who raised him and his younger brother to be strong and self-sufficient. He said he sees how I’ve made myself smaller to fit in or conform. And hearing that broke something open in me. I wasn’t mad at him—I was sad. Sad that he noticed. Sad that he was right.

What happened to her?
That version of me who was bold, grounded, passionate?

I think she started to disappear after we moved to Georgia. Life got quiet here. Isolating. And in that quiet, I broke. The mask came off. The noise died down. And suddenly, I didn’t know where I ended and everyone else’s perception of me began. That kind of silence is disorienting. But maybe—just maybe—it’s also sacred.

Because slowly, I’m starting to find her again. The me that exists beneath the expectations and the performance. The woman who isn’t just a role to fill or a shape to mold. My faith is a big part of that rediscovery, anchoring me in something steady when everything else feels like sand.

But the rest? I’m still figuring that out.

I’ve spent so much of my life chasing purpose, trying to do the thing I’m meant to do, rather than sitting still long enough to become the woman I’m meant to be. And that’s what I’m trying to do now—at 42. Sit in the becoming. Listen instead of grasp. Trust instead of panic.

Writing has helped. Sharing my words has helped. It brings clarity to the chaos. A thread of meaning in the mess. And if I want this space to be honest and real, then this is part of it. The hard days. The strange mornings. The unraveling. The grief for who I used to be, and the slow becoming of someone new.

I’m tired of shrinking for the comfort of others.
I’m tired of carrying the weight of everyone’s expectations and calling it strength.
I want to live whole, not half.
And if that paints a target on my back? So be it. That target’s been there as long as I can remember. But now, at least, I’ll be facing forward.

So there you have it—today’s story from inside the labyrinth of my thoughts.

If you’re somewhere in your own tangle, if you’ve lost sight of the fire you used to carry, if you’re trying to find your way back to yourself—I see you. We’ll keep walking it out together.

All my love,
—J

Journal Prompt:

What parts of yourself have you hidden or dimmed to make others more comfortable?
What would it look like to begin reclaiming just one of those parts—gently, bravely, and without apology?