I’m fine. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’ve said some version of it most of my life — at the market, to the people in the ER waiting room after they found a blood clot in my leg, to my partner after he got my text and was upset. It just pops right out of my mouth.

In this episode I talk about what nobody mentions about midlife. We hear plenty about protein, hormones, and strong bones, and almost nothing about the women who’ve kept everyone fed, soothed, and comfortable for decades and can’t answer the question, what do you really want?

I also get into where “I’m fine” came from for me: the party dresses and handshakes of my childhood, my grandmother and my mother, and a much older truth. For a long time, keeping other people happy was how a woman stayed safe. It was never their fault. And seeing the pattern doesn’t make it disappear overnight... that’s been a slow unwinding for me, with a lot more compassion than I used to give myself, (I write more about it in my book, Unabandoned.)

Let’s talk about it together

If any of this sounds familiar, come spend 90 minutes with me on Tuesday, November 10, at 4:00 pm Pacific / 7:00 pm Eastern. I’m hosting a free workshop, Stop Putting Yourself Last - for women ready to put themselves back on the list.

I’m looking forward to this virtual gathering! It’s free but you do need to register and you can do that right here.

Already registered? Awesome! Don’t forget to add it to your calendar before someone else asks you for that time.

Episode 2 is coming in a day or two: what I tried, and the messy path.

What’s your version of “I’m fine”? If you’re reading this in your inbox, just hit reply. It comes straight to me, and I read every one. Or leave a comment below if you’d like to share it with the group.

My biggest concern as I drove to the hospital for an ultrasound was whether there’d be enough time afterward to stop at the co-op and still get home in time to cook the delicious dinner I had planned.

I mean, of course, I had a tiny bit of concern about the pain in my lower right calf that had led me to get the referral for this procedure. After waking up almost a week before with a pressing pain that felt like the residue of a charley horse, I just assumed it was yet another ache and pain that accompanied my newly minted senior citizenship — I turned 65 late last month. After all, the pain from tweaking my back the Sunday before was just beginning to subside, so now here was something new.

But after a couple of days of extra stretching and massaging my calf, the pain persisted and felt - well, weird. Not really like muscle pain. An intuition dropped in: maybe you need to get this checked out.

I’m not the person who runs to the doctor’s office at every symptom. I’ve prided myself on my excellent health my entire life, which I attribute in part, yes, to luck, but also to healthy choices and my efforts to head things off at the pass. As an herbalist, I’ll take tinctures and drink teas at the first sign of any symptom. Vegetables fill half my plate during most meals. I’m a big believer in preventative health care, and so far it has served me well.

But this seemed different. Weird. So, I did what any reasonable modern person does, I turned to Google - now Gemini.

Well, shit.

Apparently sudden pain on one side in the lower calf could be a life-threatening emergency. It might be an indication of deep vein thrombosis (DVT) — especially since there was no exceptionally strenuous activity, long travel time, surgeries, or other factors that could also cause the pain.

Worse, a blood clot in this vein could detach and head up to my lungs, killing me instantly. Or get into my brain.

I lay in bed staring at my phone. But then again — I didn’t have any of the other symptoms that would tell me to head to the emergency room immediately. No shortness of breath, no chest pain, no swelling or discoloration of the leg.

It’s probably just another strange pain, the part of myself I’ll call “Just Fine” spoke up in my head. You’re fine! After all, this aging body had been squawking louder and louder over the last few years. You probably need to exercise more.

The next day, I had to limp down the stairs though. So, I mentioned the issue to my nurse practitioner sister, and she also expressed concern, and agreed I should go get it looked at.

Well dammit, I guess I’d better go into Urgent Care, I decided. But, since it was now the weekend, I settled for taking ibuprofen till Monday morning. “Just Fine” reasoned that was all we needed, and that if there was any type of clot this would thin my blood enough.

Early Monday I reluctantly headed out to Urgent Care, but after a long wait outside in the cold, I reached the admissions desk only to be told they don’t do those sorts of procedures and I needed to go to the ER. Ugh! My partner had driven me down and neither of us felt like spending the next 3-10 hours waiting in the ER, so I called the clinic and — Yay! — I could be seen that afternoon.

I had hoped they could just hand me a paper I could take over to the hospital — but no… that’s not how things work in our current health care system. Instead I was to call the hospital and then keep calling till they could get me in.

When I first called the hospital, I was told I probably couldn’t get in for a week or two. Well, if this was really an urgent issue they would make sure I got in sooner, I thought. No need to stress.

But, urged on by my partner, Randy, I did call again first thing the next morning trying hard to express the urgency of the situation. This time the receptionist said she would talk to the techs and I’d receive a call back soon. When I got the call about a 4:30 opening, I cancelled what I had going on so I could make it.

I was still thinking that I was just going to rule out the blood clot scenario so I could go back to icing, massaging and taking care of it as a muscle problem. I was a little worried - yes, but mostly I just wanted to rule out the possibility of the DVT so I could breathe easier. Hence, my concerns being more about dinner than some sort of diagnosis.

* * *

But when I lay there on the table with the tech smearing gel all over my leg, my stomach started to clench. This was taking WAY too long! Was she finding something? Since there were signs all over the room stating the tech is NOT able to tell you anything about their findings, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t ask.

“OK,” she said briskly, finally finishing up. “You can get dressed now. I’ll be right back.” And she walked out of the room.

I wiped the sticky gel off of myself and put my pants back on. And I sat there. Did she need me to wait? Wasn’t I done? Why did she say she’d be right back?

I was just deciding that maybe I’d misheard and I should just go when she reappeared.

“Ok, well, your provider’s office is closed so I think we need to go talk to the ER doctor,” she said.

Wait, what??!

“Since you live a ways away, I don’t want you to go home and then have to come all the way back,” she continued. “So just follow me and the doctor will be able to talk to you soon.”

And that’s how I ended up in the ER after all — in the smaller hospital. I’d never been to the ER here before and had always pictured it as a big room. Instead she directed me to sit in a chair in this little hallway with a few other folks.

With a sinking heart I realized I might be here for a while. My plans for dinner were flying away.

Something was obviously wrong. I must have a DVT. But why do they need to talk to me now?

I immediately texted Randy and my sister. Fuck, something is wrong and now they want me to wait in the ER to talk to the doctor...

Randy texted back, do you want me to come down?

I don’t know, I messaged back. Maybe? I guess I’ll need to eat something eventually.

I felt strangely calm and detached from the whole thing. I chatted sympathetically with some of the other folks waiting to be seen... but it was almost like I was removed from my body and floating somewhere else.

I was more concerned about how long I’d be stuck in this tiny waiting room than what was going on with my leg. That particular question was like a red hot boulder that I was too scared to touch.

A kind triage nurse called me before too long - phew! I thought that meant I’d see the doctor right away. Hahahah. No, instead she joked and jollied me as she asked questions while leaving the blood pressure cuff and finger clip on me for about 10 minutes.

Then it was back out into the hallway to wait. My sister was sending concerned texts and notifying my other sister, and I was grateful when Randy showed up with a burrito and the comfort of company.

* * *

After what seemed like hours, I got called back in. More waiting. And waiting. Finally a masked doctor rushed in. “You have a clot!” he practically yelled, looking frantic. “Yes you do! I’m going to give you something for it now and write you a prescription.”

“Um, okay.” I squeaked out. I still felt completely detached. The bits of his face that I could see beyond the mask were flushed, his eyes seemed to be darting, and I wondered what sorts of emergencies he’d been dealing with. Surely they were more serious than a silly blood clot.

And with that he was gone.

I still felt that odd sense of unreality. Like I was watching this happen instead of experiencing it myself.

In hindsight I’m seeing: that’s what dissociation looks like.

My phone buzzed. I had texted my sister when I got into the examining room. She was responding, but the doctor was already gone.

Ask him how big the clot is. What are the chances of it detaching?....

Her text went on with the questions I should ask — but it hadn’t even occurred to me while he stood there that I had the right to ask anything.

We hung out in the little examining room for another half hour, wondering how fucking long does it take to write a prescription and bring the pills??? Finally a sweet young nurse arrived with a little cup of pills and another cup of water. She didn’t know the answers to any of my sister’s questions.

I was on my own.

* * *

Did I mention I’m an herbalist and have been lucky enough to enjoy excellent health for the most part? This means I generally avoid any kind of medication beyond ibuprofen or Tylenol. But now, here I am on a blood thinning drug that’s gnarly enough to cause multiple people to caution me about it.

Don’t hurt yourself, the pharmacist warned. Go directly to the ER if you take a fall. WTF??? How bad a fall warrants a visit to the ER? Do I have to be bleeding? So many questions! Still no answers.

Now, over 24 hours later, I’m realizing that dissociation and the reassurances of “Just Fine” were NOT helpful in this situation. This was the time to be assertive. Ask questions. Be an advocate for myself.

I just wrote a book, Unabandoned, with a whole chapter on people-pleasing and how to reclaim yourself.... but my own people pleaser literally drove me to the hospital and took up residence for the entire visit.

The habitual patterning of people-pleasing had stopped me from even realizing that I could speak up and ask what I needed to know. My people-pleasing parts have so much practice with making sure I take up the least space possible, and that I don’t cause others any discomfort, that they activated without my conscious awareness.

These last couple of days have really highlighted the part of me that wants to tell everyone I’m just fine. I can remember her showing up in the past. Once when I fainted. Another time when I took a fall off of a porch, injuring my back. “Just Fine” is way more concerned with everyone else’s comfort than my own.

My challenge now is to work with these parts that want to stay small, tell me I’m just fine, and keep everyone else happy. It’s more important than ever that my more assertive parts and my wisest Self can be present while I navigate the medical system and try to deal with this issue. I need more information. Why do I have a huge blood clot out of nowhere?

Since returning home, I’ve been bringing in those assertive parts while making phone calls to the clinic for follow-up care, to request a referral to a vascular surgeon, and for further testing. I’ve also been tapping to ground back into my Essential Wise Self, so she can lead the way.

Isn’t it fascinating how the Universe hands us opportunities to do the inner work... often in ways we could certainly do without?

I don’t think I’m alone in having a Part like this.

Do you have a “Just Fine” of your own? When does she show up, and whose comfort is she protecting?

The people-pleasing chapter is the one I wish I’d reread for myself before I walked into that ER!

About the Book:

Unabandoned: A Midlife Woman’s Guide Out of People Pleasing, Perfectionism, and Imposter Syndrome

You did everything right. You became the one everyone counts on. So why the hum of discontent that wakes you at 3 a.m.?

Unabandoned is part memoir, part field guide — the friendly company of someone who walked this ground just ahead of you, reaching back. You’ve left yourself behind for so long. This is the invitation to stay.

I want the book!

The ebook is just $4.99 for the launch period, going up to $8.99 on November 30th. You don’t need a Kindle device to read it; the free Kindle app works on any phone, tablet, or computer. Prefer to hold it in your hands? The paperback is available too, at $12.99.

If you’ve got a “Just Fine” (or similar character) inside your own head running the show, perhaps we should talk. An Ageless Awakening Review is a free, guided look at where you are and where you want to go.

Book Your Free Review

Have you ever started down a certain path in your life, and then someone or something showed up and caused you to take a U-turn? Suddenly you’re on a totally different path, and then when you look back years later you realize this was one of the pivotal moments of your life.

That’s what I call serendipity.

A few of you (who are reading Unabandoned) have asked me about what happened after I packed up my little Nissan Altima and drove away from the life I had built. That got me thinking about this whole idea of serendipity — as I remembered some of the synchronicities that showed up when I made that move.

When I left the life I’d built to find adventure — and myself — I had no clear vision of what was to come. All I knew was I wanted to test out living in a more urban area, after 30 years “behind the redwood curtain”, 275 miles from the nearest big city.

I didn’t have a job lined up, just a loose plan to stay in a friend’s basement until I could find a place to rent. I had a couple of connections in Portland, a few thousand dollars saved up, a part-time freelance job, a blog, and a starry-eyed plan to build an online business.

This is when you become most open to serendipity. When you have no real plan, and sometimes when things aren’t going all that well.

What a rude awakening to see the cost of renting a room in the Portland neighborhoods where I wanted to live! But then, while looking through posts in a Facebook Group I saw that a woman whom I’d briefly met at a conference for online entrepreneurs a few months back was looking for a housesitter/dogsitter for six weeks while she visited England. It was in one of the fun, walkable neighborhoods.

And… just like that voila! I was soon ensconced in her comfortable home in the Alberta District, taking care of her sweet little King Charles spaniel. I now had six more weeks to get the lay of the land and figure out the housing situation.

I was open, and a temporary home showed up.

Later, when the thousands of $$ failed to materialize in my online business, and I was hitting dead end after dead end in my search for a part-time job to carry me through, I got a call from New Renaissance Bookshop where I’d dropped off a resume months before.

I was on a trip back ‘home’ when they called, visiting my daughter in Northern California. This was way before Zoom interviews, and I had to tell the owner I was out of town and couldn’t do an interview for two more weeks. He was willing to wait, and very soon my immediate financial concerns were resolved with a part-time bookkeeping job in this sweet shop that was a bigger, more expansive version of my own Moonrise Herbs that I’d run for 19 years as a younger woman.

I was open, and a paycheck showed up.

Everything always works out….in some way or another. It’s just that there may be pitfalls (aka learning opportunities) along the way.

Was it all perfect? Of course not! Could it have been worse if I’d closed the doors of my mind? Definitely!

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So Easy to Miss

That’s the thing about happy synchronicities - or serendipity - whatever you want to call it: they’re easily missed. Looking back now on those serendipitous invitations throughout my life — and the ones I missed — I realize there is a certain type of energy that I either embodied…. Or didn’t.

I can see now that my best outcomes were directly correlated to how willing I was to risk my comfort and safety. No easy task for any of us, and my particular personality and design really likes that safety. And yet, it turns out I might be more willing to take certain types of risks than your average bear.

Now, you won’t catch me jumping out of an airplane. I avoid most activities that might cause severe body damage or injury. I’m not that type of risk taker. Yet, I’ve refused to buy into the mandate modern society shoves down our throats: get a good job, earn money, build wealth, accumulate assets, and save the real enjoyment of life for when we retire.

(OK, true confession: sometimes I wish I’d followed the rules a little better. Despite my conviction that human consciousness is evolving, now I see those old patriarchal ways will take a bit longer than I hoped to break down. But that’s another story. Mostly I’m glad I decided to do things my way.)

A part of me tends to be serious and demands a plan for life backed by logic. She’s very nervous about the idea of taking chances. Luckily, I also have that more carefree part that wants to explore, play, and see what happens. They both work in tandem, and I need them both. But without “Carefree Girl,” I would miss the synchronicities. And then, once I’ve made the leap into something new, “Planner” can help me keep my shit together.

As a parentified child, I early on took on the belief that I must shoulder a lot of responsibility. Stay strong for everyone else, and keep it together. That’s where Planner got her start, and she only got more rigid and guarded as I grew into adulthood. And yet, that adventurous spirit often won out anyway. And when a Knowing dropped in, I moved on it.

The Human Design Connection

This all tracks with what I’ve been studying about my own Human Design. It’s my new fascination, and I’m certifying to become an Ignite Her Frequencies Human Design Guide. I got hooked when I realized how much it helps me understand my own shadows and gifts, and better appreciate my loved ones’ challenges.

More to come later on what Human Design is exactly, and how it works. But for today I am looking at what we call the “Core Four” which represent your life’s work (in traditional Human Design, it’s called the Incarnation Cross). Which four ‘gates’ you carry is determined by your birth date, time, and place, and suffice it to say they hold about 70 percent of what you’re working through in this lifetime.

Each gate has a challenge or shadow element, and also a gift or wisdom. Ideally, as we journey through life we move more into the gift and out of the shadow. But since these frequencies are part of what we’re meant to experience in this lifetime, we can often shift in and out of the shadow, hopefully becoming more aware of that happening sooner and sooner, so we can choose to shift.

Part of my Core Four is Gate 46. The shadow is Rigidity, the gift is Serendipity. This one gate highlights exactly what I’m discussing today — I can see that when I’m in that shadow of Rigidity, I get too controlling and attached to how things will go. I feel like I need to plan it all out and know exactly what’s coming next. But when I can lean into the Gift of Serendipity, I open myself up to the magic of unexpected opportunity showing up.

The insights I’ve gained so far about my own Design have helped me see my own past mistakes and wins in a new light, release some regrets, and fully enjoy and celebrate the serendipity I HAVE allowed in.

And even still, I sometimes struggle to stay open to the element of surprise and be willing to pivot when the Universe puts something in front of me that’s not part of the plan.

I feared abandoning the plan… but it turns out that sometimes sticking too closely to a plan (often dictated by the needs or directives of others) is actually abandoning myself! Because my true inner Self is not constrained by those directives, she wants to follow the breadcrumbs.

Since I’m on a mission now to stay with myself, to shed those behaviors of self-abandonment, and to help other women find their way back to themselves as well — I’m all for staying open to the synchronicities that may lead you closer to the longings of your heart.

How about you? Which synchronicities have you followed, and which ones did you talk yourself out of? Let’s chat about them in the comments!

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Feeling the pull for a change but not sure where to start? An Ageless Awakening Review is a free, guided look at where you are and where you want to go.

Book Your Free Review

My book is out!

About the Book:

Unabandoned: A Midlife Woman’s Guide Out of People Pleasing, Perfectionism, and Imposter Syndrome

You did everything right. You became the one everyone counts on. So why the hum of discontent that wakes you at 3 a.m.?

Unabandoned is part memoir, part field guide — the friendly company of someone who walked this ground just ahead of you, reaching back. You’ve left yourself behind for so long. This is the invitation to stay.

I want the book!

The ebook is just $4.99 for the launch period, going up to $8.99 later this fall. You don’t need a Kindle device to read it; the free Kindle app works on any phone, tablet, or computer. Prefer to hold it in your hands? The paperback is available too, at $12.99.

Tall, skinny as a rail, blondish hair cropped short, my mom’s friend Binnie Carlson yelled at us kids while a cigarette dangled from her red lips. Leather belt at the ready, she wasn’t afraid to wield it even on kids who weren’t her own. Mrs. Carlson was the one who pulled me aside at age eight to deliver a serious lecture on the perils of getting fat.

“Sally,” she said (calling me by my childhood name), “Come sit down over here. I want to talk to you about something.”

With trepidation, I sat beside her in the kitchen. My mother was nowhere to be found. Was she out on an errand? Was I in trouble?

“I’m getting really worried about you,” Mrs. Carlson said. “I see you are getting bigger, and I don’t mean taller. And I just saw you eating two bowls of ice cream.”

I squirmed in my chair.

“When I was a little older than you,” she continued, “I got very fat. It was miserable. Nobody liked me, and I felt so ugly. It took me a long, long time to lose all that weight. I didn’t have any friends until I lost weight.”

“Am I fat?” I asked, frowning with concern.

“Not yet,” she responded. “But it could happen soon if you keep eating like this. I’m trying to help you. I hated being fat. It was the worst thing ever. You need to be very, very careful about what you eat. I can already see that you could end up like me if you just eat whatever you want.”

* * *

I’m paraphrasing this conversation, of course—after nearly 60 years, I don’t remember it word for word. But what I do remember is how my mother’s best friend droned on and on for what seemed like hours, pretending she was kindly warning me about a real danger. And I suppose to her it wasn’t pretending. I now suspect that Binnie Carlson was existing on diet pills and cigarettes. But, to me, she was the adult voice of authority.

I suddenly looked at my reflection with new eyes. I began to wonder if others saw what Mrs. Carlson saw. And I felt ashamed.

And thus (oh thank you Binnie!) was born a lifelong obsession with my weight. Of course I’m not alone on that one; in fact I can probably count just about every woman I know as good company.

You’re already familiar with the idea of the Inner Critic—we all have one, and they don’t just specialize in body shaming. Your critic likely inspects your work performance, your parenting, basically everything you do and points out all the shortcomings. The critic arises early in life.

There are scores of books and hundreds of pieces of advice on managing your Inner Critic so you can function in the world, especially if you are trying to create new things or somehow stand outside of societal norms. One of the best pieces of advice I’ve found is to personify your Inner Critic—to give them a name. This externalizes the critic and helps you remember that she might not always be right.

I immediately knew my critic’s name would be Binnie. But, when working with clients, and in my writing, I often dub this part the Inner Mean Girl, or the Bitchy Inner Critic.

I named mine for that not-so-well-meaning friend of my mother’s. Why? Well, in addition to the fat-fear lecture I had to endure, we kids were terrified of her. I can now see that she was a profoundly unhappy woman, but she hid it well. Like Binnie, my Critic acts like she has it totally together, but inside she is frightened and worried. Mrs. Carlson took out her hostility on others. She was mean—to her kids, to other people’s kids, and in the way she talked about other women.

There is value in giving a name and personality to that inner voice that is constantly throwing out barbs. It helps you to separate from her and to see more clearly what’s happening when your mind descends into that litany of self-blame and recriminations.

Sometimes—even to this day—I forget to separate myself from Binnie’s voice in my head though. I start believing her. She berates me not just about my thickening post-menopausal waistline, but about the quality of my work, my failed marriage, and above all my so-called laziness.

She’s harping in my ears when I decide to take a rest, if I take a bite of dessert, and when I wrap the day having failed to exercise or hit all the items on my endless to-do list.

It’s easy to fall into a spell when your Inner Mean Girl takes the wheel. It’s a spell of unworthiness, and only by recognizing that this voice is not Truth, but an illusion created by shame and societal programming, can you break this spell.

Your own Bitchy Inner Critic probably started harping away inside your mind before you reached the age of six. And then you started school! And boy, did she kick into gear then!

Fighting with your Bitchy Inner Critic never brings real relief. Binnie (and her team of critics) had me in a vise grip for most of my life and, even though I knew that I had some valuable traits and gifts, they seemed puny and ineffectual in the face of the barrage of constant criticism.

I’m sure you are all too familiar with your own Inner Critic—even if you haven’t given her a name yet. The critic is part of you, but is not you. It’s important to understand that she is one of many inner parts that we all carry inside of us. Even though internal critics can seem like the enemy, they are just trying as hard as they can to keep us safe—to make sure we are not rejected and criticized by others.

The Inner Critic is born in response to the shaming and criticisms of those we trust or depend on. It’s the part of us that is responsible for catching all of our screw-ups first—before someone else can shame, criticize, or reject us because of them.

It’s a thankless task, because there are always more screw-ups and no matter how hard that critic works, she can never keep you impeccably perfect. No matter how strong our team of critics becomes, we are still human. And humans make mistakes.

Whose voice does your inner critic speak with? And if you were to give them a name, what would it be?

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The above passage comes from my book, Unabandoned, Chapter 3 — The Rise of the Inner Mean Girl (Inner Critic). Although the book is titled Unabandoned: A Midlife Woman’s Guide out of People Pleasing, Perfectionism and Imposter Syndrome, I also write about other self-abandoning patterns beyond those three. Giving our inner critic too much power is a big one. In the book you’ll learn about how that inner critic acts as just one of many internal parts.

About the Book:

Unabandoned: A Midlife Woman’s Guide Out of People Pleasing, Perfectionism, and Imposter Syndrome

You did everything right. You became the one everyone counts on. So why the hum of discontent that wakes you at 3 a.m.?

Unabandoned is part memoir, part field guide — the friendly company of someone who walked this ground just ahead of you, reaching back. You’ve left yourself behind for so long. This is the invitation to stay.

Get the book

The ebook is just $4.99 for the launch period, going up to $8.99 later this fall. You don’t need a Kindle device to read it; the free Kindle app works on any phone, tablet, or computer. Prefer to hold it in your hands? The paperback is available too, at $12.99.

I’m eleven years old, riding in the back seat on a long car ride, with my little sister Betsey’s head in my lap. I’m singing “I Don’t Know How to Love Him,” from Jesus Christ Superstar. I love to sing, and I’ve spent hours in my room belting out my favorite songs into my little tape recorder. To my ears, I sound just like the album.

My mom whips her head around. “I don’t think you should sing that one. It’s not in your range. You’re off-key.” My dad, from the driver’s seat: “Yeah, that one’s not a winner.”

Betsey pipes up,“I like you singing it!” and I feel a flash of relief. But I stop singing that song when my parents are around. Then, a few years later, when I audition for the high school Glee Club, I see the music teacher wince as I reach for the high notes. I don’t make the Glee Club, and I stop singing altogether. At least in public.

These memories were just a couple of the childhood building blocks to what became a lifelong sense of inferiority. In preschool they told me I was coloring outside the lines, and that drawing did not look like a tree. As a kid with undiagnosed ADHD, I heard “you’re not trying hard enough” way too often. They saw I had the potential to get straight A’s in school. But, my wandering mind and impatience with the slow pace of the teachings had me skipping steps and earning B’s.

And so, I decided before I reached age 5 that I wasn’t good enough — and the evidence kept piling up. By adulthood I found myself struggling with a full-blown case of what we now call Imposter Syndrome: that nagging certainty that no matter what you achieve, you’re actually a fraud, and one day everyone will find out.

Maybe you know that feeling, but what if you weren’t bullied and put down as a child?

One thing I’ve learned through my work with clients is that the road to imposter syndrome is different for everyone. Maybe you weren’t the kid coloring outside the lines and getting the wince. Maybe it was the opposite — you were celebrated. Praised for being gifted, quick, the talented one. So why the heck do you now carry that same secret certainty that you’re a fraud who’ll be found out?

Hold onto that question. I’ll come back to it. First, another quick story.

When I became a business owner at age 24, that imposter syndrome really reared its ugly head.

I’ll never forget my first Chamber of Commerce mixer, there I was in stockings and a tight skirt I never wore, surrounded by older business owners in blazers. I’d been running my little herb shop for four years. When it came time to introduce myself and business, I lurched up to the front, nearly tripping over a dangling tablecloth, and heard my own voice shaking: “Hi, I’m Sarah, the owner of Moonrise Herbs.”

And inside my head I could hear that inner critic roaring: Who am I to think I belong up here? I started this business without a speck of experience. I didn’t even know much about herbs when I began.

The weirdest part? The more successful Moonrise became, the worse the imposter feeling got. People admired me for building this beautiful thing. But I was sure the seasoned herbalists were whispering, “who does she think she is?” The neighboring shop owners regarded me with raised eyebrows as I biked into work with my toddler on the back.

The customers loved it, but beneath the admiration I secretly knew I wasn’t nearly as amazing as they thought — they didn’t know about the scared little girl inside, the nightly wine with my husband while selling healthy products by day. They didn’t know.

You have your own version of that list, don’t you? The gap between what they see and what you’re sure is true.

For years I believed the fraud story. And believing it cost me — it kept me in my seat when I wanted to stand and speak, kept me from throwing my hat in the ring for new opportunities after I sold the store, kept me believing I didn’t really have any talent.

That inability to believe in my own worth was just one more way I abandoned myself, over and over.

Then, over time, I began to understand something that finally loosened its grip: that imposter — the one insisting you’re a fraud — is not actually you. It’s a part of you. A frightened, protective part carrying a very old belief. And when you stop being it and start simply seeing it, with curiosity instead of contempt, you begin to remember the truth you couldn’t hear underneath its shouting: your worth is not conditional on your achievements. It never was. You are whole simply because you exist.

It’s a huge reframe, and NOT what we grow up learning. I’m still integrating this truth myself. But even half-learned, it has changed how I regard myself.

When I started writing about all of this in my book, Unabandoned, I suddenly understood about the two sides of imposter syndrome. I had always thought that was something that other people, the more talented ones, struggled with. For most of my life I didn’t actually feel like an imposter, I just thought I was flawed. It turned out this was just a different version of imposter syndrome.

My imposter syndrome grew out of feeling never enough — the sensitive kid who took in every wince and decided she was inferior. But there’s a whole other road to the very same fraud-feeling, and it comes from the opposite direction.

The golden children — the ones who were celebrated, praised for being gifted, quick, talented; the ones rewarded for their excellent performance — so many of them arrive at adulthood with the identical secret thought that they’re frauds who’ll be found out. They worked hard to measure up to those expectations. Sometimes they were compared to siblings who excelled even more. They kept hitting the goals, but it never felt like enough.

Two completely different childhoods. The same middle of the night dread.

How both roads lead to the same place — and how you begin to find your way out of whichever one is yours — is what I unravel in my book, Unabandoned.

Because whether you were the never-enough kid or the golden child, the “fraud” who’s been running the show was never the real you. She’s just a part of you, who’s been waiting a very long time for someone to tell her the truth.

You’ve been so sure you’d be found out. What if there was nothing to find — except you?

This essay is part of a series on the ways we abandon ourselves — and find our way back.

• Are You a Closet Perfectionist? — on the inner judge who’s never satisfied

• Stop Shaming Yourself for Being a People-Pleaser — on why it’s your nervous system, not a flaw

All three are drawn from my book, Unabandoned.

About the Book:

Unabandoned: A Midlife Woman’s Guide Out of People Pleasing, Perfectionism, and Imposter Syndrome

You did everything right. You became the one everyone counts on. So why the hum of discontent that wakes you at 3 a.m.?

Unabandoned is part memoir, part field guide — the friendly company of someone who walked this ground just ahead of you, reaching back. You’ve left yourself behind for so long. This is the invitation to stay.

Available September 26th right NOW— get your copy right here.

Are you the kind one? The agreeable one? The one who checks what everyone else wants before you even consider talking about what you want — and then half the time you don’t even get a chance to say it?

For a lot of us, this way of being in the world just became who we are. And why not — we get such lovely feedback for it. People want us around. Selflessness is an admired trait. So you go along, keeping things harmonious, and after a while you sort of lose touch with what you even want anyway. If they’re happy, you’re happy, you tell yourself. Why rock the boat?

But then — somewhere north of 40 — something shifts. A little resentment starts leaking in when you’re craving Italian and find yourself, once again, at the burger place with your husband and the kids. Or you read an article, maybe a whole book, that puts down people-pleasing. And the uncomfortable knowing creeps in: Shit. I’m a people-pleaser.

So you resolve to stop. Set some boundaries. Speak up.

And here’s where it gets frustrating — because you can’t. You try to speak up with your true opinion, and the words stick in your throat. There’s a sinking in your stomach. A shrinking that moves through your whole body. Your mind made a decision, and your body overruled it.

Those sensations are exactly what I’m talking about here: your urge to agree is not weakness. It’s wiring.

What we call people-pleasing is, in nervous-system terms, the Fawn response. You’ve probably heard of fight-or-flight — the ancient survival wiring that kicks in when a lion jumps out of the bushes. But it turns out that stress response has more than two settings. It’s fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. Some animals, faced with a bigger predator, don’t run and don’t fight — they roll over, they appease, they make themselves agreeable to survive. So do we.

In modern life there’s rarely a lion jumping out of the bushes. But your nervous system can’t always tell the difference between a life-or-death threat and a social one. A quizzical look from your boss, a short tone from your spouse, a friend who might disagree — your body reads danger and reaches for the oldest tool it has. Before a single conscious thought forms, you’re smiling and nodding. Saying yes when the truth is no. “I’m doing fine,” when you’re not.

The truth is, for most women it was dangerous to buck the status quo until fairly recent times. We could be beaten, cut off financially, punished, put in asylums for hysteria, burned at the stake.

That history is real, and it lives in the body. So if you’re a dyed-in-the-wool people-pleaser, it’s just your nervous system doing exactly the job it was built to do.

That doesn’t mean you’re doomed to a lifetime of agreeing when you don’t want to. But it does mean the way out isn’t through more self-criticism. What you resist persists. You cannot scold your nervous system into safety.

Ask me how I know.

Long before I ever heard the term “people-pleasing,” I’d beat myself up for being such a weenie — for going silent, nodding along, when I had another opinion sitting in my throat. I was certain it was one more flaw in an already-flawed personality. It wasn’t until I learned that these responses are unconscious — that they can’t be controlled by sheer willpower — that something in me finally softened.

I spent way too much time feeling bad about myself for my people-pleasing tendencies. I’ve come a long way in my quest to speak up in a group, and to stand up for what I truly believe. To say No, when I don’t have the capacity. And yet, that old urge to make sure everyone’s okay still pops up. But now, I’ve learned to explore that in a spirit of curiosity and compassion instead of self-criticism.

I get to ask myself, is this authentic kindness coming from my heart… or is it fear dressed up like kindness? That’s a real distinction, and learning to recognize it has changed everything.

So if you’ve been shaming yourself for being a people-pleaser — if you feel trapped in the reflex even though you can see it now — here’s my invitation: start with grace. Just a little. Not because you’re letting yourself off the hook, but because compassion, it turns out, is the only thing the nervous system actually responds to.

Why are some of us more prone to people-pleasing and the Fawn Response than others are? And how can we shift it? I explore these questions in more depth in my book, Unabandoned: A Midlife Woman’s Guide out of People Pleasing, Perfectionism and Imposter Syndrome.

You’ve been so good at making sure everyone else is okay. This is the invitation to finally include yourself.

This essay is part of a series on the ways we abandon ourselves — and find our way back.

• Stop Shaming Yourself for Being a People-Pleaser — on why it's your nervous system, not a flaw

• The Golden Child and the Never-Enough Kid — on the two roads to imposter syndrome

All three are drawn from my book, Unabandoned.

About the Book

Unabandoned: A Midlife Woman’s Guide Out of People-Pleasing, Perfectionism, and Imposter Syndrome

You did everything right. You became the one everyone counts on. So why the hum of discontent that wakes you at 3 a.m.?

Unabandoned is part memoir, part field guide — the friendly company of someone who walked this ground just ahead of you, reaching back. You’ve left yourself behind for so long. This is the invitation to stay.

Available September 26th RIGHT NOW, you can find it right here.

For much of my life, I would not have called myself a perfectionist. Especially as a kid. Sloppy, maybe. Lazy, definitely. I whizzed through math homework, half-brushed my teeth, settled for “good enough” on cleaning my bedroom and most of my chores.

So the word didn’t seem to fit. And that’s exactly how the closet perfectionist hides.

Because here’s what was also true: by fifth grade I was spending hours trying to perfect my cursive into the beautiful script my Belgian classmates made look effortless. Because inside me, growing stronger by the day, was a sneaky judge — shaking her head in disappointment or driving me forward like a mean master whipping a tired horse.

And don’t get me started on the mean girl Inner Critic! She just kept telling me that my efforts most definitely weren’t up to par.

Low key or even lazy on the outside. Relentless on the inside. If that combination sounds familiar, you might be a closet perfectionist too.

Here’s something that took me far too long to see: perfectionism is not the same as the pursuit of excellence. They can look alike from the outside, but one moves you forward and the other keeps you small — always measuring, never arriving. I spent decades mistaking one for the other.

I spent my 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s convinced that if I could just get things a little more perfect, then I’d be good enough. Accepted. Loved. What I couldn’t see is that I already was — at least for the most part — by the people around me.

The one withholding approval was the judge in my own head. And she was harder to please than my critical father, or any real judge in the outside world.

What I finally learned — and this is the thing I really want you to know: the acceptance I was chasing out there was never going to come. I had to make friends with the judges in here.

And these inner judges — the perfectionist, the inner critic, the mean girls in your head — they seem tough. But like most bullies, they’re scared and lonely underneath that hard exterior. When I remember that, I can meet them with strong and peaceful energy. I can move forward even with their squabbling voices in the background.

Case in point: I’ve just written a book. Something I was supposed to do decades ago. After all, I’d decided I would be a writer when I was eight years old.

But, of course, if I’d managed to write one earlier in life, it wouldn’t be THIS book. It’s a product of the wisdom I’ve gathered over all these years. It could have been some sort of book, sure — and that inner judge is pissed I didn’t do it sooner. She doesn’t want to let me celebrate what I’ve actually accomplished.

Ironically, one of the big topics the book addresses is… perfectionism. Also the Inner Critic.

I bring my own experiences with both of these bugaboos to the pages. And I share the tools and practices that help me distance myself from these mean girls inside my head — the same tools that might help you step back from yours.

My book is called Unabandoned: A Midlife Woman’s Guide Out of Perfectionism, People-Pleasing, and Imposter Syndrome. I have battled my way through all three and found my way (mostly) out. I still keep a flashlight handy for when that path gets dark.

And now — here’s the question you might be avoiding, just like I was for all those years: Whose approval are you actually waiting for? And what if she’s in here, and not out there after all?

This essay is part of a series on the ways we abandon ourselves — and find our way back.

• Stop Shaming Yourself for Being a People-Pleaser — on why it's your nervous system, not a flaw

• The Golden Child and the Never-Enough Kid — on the two roads to imposter syndrome

All three are drawn from my book, Unabandoned.

📖 About the book

Unabandoned: A Midlife Woman’s Guide Out of People-Pleasing, Perfectionism, and Imposter Syndrome

You did everything right. You became the one everyone counts on. So why the hum of discontent that wakes you at 3 a.m.?

Unabandoned is part memoir, part field guide — the friendly company of someone who walked this ground just ahead of you, reaching back. You’ve left yourself behind for so long. This is the invitation to stay.

I want the book!

Then I went looking for a photo. Not one of the famous ones. One I knew I’d taken eleven and a half years ago, when I got to be in the same room with this woman who’d changed so many of our lives. There they were! Blurry, badly lit, but the memories were in full technicolor.

I was 54, and I’d landed a volunteer gig at the San Miguel Writer’s Conference — an event I’d dreamed of attending for years. When I heard Gloria Steinem was to be the keynote speaker, a thrill ran through me. Gloria came all the way down to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, to speak about her writing, her work as a feminist, and what it means to age with power and grace.

She was 80 years old up on that stage, beautiful, strong, and just as articulate as ever. I remember thinking, THAT’S how I want to be in 25 years. Like the photo, the actual words she spoke that evening have blurred in my memory. I remember her, though. And the energized, empowered feelings her words evoked.

What I remember most, though, is a wondrous feeling of relief as her words washed over me.

I wasn’t making it up. This stuff I’d been telling myself - and my clients - about living ageless was real.

By the time I got to San Miguel, I was in full-on menopause, and I’d blown up my comfortable life a couple of years before. I’d left it all behind me, moving first to Portland and then all the way to Mexico, following an inner knowing I could barely name — a hum of discontent that had turned into a certainty. Something has to change. I have to go find the parts of myself I left behind.

And I had been telling my clients and other women — mostly believing it — that midlife wasn’t the beginning of the end. The uncomfortable physical and emotional changes didn’t mean something was wrong, but rather something was right. This time was a portal. Not a slow fade into invisibility, but an awakening. A doorway into our wisdom, our power, and a radiance the culture swears we lose right about the time we actually find it.

Most days I believed it. But there was a tiny part of me that questioned whether it all was just wishful thinking. Sometimes I wondered if I’d given up a perfectly good life for a feeling. For a story I’d told myself to justify the wreckage.

And then 80-year-old Gloria Steinem walked onto a stage and held the whole room in her hand, luminous, free, still a fierce warrior for every one of us — and I had my proof. Not just inspiration. Evidence. There she was. The portal led somewhere. A woman really could walk all the way through it and come out the other side more powerful, not less.

True - Gloria didn’t have to wait for menopause to access her brilliance. But the way she shone on that stage at age 80 showed me that her radiance had only grown with age, so much so that it filled that room.

She was living proof that my theory that we grow more - not less - powerful with age was true.

So when I read that she was gone this week, at 92, I felt more than the grief of losing someone who’d meant so much to so many. It was an aching knowledge that another role model for aging women would no longer be here to light the way. To remind us of how far we’ve come… and how far there is still to go.

I’m reminded of just how far we’ve already come when I think about my own mother waking up to the truth that she might have more options than she’d been shown.

I remember my mom subscribing to Ms. Magazine when it first came out in the early 70s, and how my dad scoffed at this odd feminist magazine that defied the status quo. As an adolescent, I was somewhat oblivious to the burgeoning feminist movement, but I knew my mom was boycotting unnecessary housewifely chores like ironing sheets.

I didn’t know then that Mom wasn’t even allowed to get her own credit card, and that she needed her husband’s signature if she wanted her own checking account. But, I was smart enough to see that my dad carried the purse strings… and all the power with them.

Gloria was instrumental in changing all of that, and she lived in the background of my mind as I grew into womanhood. By the time I came of age in the late 70s/early 80s, I took women’s freedom for granted. I thought it was a done deal…despite the failure of the ERA to become law as the 28th Amendment.

I thought all of that inequality for women stuff was a thing of the past. After all, hadn’t I taken my own life in my hands and flown out to California to live the way I wanted and earn my residency for college? I had worked full-time for a year to earn the money to do it. I controlled my own money. I didn’t need a man to tell me what to do! I was in charge of my own life.

Decades later, I shake my head at the naive young woman I once was. I’m watching the wage gap not close but widen. Young men brag online about assaulting women. I cringe when I see young women — our daughters, our granddaughters — argue for a return to “traditional roles,” volunteering to hand back the very ground Gloria spent sixty years taking. A convicted man in the White House who bragged about grabbing us by the pussy. Rape academies in the news.

Yeah, no. I guess we haven’t “come such a long way baby” after all.

This was a big part of the grief I sat with yesterday...that sense of futility in knowing that these champions of women’s rights, like Gloria, have to watch it all come round again as they age out.

And then I remembered what she’d want from us. Everything old is new again — and Gloria, bless her, might have decided this was a good time to check out. But she didn’t leave us empty-handed.

She’s passing that torch on. To us, especially those of us at midlife and beyond, who remember the conditions women lived with and that women like Gloria worked so tirelessly to change.

We are all continuing to evolve; I know I am. And we are all finding our own unique gifts and the ways we can carry this torch.

I spent several years of my coaching practice helping midlife women lose weight, without all the extreme dieting. It seemed like good work, helping people get healthier. But, an uncomfortable knowing began to grow inside of me. I was subtly perpetuating the exact opposite of what I truly believed in.

I wanted to empower women, give them the courage to live as their true selves. To unleash their brilliance. But all this focus on the scale, the mirror, the pants that don’t fit anymore — these weren’t the problems worthy of our energy. This obsession with being a certain size was just one more cage, no different than the people-pleasing, the perfectionism and the mean-girl inner critic I’ve written a whole book about. It’s yet another way we make ourselves small and call it self-improvement.

Because here’s what Gloria confirmed for me in that conference hall, and what her death has me refusing to forget:

The portal is real. I’ve walked far enough through it now to stop wondering. It’s not always the most comfortable walk, and we have to leave so many old ways and beliefs behind… but the wisdom that awaits is worth that pain.

Gloria was one of the great ones holding the torch, and now she’s gone — which means the rest of us are the ones who must wave it. Out loud. In our radiant, powerful, unabandoned, gloriously aging bodies.

Rest in power, Gloria. We’ve got it from here.

Yesterday evening as I stood, basket over my arm, surveying the bounty of new garden, I noticed the familiar voice of my Inner Critic squawking in my head.

“All of this is taking too long!” she yammered, as I bent over the strawberry patch sifting through the leaves to pluck any the ones that had turned red - before the chipmunks could get their tiny teeth into them.

My dream of living with a large, prolific garden has finally come true, almost exactly matching the vision. Years ago, I imagined an expansive yard, plenty of room to roam, a place to walk that was peaceful and quiet, plants and flowers to tend to.

Since I moved in with my sweetie last year, onto five acres complete with greenhouses and fruit trees, all I’ve had to do was decide what to plant. And now, I’m living it. All the beautiful food and flowers…. Stepping outside every day to harvest the berries, greens for my lunchtime salads, yummy veggies. Reveling in the beauty, of the blooming flowers, cutting them to bring inside that color and sunshine into each room of my home.

The dream is real. And it’s So. Much. Work.

For the last several months I’ve been laboring to birth my first book into the world. Writing, editing, learning the ropes. That has been my priority. Well sort of. And then there’s the garden. It’s pleasure…. It’s a Divine Manifestation. And it’s a fucking HUGE amount of work.

All those greens must be washed and dried. The berries are tedious to pick, and many of them must also be carefully washed, and sorted for critter bites. The tomatoes must be trellised, the green beans staked, and checked almost every day before they become large and woody. The cucumbers lovingly tended, moved, tied up. And then we must patrol for critters, spray for aphids, cut off mold.

And now in August… So. Much. food!! Way too much for two people. A couple of zucchinis a day — at least — plus some summer squash, green beans, mountains of tomatoes. Lettuce bolting before I can pick it. Basil that screams out, make me into pesto…. But, then — who will eat it all? At least the fig tree is finally winding down. I couldn’t bear to let them go to waste — but luckily my grandkids dug into those overflowing boxes of figs with joy.

A blessing and a curse is too strong a phrase. Blessing, yes. Curse - not quite. And yet - here I am with everything I’ve wished for in the form of fresh, organic produce, the chance to get my hands in the dirt and talk to plants each day, the joy in watching them grow.

And I make it all another reason to beat myself up for not doing enough.

When I’m working on the book, or my business - my inner critic says I should be tending the garden. When I’m pruning, and fertilizing and staking, she says I should be working and the book will never be finished in time.

That inner task master is larger than life and so demanding. There is so much great food here in this garden! We should be preserving all of it - nothing gets composted! So what if we never really learned to can food. Make the time! Do it anyway!

I draw the line here. My one experience with canning was back in my 20s while living in a dark cabin, when I made some jam. After my suburban upbringing, I was excited to try out country life. I can’t remember how the jam came out, but I do remember how stressful it was squinting at the jars in that dark cabin - the light was terrible – stirring jam, boiling jars, and trying to figure out if they actually sealed. And, oh yeah, I was doing this with a couple of 4-year-olds! My daughter and my roommate’s son. I thought it would be so cool for the kids to see how canning was done.

I think it took me a day to recover, and I never got the urge to can anything again. Until now…as I stare at plates and boxes of ripening tomatoes, knowing I’ve tapped out all my friends who might want some. Besides, I don’t want to make the 25-minute drive to town just to cruise around and deliver tomatoes and zucchinis.

But, no. Canning is not on the table. Maybe freezing?

And oh - I always wanted a dog. The unconditional love, the snuggles, someone eagerly waiting when I walk in the door. Now I have two of them…. Along with the guilt of knowing I should be giving them more attention. Each afternoon, Stella, our little Pekinese, starts following me around either with sad puppy dog eyes or a baleful glare. When are we going on our walk?! she telepathically transmits. (Well, my partner and I believe they are saying these things… since we are both quite receptive to what they communicate to us without words.)

One moment I’m melting with gratitude for the bounty I’m experiencing… and then the next I’m worrying and stressing about getting it all done.

So, yes - make those wishes. Create those dreams. Do the visualization. Just know that when they come true, you will still be you. The foibles of your humanity will follow you wherever you go, and your inner critic most definitely won’t magically disappear!

Now, excuse me while I go freeze some raspberries.

I’m a woman of my word…. with everyone except myself.

When I make a commitment I’m devoted to following through on that.

My inner task master will hound me to do whatever it takes not to break the promise I made to someone else.

The task master takes no excuses. She doesn’t believe in reassessing capacity. She screams at me to push through no matter what when I’ve told someone I would do something. The only exceptions are extreme illness (rare) or injury (also rare.)

I remember committing to teaching an in-person EFT workshop in a venue where I’d never taught before. This was during an era when I was having some flare ups of back pain caused by a car accident. A few hours before the class was to start I stepped out of the shower and lifted up my leg to dry it… and fell to the floor in agony. That motion had somehow triggered some intense spasming in my lower back, worse than I’d ever experienced. I writhed around for a while trying to figure out how I could possibly teach while in such pain.

Eventually and with extreme reluctance I called the venue to cancel. Despite my copious apologies, the response was frosty. Back pain is one of those things that raise eyebrows as to how serious it can possibly be. The workshop had been advertised for weeks. My sense of shame consumed me and just added to the pain. How could I let everyone down?

That was nearly 10 years ago and it still bothers me that I canceled a workshop on the same day.

And yet, when it comes to making commitments to myself I renege all the time. Excuses abound in that case. Somehow my inner task master never got the memo that promises to oneself are equally important as promises to another person.

This is something I’m working on.

Both of these come down to the same thing: letting myself down. Although of course it’s admirable to follow through on one’s commitments to others, it’s not all that great when your body might be telling you that you over-committed and you need to renegotiate.

As I age, I’ve come to a new (and reluctant) recognition of my own physical, mental and emotional capacity. In my 20s, 30s, and even my 40s, I was able to push past any capacity flags with little to no repercussions. But now - oh, it’s a different story completely! I pay for it when I push through, everything shuts down, and then I’m stuck not being able to do anything at all.

And yet, the habit of pushing through trips me up again and again. And then leaves me exhausted on the couch.

Sound familiar?

But back to keeping promises. How well do you keep your promises to yourself? To others? How honest are you with yourself about your own capacity when you make those promises?

If you’re anything like me, you have an overly optimistic vision of what your capacity will be in the future - be it later the same day, or a week from now. And so you enthusiastically promise away, essentially throwing yourself under the bus because you have not done a realistic assessment.

So, yes, I’m working on it. Trying to assess my own inner resources on any given day. To find a balance between what I want to do and what I actually CAN do.

It’s part of the greater work I’m about these days - which is building stronger self-trust and self-loyalty. I’ve realized these two things are the antidote to the pattern of self-abandonment that I’ve spun in for most of my life.

Whether it’s through over-promising when it will hurt to deliver, or breaking promises to myself, it all comes down to rigid demands of perfection for myself, and to this unconscious need to be accommodating and pleasing to others. I abandon myself when I center the needs of others over my own - and I’ve been doing it for so long, I’m still figuring out all the sneaky ways it happens.

I know I’m not alone. These patterns of people-pleasing, perfectionism and imposter syndrome show up in my clients and friends as well. They criticize and blame themselves for not doing enough, they give up on their own dreams to meet the expectations of loved ones or society in general - and then they beat themselves up for that too.

When does it all end?

The answer is - it ends with Intention. And with a lot of practice of making a different choice.

Better Late Than Never

Earlier this year I decided that I would break this pattern of self-abandonment in myself by finally writing a book - something I’ve wanted to do since I was 8 years old. I’d started and stopped book projects throughout my adolescence, dropped the whole thing during the years I raised kids and grew a business, then made a new commitment to myself when I sold the business.

That was more than 20 years ago. I did start writing again, but I never seemed to get past short form essays and blogs like this one. I wrote plenty of those. And, a lot of half finished pieces that sat on my computer or in notebooks. But I could never muster up the discipline and self-devotion to follow through on the book I’d promised myself I would write.

Oh, there were tons of excuses and reasons…. I need to make money, I need to keep up my exercise routine, I’m injured, I’m caught up in this compelling relationship, I’m moving around too much, I don’t know what the book should be about. I’ve got the beginning and the ending, but what the hell do I put in the middle?

But it really came down to keeping another commitment - this one unconscious: To let myself down.

As all of this gelled in my awareness, I called in support - from the real world and from the unseen.

And I made a commitment to myself that this time I would keep. I would complete and publish a book before my 65th birthday. And it would be about all the ways we women abandon ourselves - and how we can find our way back to self-trust.

And here, I am a couple of months before that self-imposed deadline, and I’m so close! I can’t wait to share my perfectly imperfect (short) book with you soon.

And holy moly! I have such a newfound respect for anyone who has done the work of actually completing a book. It is way more work than I realized, and yet the process has been - and continues to be - transformative.

Am I completely healed from my tendencies to over-promise and self-abandon? Nope. But I have a lot more awareness now, and a heck of a lot more compassion for the parts of me that still want to play that drum.

In the coming weeks I’ll be sharing more about my writing process, and about the cycles of self-abandonment and how to break them.

Because if there’s ever a time we need all of us at full capacity and trusting ourselves and our instincts - it’s now.

What about you? What promise to yourself are you ready to stop breaking?

Don’t let this title throw you. I’m actually a big fan of a gratitude practice - as an everyday, on-the-regular type of thing.

I have found great relief, and even moved my life forward in significant ways, through the practice of noticing and feeling into the joy, pleasure and yes—gratitude, that I feel for so many usually unnoticed gifts.

The taste of the fresh water coming out of my tap in my current home.
The buds on the flowers I planted months ago that are soon to burst into color
The fact that my legs take me up the stairs without pain.

I could go on… but that’s not the point of this essay.

Today I want to look at the sneaky ways that ‘being grateful’ is really just a code phrase for bypassing what’s really going on inside. For shrinking from the bolder truths that your body and your heart are telling you.

It often comes out like this, “I should be grateful - and I am.”

Several years ago, I sat writing out my nightly gratitudes on the bed in my friend’s guest room suite—where I’d landed after a breakup and another big move—this time back into the familiar terrain of my ‘home town’ where I’d spent most of my adulthood.

I was broke, heartbroken, and scared about what was happening in the world as I watched it all shut down in those early months of the pandemic. I now can see that my body and heart were asking me to make space for those feelings, to open up to the grief that these changes were bringing. To allow all of that ickiness to flow through me so I could access the strength to comfort the hurt, scared parts inside.

Instead of working at my computer all day and writing gratitudes at night, I was being asked to get quiet, to rest deeply, to cry.

But, I was determined to pull out of this as soon as possible. To start making some money and feel worthy again. And I wanted to be grateful. For landing in this comfortable place during a scary time, for having warmth and shelter.

So I sat on the bed, writing out all my gratitudes night after night. Pushing the fear and the grief away. Not consciously, but with a determination to count my blessings and to carry on no matter what. To be seen as strong and capable.

Looking back on this I can see I wasn’t doing myself any favors. By ‘counting my blessings’ I actually slowed my progress towards my business and life goals. I got stuck in a whirlpool of fighting off the black wave of grief that swirled way down below the surface. Forcing busy-ness, and positive thinking in a misguided belief that it would take me out of that grief.

The only way out is through.

But our protecting parts don’t know this.

The protecting parts inside of you can be useful in certain situations - but often their priority is to keep you small and compliant. These powerful protectors in your psyche might have kept you from punishment as a young child, or made sure that you got a place at the lunch table. But you don’t need that kind of protection anymore. You need the courage to look deeper than your surface blessings.

Yes - it’s a spiritual practice to notice your blessings and to actually feel into the goodness that they bring you. That’s a beautiful feeling that I highly recommend you cultivate. Authentic gratitude can be a true friend taking you through some of life’s hardest chapters.

But… manufactured gratitude? Well, that’s another thing entirely.

It can look like writing out that gratitude list each day, by rote. Because it’s supposed to make you happier. It’s supposed to make you a better person, less selfish, more selfless.
It can look like mouthing the words “I’m so grateful” when your stomach is twisting into a knot and you don’t know why.

We tell ourselves, I should be grateful, I should be happy, I need to stop having all of these pesky, troublesome thoughts. (Well, sometimes that last part is true… but other times I’m pushing away a truth that my innermost self is trying desperately to signal.)

How do you know the difference?

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Well, one way is practice. It does take some discernment. The pesky, thought loops that circle around inside your brain and go nowhere… the ones that your ego keeps trying to ‘solve for’... those are usually the type that you want to consciously turn your focus away from.

Often these thoughts involve rehashing the past, or worrying about the future. My own brain loves to hone in on one unfortunate decision and then wander down rabbit holes of regret and self recrimination. If I don’t harness it in and pull myself up out of that rabbit hole, my entire mood can plummet and my vibe can negatively affect everyone around me.

But there’s another type of Knowing that’s not really a thought. It comes through from a deeper place, like a thrum in your body that arrives in your head.

It may be a discontent, a discomfort, a realization that something isn’t working in your life. Or, like in my own example above, it can be emotions we are not willing to face.

I wrote about this recently in The Long Knowing—about the gap when part of you knows something and when you’re finally ready to act on that knowing.

It’s tempting to chase that knowing away as just another ‘negative thought.’ To chastise yourself for daring to have such feelings when you live such a lucky life. To manufacture some gratitude thoughts instead.

This is your protective mechanism in action. Because following the knowing might require actions that cause others disappointment. It might mean asking for help. It means dropping the mask you’ve so carefully crafted over the years. You know, the one that keeps everyone nodding in approval.

Turning toward that knowing could mean allowing the sad, grieving parts inside you to speak up. It could require you to open up to the intensity of their feelings and allow them to flow through you and out of you.

Ugh, who wants to do THAT?!

The question is: What is it costing you to stay small now? Sure there may be rewards that have come from your avoidance. And yet, have you inadvertently constructed a golden cage from your well-meaning gratitude?

Let’s not allow our intention to notice the beauty and wonder in our lives take the place of attunement to our deepest desires.

Let’s not let being a good and grateful person cause us to miss out on the joy, the excitement that comes from jumping on the train that travels toward your goals… even if part of that ride involves confronting old griefs.

During the times when I’ve forced gratitude in lieu of listening to the knowing inside, I’ve paid a price. I see that now. It kept me circling instead of growing—like a powerful beast pacing inside of its cage. It brings to mind one of my favorite songs by Bruce Cockburn, Pacing the Cage. It’s about what it’s like to feel powerful, alive and stuck—all at the same time. Worth a listen if you can identify with this syndrome.

The world will continue to tell you to count your blessings. Particularly if you’re a woman - because it’s in the interests of the powers that be in Western Society that women remain small and focused on the minutiae of life, that we hold back on voicing any opinion that clashes with the status quo. That we stay inside that carefully-built golden cage.

So, sure—let’s revel in the pleasurable feelings of authentic gratitude for the morning birdsong, the opening of a rose, the taste of a sweet strawberry….

But I’m asking you something harder: What’s the knowing that you’ve been drowning out?

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I’m a life and wellness coach who has been working with women at midlife and beyond for 14 years — and living through everything I write about. If this resonated, subscribe for more essays on reinvention, healthy aging, and the slow work of learning to trust yourself.

There’s a certain kind of knowing that doesn’t announce itself.

It doesn’t arrive with drama or clarity or a defined next step. It just settles into you — slowly, uncomfortably — like a stone dropping to the bottom of still water.

It tightens in your stomach when you awaken in the night.

I am all too familiar with that kind of knowing. I’ve lived inside it for years at a time.

A few months after turning 50, while on a long drive home from a family holiday vacation, I turned to my husband.

“You know how we always talked about renting out the house for a year once the kids were grown and living abroad?” I said. “Looks like it’s time to plan that!”

Our youngest was a sophomore in college - after TWO years as a freshman (don’t ask!). I’d been feeling a restlessness—like a horse pawing the ground ready to get out of the barn—for a few years now. I wanted to explore, experience, spend a good long time checking out a different culture.

My husband stared straight ahead at the road twisting before us.

He shrugged, “I just think it’s way too complicated to set that up now,” he replied. “Besides, I’m happy with our life as it is. At home. I like taking vacations - but not living somewhere else.”

I felt something sink—deep in my chest—and I turned to look out the window. I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the disappointment sweeping through my body.

No point in arguing. I’d learned by now that it would go nowhere. I’d held onto this dream, this desire, for so many years now. A little comfort stone through all the chaos of the years of raising kids and running a retail business.

The knowing got louder in that moment. It had been swirling in the background for months, maybe even years. Yet I wasn’t ready to name it out loud.

That’s the thing about the Long Knowing. It doesn’t ask for your permission. It’s just there. And it waits.

This wasn’t the first time I’d lived here.

Long ago, I’d built something I loved from almost nothing. An herb shop, started on a shoestring as a single mom in my early 20s. A business I grew over nineteen years into a beloved community icon. The shop wasn’t just my livelihood, it was like my third baby. My entire identity was wrapped up in that store and my role as owner.

I worked long hours, but the work was fun, the growth exciting. And the community that formed around it was so validating.

And then, slowly something shifted. Part of it external—the herbs and other unique items we were known for became more widely available. Business growth slowed. I was told I needed to cut payroll, reduce inventory. I wanted none of that.

Part of the shift was internal, I was in my early 40s by now and I wanted more time to actually be with myself—to utilize the wonderful tools that I sold in the shop. Follow through on all the spiritual advice those books offered.

I knew. Some part of me had known for a long time. It was time to move on.

But I resisted. What could I possibly do instead?

And then one night, a fire erupted in a trash can and began to spread. Spontaneous combustion the experts concluded later.

An employee working late grabbed a fire extinguisher and saved the building — but the smoke destroyed the inventory.

In the following days I faced a choice: keep the store open - or take the insurance money and go.

The universe had basically handed me an exit, wrapped in ash and smoke.

Instead I doubled down. I restocked. I kept going. I even borrowed money to invest in a Point of Sale computer system.

I told myself the fact that we didn’t burn down was a sign I was supposed to stay and keep the store going. It was meant to be.

It wasn’t. But I wasn’t ready to know that yet either.

It took another year to finally listen to the Knowing. I decided to sell the shop.

By the time I finally found a buyer, many months later, I felt something I hadn’t expected.

Relief.

Not grief, not failure — freedom. Freedom to finally do the things I’d been postponing for nearly two decades. The writing that had always called to me. The opportunity to return to college. The becoming.

The Long Knowing had been right all along. I’d just needed time to catch up to it.

So there I was, years later, in that car, feeling that same familiar uncomfortable Knowing.

And I still didn’t move. Not yet.

I argued with the Knowing. How could it be right? This was a comfortable life.

You see, the Knowing doesn’t show you a path. It just arrives as a feeling in your gut.

Nobody talks about this part — how long the Long Knowing can go on before you actually do anything about it.

There’s a voice (in your heart) that knows, and then there are all the other voices (in your head). The ones that say you’re lucky, it could be so much worse. The ones that catalog everything good about the life you’ve built. The ones that ask who you think you are to want more than this.

I listened to those head voices for a long time.

I was very, very good at getting lost in the voices in my head.

To avoid the voices I did what I’d always done—I filled my days with activity. Bookkeeping work, the gym, researching and writing my two blogs a week. In the evenings I’d bury myself in the computer while my husband played pool with his friends.

I honed my skills at not looking too directly at the discomfort.

But the Knowing didn’t go anywhere. It remained like a low hum in the background — the way a car alarm gets harder to ignore the longer you try not to hear it.

Several months after that car ride, came the download.

I’d treated myself to a solitary 2-day retreat in the mountains, and it came in like a thunder clap while I hiked through an ancient forest. I dropped to my knees in awe, realizing that the time of avoiding the Knowing was over.

Suddenly, with a clarity I hadn’t felt in years, I knew: I would move—but not down to the Bay Area as I’d sometimes thought, but to Portland, Oregon.

Most people thought it was a crazy idea.

It didn’t come with a plan or a job offer or a sensible reason. It came the way real Knowing sometimes does — not through the front door of logic, but through a softer interior channel.

I packed what I could fit into my little Nissan Altima and headed north.

I hadn’t even gone 50 miles when I felt the shackles coming off.

I’m not telling you this because I think you should leave your marriage, or sell your business, or quit your job and pack a car and drive somewhere without a plan.

I’m telling you this because you might be in the Long Knowing right now. About something.

Maybe it’s a relationship. Maybe it’s a career, a city, a version of yourself you’ve been living for so long you’ve lost touch with the Self you once knew. Maybe it’s simply a persistent, uncomfortable sense that something needs to change, and you’re not ready to look at it directly yet.

Here’s what I’ve come to realize: The length of the Long Knowing isn’t a flaw. It’s not weakness, or denial, or being slow.

It’s simply being a human. It’s the time the psyche needs to prepare for the size of what’s coming. The grief of it. The loss. The terrifying freedom on the other side.

The question I want to leave you with is not why has it taken you so long.

It’s this: what do you already know?

You don’t have to do anything with it today. You don’t have to make a move or blow anything up or have a plan.

Just be willing to know it.

The rest has a way of following.

I’m a life and wellness coach who has been working with women at midlife and beyond for 14 years — and living through everything I write about. If this resonated, subscribe for more essays on reinvention, healthy aging, and the slow work of learning to trust yourself.

To me, a big part of that freeing up of our power and our radiance is embracing exactly who we are as the years pass… instead of doing what culture tells us to do—pretend we are younger!

Whenever I use the word “Crone” in conversations with women over 50, I get blow back. Women my age and older HATE the word Crone. That is, women who have not learned about or experienced the magical element that surrounds this reviled word.

It’s time for us to reclaim the word “Crone!”

It’s a word that the patriarchy has tried to twist around to make women—in this case elder women—into something to be sneered at, dismissed, ignored.

The sad reality is that most people think ‘Crone’ means an ugly wart-nosed, snuggle-toothed old woman riddled with wrinkles, who yells at little kids who venture past her property.

However this definition was deliberately put into place during the Inquisition and witch burnings when male church fathers were intent on stripping women of any power they might hold.

Before then “crones”, “hags” and “witches” were positive terms for older women who held important positions in the community. They were the leaders, the healers, and the midwives—basically the bringers and preservers of life.

We’ve lost that knowledge now—at least in mainstream society.

Because of our modern culture’s contempt for any sort of aging—and in particular—women who have passed their childbearing years, no one wants to be thought of as a Crone.

This is a sad thing, because post-menopausal women are actually missing out on something very special when we eschew the very idea of being a Crone.

The True Meaning of Crone

I was lucky enough to start to understand “Crone” in a positive light in my 20s when I was experimenting with pagan/Goddess/nature-based religion rituals with other women. I have always been a fierce feminist and champion of women so it easily followed that I would be drawn to women’s ceremonies.

Back then we held New Moon and Full Moon ceremonies while our babies crawled around us. We read scholarly works on Goddess cultures and I sold those books in my store. I found this history fascinating, especially learning about how ancient Matriarchal societies operated in a peaceful and more inclusive fashion all those thousands of years ago.

The Crone is a facet of the Triple Goddess, which represents the stages of a woman’s life—Maiden, Mother and Crone.

Each facet has a sacred purpose and is regarded as equally beautiful (unlike the way we experience the stages of life in our western culture!) Each stage also corresponds with a phase of the moon.

‘Maiden’ is the waxing moon and new beginnings, ‘Mother’ is the peak of life, full ripening, represented by the full moon ( all women go through the ‘Mother’ phase whether they choose to bear children or not), ‘Crone’ is the waning moon and the new moon—therefore an ending and a beginning.

The Crone phase is a sort of culmination, when we are able to fully integrate and embody all the wisdom we have gathered in the previous phases. This is one of the reasons why elder women are honored and revered in many societies even to this day.

Barbara Walker, a scholar of Goddess religions and ancient matriarchal cultures wrote: “

“The Crone’s title was related to the word crown and she represented the power of the ancient tribal matriarch who made the moral and legal decisions for her subjects and descendants. It was the medieval metamorphosis of the wise woman into the witch that changed the word Crone from a compliment to an insult and established the stereotype of malevolent old womanhood that continues to haunt elder women today.”

Jean Shinoda Bolen, a scholar of Goddess archetypes, writes about ‘becoming a juicy crone’ in her book Goddesses in Older Women. She describes this stage of life as being,

“like the fresh green of spring, where she welcomes new growth and possibilities in herself and others… where there is something solid about her being an adult whose life has borne fruit through cultivation and pruning, as well as tempering and work.”

I personally love these images of the Crone phase of life as regal as well as juicy and still growing!

Crown Yourself: The Magic of a Crone Ceremony

I originally learned that a woman becomes “Crone” (in the sacred meaning of the word), when 13 months have passed since her last menstrual period. At this point she can be honored with a Crone Ceremony.

When I did further research I saw that others define the advent of the Crone stage at varying times, but it is usually at some point after a woman’s final period or ‘moon’.

Crone ceremonies, quite common in ancient times, are making a comeback. There are as many different versions as there are circles of women who create them. There are no rules – isn’t that awesome?

Some ceremonies are formal, following pagan tradition and specific Wiccan prayers. Others are made up by the participants and can be extremely simple and even party-like. They almost always include crowns for the crone(s) involved, and these are often fashioned from natural materials such as branches or leaves.

The purpose of the Croning Ritual is of course to acknowledge and honor the woman’s transition into this third phase, and to celebrate her embrace of her wisdom. Ceremonies can include altars, special garb or robes, rocks and crystals, flowers and branches, oracle cards such as Goddess Knowledge Cards, or anything else that calls to you.

In my 30s and 40s, I made an annual pilgrimage to the Northern California Womens’ Herbalist Symposium, a 4-day conference and campout. One of my favorite parts was the Maiden Ceremony where the young girls who had reached menarche were honored with an extensive and beautiful ritual.

What a concept! Instead of talking about it as ‘The Curse’, we were celebrating a rite of passage with these young girls. We grown women were envious!

As the years passed, as many of the women, including the organizers, began to approach the Crone years, a Crone Ceremony was added.

Women who have reached that phase can decide if they want to participate in the ceremony. Each Crone was assigned a maiden who looked after her needs not just during the ceremony but during the entire weekend.

During the ritual itself all the women were individually crowned Crone, smudged, sung to, and honored in other ritualistic ways.

As I watched the first couple of these ceremonies I looked forward to my time to be celebrated. But then I found myself living far away in Mexico when I reached my Crone years.

Now, though, I am back in Northern California, so I will get the chance to be honored in a Crone Ceremony in just a few weeks!

To Be a Modern Day Crone

Some women think that to embrace being a Crone they need to let their hair go grey, stop tending their wrinkles, and not care about their looks. I absolutely disagree.

Every woman who enters this stage of life has within them the Sacred Crone. Whether they choose to color their hair a flaming red and wear mini skirts, or whether they prefer long flowing silver locks and robes to match…. Both are wise women in their own right.

Many of us will fall somewhere in between these two extremes. We all get the chance to be the Crone we want to be!

Even if you’re not yet ready to call yourself a Crone (it does take the brain a little time to switch out its connotations), I invite you to reconsider your knee-jerk reactions when you encounter this word.

After all, maybe being a Crone can allow us to receive even more. Our “Mother” years were spent giving, giving, giving (even if we didn’t choose children).

Most women struggle to ask for or receive help and support. Embracing your Crone status gives you an opportunity to allow the Universe to shower you with support.

When you embody the true meaning of Crone, people will respond by noticing your INNER beauty, your wisdom, and they will naturally want to come to you for your knowing, and they will naturally want to give back to you.

When I first penned this article all those years ago, I wrote: “I’m looking forward to a time when more people understand and embrace this real meaning of the word Crone.”

I believe NOW is when this is happening.

More and more of us are boldly owning our age and our claim to the magic of the Crone years. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:

Our generation is reinventing what it means to age!

When you’re a woman this means letting go of the need to dress or look a certain way for others. We get to take care of our bodies for Ourselves! We get to adorn and dress up for Ourselves!!

In the times we’re living through now, women of all ages are recognizing the toxicity of the Male Gaze, and we are taking back our sovereignty. We were not made to be eye candy for a man, nor are we required to take care of men emotionally.

Sure we can tend to others—if and when we want to. But this is a time that we get to tend to ourselves and our own emotional growth and fulfillment. And this goes for Crones and Mothers and Maidens!!

It’s a time that women can shuck off their fears of being ‘invisible’ and unattractive due to their chronological age and truly step into their power and their leadership potential.

Further Reading (for those who want to dive deep)

Goddesses in Older Women and Crones Don’t Whine, both by Jean Shinoda Bolen
The Crone, by Barbara Walker

Yesterday I turned in the official paperwork to legally change my name.

I’m finally staking a legal claim to my power name! I will no longer be energetically hitched to my ex-husband through my legal name—which was my married name.

It’s been a long time coming.

I’ve gone by Sarah Grace Powers for more than a decade now. But it turns out you have to jump through quite a few hoops and come up with a pile of cash if you’re a woman wanting to legally change her name … if it’s not because of marriage or divorce.

Basically, if you are not taking your husband’s name, or going back to your father’s name, you’ve gotta pay through the nose to get that shit done so it’s recognized legally.

This is some bullshit along the lines of how little medical research has been done on menopause and women’s health issues versus men’s health issues.

Why even change my name?

For me, my name is a symbol of my identity. I’ve made small name changes throughout my entire life. It’s only now that I’m seeing I might have instinctually been guided by a desire to make a shift in my identity.

The term ‘identity-shifting’ is bandied about as what needs to happen when you want to let go of old beliefs that aren’t helping you, and embrace new thoughts, ideas, beliefs that will propel you toward your newer goals or aspirations.

I was christened as Sarah, but my parents called me Sally since birth. I was Sally all through my childhood, and the only time I heard “Sarah” was if I was in trouble… or because many of the Catholic school nuns and teachers insisted on using my given name. None of this nickname stuff for those traditional Catholics!

But, even as a kid I toyed with changing my name. When I read that some people my nickname as “Sallie”, I decided to change the spelling of my name. I was around 12 or 13 at the time, and “Sallie” just seemed more elegant.

After my Mom died when I was 21 and I found myself pregnant a couple of months later, I decided I was ditching the name “Sally“ completely and henceforth I would be Sarah.

At that time I wasn’t thinking about identity shifting into motherhood, and full adulthood. I just was tired of Sally. It sounded like what people named their cows. And I hated it when people called me “Silly Sally.”

I was done with being Silly Sally. It was time to be Serious Sarah. After all, I was having a kid!

When I got married a few years later, I happily took my husband’s name because it was such a fun one: O’Leary. Now everyone thought I was Irish!

Plus I’d shifted identities once again - to being a married woman. And sooner than I planned I became a mother of two.

It was fun being an O’Leary. If people didn’t ask me about Mrs. O’Leary’s cow starting the fire in Chicago, they would ask me if I had any relation to Timothy O’Leary.

And I always said, “Actually, yes - he’s my husband!” That always got a laugh.

I wasn’t lying. My husband’s name was Tim. But of course they were just confusing O’Leary with Leary, and that always brought me a chuckle since my husband was no stranger to psychedelics. But no, he was not the infamous Timothy Leary.

When I went back to college in my 40s and my class schedule got all bungled up because I was in their system twice - once as O’Leary and once as Oleary, I decided to drop the apostrophe. Computers couldn’t seem to handle it.

Looking back, I see this was actually another little identity shift. I had sold my store the year before and was returning to college after dropping out when I became pregnant more than 20 years earlier. I was also returning to my old love of writing - choosing to major in journalism and minor in creative writing.

I found new passions during those years - picking up a second major in women’s studies. The life wisdom I’d gathered made the college experience more fulfilling, although my perfectionist parts had grown stronger and insisted that I get a 4.0 average.

I thought I’d never change my name again

When we separated and divorced I was already working online as Sarah Oleary. I thought I’d never change my name. It’s what everyone recognized and why go back to my maiden name? Exchange one man’s name for another’s again? No thanks!

Maybe I would have felt differently if I’d had a better relationship with my Dad…but that’s another story.

Then, shortly after our divorce, when we were still in our bickering phase, my ex asked me when I was going to drop the name OLeary.

“Never!” I responded, biting back my urge to say “Sorry”. I already had a public persona as Sarah Oleary

Later I started thinking about it though.

If I did change my name, I wondered, what would I change it to? Could I just pick a new name? When I had to choose a user name, I often chose sarahgrace. Hmm, I thought, maybe I would change it to Sarah Grace.

During those months I got on a call with a psychic and coach for a session. When we got on the phone, she said, “What? Your name is Sarah OLeary? I thought for sure your name was Sarah Powers. I even had it written down.”

I laughed, “Nope. Not sure where you got that from.” And then I sort of forgot about it, except when those thoughts about changing my name came back up. Why did she think I was Sarah Powers I wondered.

The following summer I moved down to Mexico, where I’d landed a part time job at the San Miguel Writer’s Conference.

On the first day there I met with my new boss to discuss the job, and she said, “Your name is Sarah O’Leary, right?”

And I told her, “Well, I’ve been considering changing it. That’s my married name, and I’m ready to let go of it.”

“Well,” she said, “If you’re thinking about going for a new name, now it’s the time to do it. No one knows you down here yet.”

It seemed like a sign for sure. But what should my new name be? Sarah Grace or Sarah Powers? Or something else?

Every morning, after my meditation, I always pull three Angel Cards to inspire my day. The very next morningI got Transformation, Grace, Power.

And so I realized the angels were telling me my new name was Sarah Grace Powers.

I went ahead and made the switch - everywhere except on the legal papers.

When I visited my old home in Northern California, folks asked me what’s up with this new name and I’d tell the story of the psychic and the Angel Cards.

“So, it’s your Spirit Name,” a friend said.

Yes, my Spirit Name. MY name, not connected to the troubled relationships with men.

This was all many years ago, but the idea of doing a legal name change was daunting, considering I’d have to apply for a new passport and then wait for it to arrive. And that would have to be AFTER I’d filed papers, run an announcement in the paper for four weeks, and attended the required hearing—just in case some man wanted to object to my new name.

I visited the States regularly, but I didn’t hang around long enough to wait for all of this.

So I put that legal step off. And even when I moved back to the U.S., I kept putting it off. It’s costly, a hassle, and I just never got around to it.

But let me tell you, it’s quite inconvenient—and confusing!—to have two names. Way too much explaining to do.

I’m feeling big shifts this year though. I’m ready to claim my new identity fully. The papers have been filed, my passport is ready for renewal anyway.

I’m stepping into the Grace and Power of the wisdom years by claiming my independence in a name.

Last week I noticed the first deep pink rose unfurling its petals in our front garden. Mmmm! I paused in my hurried walk up the driveway to take a deep whiff.

Each evening the daylight lingers a few more minutes, ebbing into twilights that seem endless. New spring wildflowers are popping out each day along the trails, greeting me as I jog by.

All of this tells me — it’s almost Beltane!

What the heck is Beltane you ask? It’s the ancient Pagan/Celtic word for the celebration that occurs exactly halfway between spring equinox and summer solstice – and it’s happening right now, on May Day.

Every season has its beauty, its unique offering. But this peak of spring has always stood out as my absolute favorite time of year. The hope and promise of the brand new plants emerging from the fecund soil, new leaves unfurling by the hour, the softening temperatures, the lingering light.

This is a time of mornings moist with fresh, new flowers and rustling with the song of baby birds. The bite of the cold rains has left, but the cloying heat of summer has yet to settle.

Altogether, if you live in the Northern Hemisphere it’s hard not to love this season of May Day or Beltane.

What Is Beltane All About?

Back in the days when it wasn’t just an eco-groovy trend to grow your own food – when it was your only option – Beltane was the season of crop sowing. The earth had warmed and loosened enough to accept the seeds that would transform into nourishment for the entire clan.

But Mother Nature, being the fickle Goddess she is, would sometimes foil the best laid plans of vigilant farmers. Drought, rains, late frosts, blights – so many aberrations could come about to ruin the crops, causing the people to go hungry.

Beltane celebrations honored and paid tribute to the Gods and Goddesses of fertility, of plants and the Earth that nourishes.

Because it’s a celebration of fertility, of fecundity, of the sweetness of sex, the people honored the spirits by setting aside all sexual taboos for the evening. Springtime is mating season for many of nature’s creatures – and humans are not left out!

Fertile thoughts of love and romance dance on the wings of the dragonflies, in the blossoming flowers, in the impossible green of the rain-soaked blades of grass.

Beltane means it’s time to let go and have some fun! It might mean plunging your hands into the soil and planting some seeds or flower starts, or it could mean doing a happy dance on whatever plot of grass you can find.

Discover a piece of Nature this week if you can, and feel that spirit of new life surging through your own self.

Beltane Lore And History

Many of us have fond memories of filling baskets with fresh flowers and leaving them on the neighbors’ door on the first day of May, or of dancing around a maypole adorned with brightly colored ribbons. These are ancient traditions of the Beltane holiday that have carried on to this day.

The spirit of Beltane can be conveyed by a child’s unrestrained expression of bliss — the sheer joy of running through fields, picking flowers, swallowing the sunlight, delighting in the fragrance of spring, dancing in the fresh dew-covered grass.

Beltane means “fire of Bel” or “bright fire” — the “bale-fire.” Bel or Beli was a Celtic Sun God, known as the bright and shining one, the father, protector, and husband of the Mother Goddess.

The Beltane festivities celebrated the sacred marriage between the god and the goddess, and welcomed the return of vitality and passion.

For the ancient Celts of the British Isles, Beltane was one of rapturous gaiety, joyfully heralding the arrival of summer. Fires were an important part of the festivities — giant ritual blazes were built to ensure that the warmth of the Sun’s light would continue to promote the fecundity of the earth.

Flowers are an essential symbol of Beltane. They not only signal the victory of Summer over Winter, but the blossoming of sensuality in all of nature and the bounty it will bring.

Although modern celebrations of May Day usually occur on May 1, in olden times Beltane began at sundown on April 30. As darkness fell on Beltane Eve, couples would slip away from the fire to spend the night together in the surrounding woods. Older married couples were allowed to remove their wedding rings for this one night. They would emerge in the dawn light, rumpled but happy, and bathe their faces in the first morning dew of May.

Women would braid flowers into their hair. Men and women alike would decorate their bodies to ready themselves for the dance around the maypole and the Beltane revelry.

The phallic maypole symbolized the interweaving of male and female energies to bring fertility to all unions. The pole was draped with ribbons and flowers, and the traditional circular dance alternated male and female dancers, weaving in and out in a maze movement, plaiting the ribbons as they went.

The dance became a spiral, with the men moving clockwise and the women moving counter-clockwise. In the end the ribbons wound tightly around the pole in a latticed pattern — and it was thought that the better the pattern, the better the harvest would be that fall.

This period between May 1st and Summer Solstice, and especially Beltane itself, has always been considered a time when it is easiest to spy the fairies frolicking in the woodlands and garden. It was common practice to leave food or a bowl of milk as an offering for the fairies on Beltane Eve.

Celebrate the magic of Beltane by bringing green branches and fresh flowers into your home. Go outside right now and find some!

Happy Spring!

Are you feeling a quiet call to end something?
Or to begin something new and scary?

But then—you’re overwhelmed with just the thought of making a major life change at this stage of your life?

After all, you’ve worked and planned for years to achieve the good things you do have now. And much of it IS so good…

And yet… that small niggling voice keeps piping up inside of you, “Is this it?”

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If you’re anything like me, you have another voice (probably several) that want to shut that small voice down.

Those voices say things like:

“We’ve got a great life here, you should be grateful, not complaining!” or…

“You had your chance and you blew it.” or….

“It’s too hard to start fresh at this stage of life.”

Maybe those voices are constantly arguing with each other—like they were for me—or maybe they’re just starting to make some noise.

You might feel like you’re mostly too busy to notice that soft questioning voice… except there it is, getting more urgent, at 3 am when you wake up for one of those nightly trips to pee.

Or, you notice that sense of boredom or frustration as you move through the necessary motions of your day.

When did I lose myself? You wonder silently.

Most of us don’t arrive at midlife feeling lost.

Nope, we feel… familiar with ourselves.

And this can be a comforting feeling. We know who we are, how we react, the way we take care of things like we’ve always done.

And then…. that knowing of ourselves can start to become unfamiliar.

Kind of like that Talking Heads song:

And you may ask yourself, how did I get here?
This is not my beautiful house
This is not my beautiful wife…
Same as it ever was…. Same as it ever was…

You’ve built a life. A good one by most people’s standards.

You’ve made choices. You’ve adapted and adjusted.

You’ve continued to take care of all the things. And probably of most of the people around you.

And somewhere along the way…you’re not sure how it happened…. There was no huge dramatic moment or clear breaking point, simply the noticing of a subtle but persistent dissonance.

A sense that you are not fully living inside your own life.

Believe me, I am so familiar with this place!

I have felt this sort of disconnection with my own life. It doesn’t yell at you, rather it hangs out in the background.

But it shows up in the way you move through your days. In the evolution of your relationships. In your changing body, and in the way you make decisions.

For many years, I thought change meant fixing something obvious.

But what I’ve come to understand is the deeper work is not about fixing what’s no longer working.

It’s really about recognizing the ways we abandon ourselves while still appearing to be doing “fine”.

It’s about the patterns that we don’t notice…. until suddenly we’re standing in a life that no longer fits.

And then comes that ubiquitous question. The one that torments so many women in those in-between moments:

Is it too late to change this?

I don’t believe it is.

Look at all the many examples of women older than you who have set themselves free. Maybe they’ve embraced a new career, become a solo traveler, or started writing books or creating art at 70+.

But that’s not really the point.

Real change asks something different from us than optics.
It calls for more than motivation or insight alone.

It asks for honesty.
For willingness.
And for a different kind of relationship with yourself. One that is clear-eyed yet, drops the judgment.

It’s self connection that is encouraging, yet takes responsibility for where you are.

For some of us, simply getting there turns out to be all the change we really needed.

For others, that journey to self connection pulls away the veil and your pathway forward becomes crystal clear.

This space is where I write about this ever-evolving process in my own life. And the learnings that come from it.

Yes, it’s about reinvention—not as a performance or a reinvention of identity for its own sake. This is about a return to yourself. A shift into resonance with who you are becoming, versus who you have been.

That’s a scary thing. And a powerful thing.

In my writing I’m exploring relationships, aging, desire, and the quieter layers of self-abandonment that shape so many women’s lives.

And about what becomes possible when you stop looking for ways to get through, to simply endure your life… and start asking yourself how you want to actually live it.

So many of us have lost touch with what we truly desire. We’ve given up on so many of those desires… to the point where we don’t even really know what those deeper desires even are.

Some of what I share is personal. Some reflective. Some directly drawn from the work I do with women privately.

All of it is grounded in one intention:

To tell the truth about this time of our lives in a way that makes it feel more honest—and more possible to change—than we have been led to believe.

If these essays resonate with you, if you’re ready to stop leaving yourself behind…I hope you’ll stay, read, and explore—even subscribe.

And if you ever feel the quiet sense of “this is me”… you’ll know where to find me.

A lot has changed in 8 years and this topic has only become more apropos.If you missed the original post, you can catch up HERE.

Age-ING or Age-LESS?

Many of us cringe away from the word “aging”, and I’ve been one of them.

I devoured Dr. Christiane Northrup’s book Goddesses Never Age in my early 50s, and it helped me redefine how I thought and felt about crossing that midlife threshold.

(Side note: I no longer follow Dr. Northrup because of what she promoted during the pandemic. However, I don’t believe in throwing out the baby with the bathwater and she wrote some helpful and amazing books on women’s health that still earn their spaces on my book shelf.)

While reading that book I began to understand that many of the supposed symptoms of aging don’t just show up out of nowhere. They actually arise from the stories we tell ourselves about it.

Or - more aptly - the stories we tell each other. With each passing year I notice how easy it is to fall into griping conversations with my friends over 50. What hurts, what’s going wrong with our bodies, the new limits we face

Northrup recommended staying away from those gripe sessions or at least changing the subject, as a technique for feeling ageless. I do try to catch myself when I find I’m going down that particular rabbit hole.

I definitely didn’t agree, though, with her advice that one never divulge one’s chronological age lest people make immediate assumptions about who you are and what your physical potential is.

Personally, I feel like that’s going a little too far. It feels disingenuous to me to be coy when someone asks how old I am, in fact I’m proud to give the goods. But you get to decide on that one!

The truth is I DO feel the passage of chronological time in my body. It’s not all a story in my head.

Twenty minutes on the meditation cushion leaves me groaning as I get up. I find I must be way more mindful and more gentle with exercise routines; I’ve learned the hard way that injuries can keep me away from exercising at all for longer than I want.

We are creatures of this Earth, products of Mother Nature, and it is part of the natural cycle that our human bodies will wax and wane, eventually decomposing back into the Earth.

It’s important to remember that you are so much more than you body! It is merely a vehicle carrying your spirit around the planet. My first life coaching mentor, Martha Beck, calls it a ‘meat suit’.

Yet, it can sure FEEL like you ARE your body.

After all you can’t get out of it (unless you are super enlightened and can meditate your way away.) When we’re in pain, or any sort of physical discomfort, the body suddenly becomes pretty paramount.

Getting Proactive vs Making Peace

As my good friend Margaret so wisely pointed out, there’s a difference between accepting what we cannot change and taking action to improve the things we can. This absolutely applies to our chronologically aging bodies.

This is going to look different for each of us depending on our circumstances and preferences.

For example—I wrote about my dissatisfaction with how hormonal changes are manifesting in my body, now that I am officially post-menopausal (occasional episodes of hot flashes not withstanding.)

My acceptance work is to embrace this stage of life and surrender to the fact that my shape will never be that of an 18-year-old again. (At least not in this life!)

My ‘take some action’ might be to take a discerning look at what I’m consuming that possibly exacerbates the problem and causes weight gain. Perhaps I have some sensitivities or allergies? The same foods and beverages that worked out fine 20 years ago might be problematic now.

I know I definitely can’t polish off a pint of Ben & Jerry’s anymore!

I can experiment with changing up foods, I can keep a food journal, I can go see a naturopath or functional medicine practitioner. I could even do some allergy testing if symptoms or weight gain are particularly bad.

I can also make a conscious effort to find enjoyable exercise routines that will help keep the shape I do have as toned and strong as possible.

The key here is ‘enjoyable’. What can you do to move your body that doesn’t feel like a chore?

(A favorite of mine now is Essentrics - short routines created by an aging ballerina that focus on strength, mobility, flexibility and pain relief. The arm routines are great for that bat wing situation! I have a monthly membership, but you can search on youtube to find some free workouts to try.)

I can practice saying nice things to myself about my body, and refuse to buy into cultural stereotypes that glorify a specific body type.

And then there’s the wrinkles, the “bat wings”, the crinkly cleavage. There’s some action we can take here—using high quality skincare products, getting enough rest, some might even choose chemical interventions.

But, in the end, acceptance will become necessary.

Just like a blooming flower that eventually fades and droops, just like the summer’s harvest that slowly dwindles and dries up, our animal bodies have their natural cycles.

In a future installment I’ll discuss our cultural aversion to aging, along with strategies to overcome falling prey to this insidious invitation to self hatred.

Another example: Aching limbs and muscles that need a lot more stretching and babying than they used to.

I can choose to moan, groan and complain. Or, I can choose to take care of those squawking body parts with various means…. from massage, to baths, to stretching, to arnica cream. It is what it is.

That’s a combination of acceptance and action.

Accept it, take care of it, drop the complaining.

It is so tempting to complain. There’s a weird satisfaction.

But, the truth is the more we indulge in that, the more we are basically CREATING more of what we don’t want!

I advocate going with the ‘making peace’ or acceptance route if taking action is going to cost you a bundle, cause a lot of pain and distress, or remove all of the fun in your life.

On the other hand, if you’re miserable with current conditions and there is some obvious action that could be taken to mitigate things, what are you waiting for? Start with one tiny step.

What can YOU accept? What can you act on? What is YOUR tiny step?

Share in the comments.

There’s a particular kind of reckoning that doesn’t happen all at once.

It happens slowly.

In moments you don’t expect—
Like those mornings when you wake up with a pit in your stomach… realizing that you may not be able to sustain the way you’ve been living.

I’ve had a few of those moments in my life.
Some were about my marriage or another relationship I told myself was working just great.

But the most confronting wasn’t about a human relationship.

It was about money.
You could say it was my relationship with Money.

Or, more truthfully—
about the life I had built without really wanting to look too closely at what was underneath it.

Turned out I wasn’t the wisest of the little pigs when it came to building my foundation.

You see, for most of my life, I chose freedom. I chose following my heart above all else.

I liked having money. I wanted more money. But… more than that I wanted to help people. And I definitely didn’t want to follow the norms. I wanted to do my own thing.

At some point in my early adulthood I read a book called, Do What Love, the Money Will Follow.

No shade on those authors! They truly believed their premise. I believed it too.
Just like I believed in manifestation and the Law of Attraction.

It’s not that I don’t believe in any of those things now…. It’s just that I understand them in a much more nuanced way.

And that came from the school of hard knocks.

I sort of fell into being a small business owner when I opened up my little herb shop, Moonrise Herbs, in my early 20s.

I was a single mom with a one-year-old, I needed a way to make money, and I saw a community need and felt a burning desire to fill it.

So I just did it.

I built that little business myself, on a shoestring - and some help in the first year from my sister who was fresh out of herb school.

That store gave me a sense of independence and identity. It turned me into an herbalist and a businesswoman. It gathered community.

I got to curate offerings for healing body, mind and spirit. It was so much fun.

I loved it like another child.

But… it never really created the kind of financial stability that one can build on. I was young, I had zero business training, just a lot of passion and zeal.

When I eventually sold it in my mid-40s, I faced a choice.

I could have turned toward building more security for the future. Gone to nursing school, or gotten a teaching credential.

Found something stable. Built a foundation for the later years of my life.

Instead, I chose my heart again.

I had always wanted to be a writer—but I left that (mostly) behind when I started my business.

So, I chose the things I had always wanted more of—
writing, creativity, exploration.

At the time, it felt like choosing myself.

And in many ways, it was. I studied journalism and women’s studies. I spent 4 months in an internship in New York City. I freelanced and started my coaching business in Portland, and I moved to Mexico when synchronicity pointed me in that direction.

When I got divorced at 51 I married adventure—for a while.

But what I couldn’t see then—what I can see now—is that I didn’t yet know how to hold that kind of life.

I didn’t have the structures, internally or externally, to support it.

So over time, the gap grew—
between the life I wanted to be living, and the reality I had actually created.

I was still living with the conviction that if I followed my heart and believed enough that money couldn’t help but flow toward me.

It did… sort of. But, as bills mounted, the underlying anxiety about it all grew constant.

And eventually, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

There’s a certain kind of humility in reaching a point where something has to change…
not because you planned it that way, but because the alternative is no longer sustainable.

I loved the solopreneur business I’d created as a life coach, I still believed I could build it into something consistent and sustainable.

But… something had to change.

And so…. Despite my misgivings I got a job.
An 8-5, Monday through Friday office job that quietly began to drain my life force.

Not because it wasn’t a ‘good job’. It just didn’t fit my biorhythms. I was in my zone of competence but far from my zone of excellence.

That was nearly three years ago.
The year of the reckoning.
When I felt the weight of all those decisions that hadn’t created the security I now needed.

And I had to face something I think many women quietly carry:

The realization that the way we’ve lived—
what we’ve chosen, what we’ve avoided—
has consequences we can’t outgrow.

Although my belief waned during that time of reckoning, I still looked for joy. I still looked for gratitude. And I still told myself that miracles DO happen.

And then towards the end of the following year, that’s exactly what showed up. Something new that I wanted, but hadn’t expected.

A relationship.

A good one. A steady one. A deeply supportive one.

The person I’d been writing about for years when I journaled about the relationship I wanted to create.

And part of what that relationship asked of me—without ever demanding it—
was to learn how to receive support in a way that didn’t collapse me.

That challenged me. A lot.

Because I had an identity—
as someone independent, capable, self-sufficient.

That identity most definitely did not include being supported by a man!

And yet, here I was, in a season where my life when that support was being offered.

I can’t lie about this…. At first, I didn’t think I could accept it.

I questioned the motivation.
I channeled my mother and my grandmother and their suffering because of financial dependence on a husband.

I cried and cried for them. And for me.

So much releasing was needed before I felt emotionally and energetically ready to accept that kind of support.

There’s a story that society tells us about what strength looks like.

That it means doing it all yourself.
That it means never needing to rely on anyone else.

There’s also a story, one that is true for many women—that relying on the support of of a man puts you in a weakened position.

I’m discovering that the first isn’t really true… and the second doesn’t have to be true.

What I’ve had to learn—am still learning—is something quieter, and in many ways, harder:

How to be honest about where I am
without turning that into a verdict about who I am.

How to take responsibility for my life and all of my choices
without using that responsibility as a weapon against myself.

How to receive support
without abandoning my own voice, my own agency, my own sense of self.

This story definitely isn’t about getting everything right.

It’s a story about seeing more clearly.

About recognizing the places where I had been out of alignment—not just emotionally, but practically, structurally.

And beginning, slowly, to live in a way that is more honest.

More sustainable.

More mine.

And the good news is - I’m back to doing what I love!
With clearer eyes.
And less fear.

I think many women reach a point—especially later in life—
where they quietly ask themselves:

How did I get here?
And is it too late to live differently?

I don’t think it is.

But I do think it requires something that most of us weren’t taught how to do.

To look at our lives without flinching.
To tell ourselves the truth—without collapsing into shame.
And to begin again, from that place.

Not perfectly.

But honestly.

That’s the work I find myself in. Again.

And it’s the work I now hold space for with other women too.

Now, at 64 I’m way more accepting of the changes that come with the years. BUT the Patriarchy drilled those messages about women’s bodies deep into my brain, so I still wrestle with my reflection in the mirror sometimes.

I’m re-inspiring myself with my own words and adding a few updates.

This blog turned into a 3-part series, partly in response to comments and feedback I received. Stay tuned for Parts 2 and 3, and please add your own thoughts in the comments!

About a year ago I put on my favorite black pants (you know, the ones that look good with everything, casual or dressy) and realized they just didn’t fit the same. Too tight, pinching at the waist.

I’m sure this has happened to you before—it certainly wasn’t my first go ’round with jeans getting tight. Of course you don’t need an aging body for that to happen… but these were the stretchy, elastic-waist kind. One of the reasons they were such a go-to.

I was like, WTF??!

And it wasn’t just pants… my shirts suddenly began to pull across the chest, the hems riding up higher and higher. Blouses that used to fall to my hips now hung a couple of inches higher.

Suddenly I had the big breasts I’d longed for since age 15. And, it seemed, shoulders to match.

How did I not notice that my body was slowly morphing?

I could think of a few explanations—including a phenomenon that I have dubbed ‘the boyfriend effect.’ Or maybe, I reasoned, my clothes were shrinking in these Mexican washing machines.

But, deep down I knew, I just KNEW, that this was more than simply a wake-up call to cut back on the muffins for a while.

This was about hormones, and a new post-menopausal body.

Embracing a New Life Phase

My very last period had occurred a couple of years earlier—right after my youngest daughter graduated from college and just days before my other daughter’s wedding. (The irony of that was not lost on me… although it took almost a year to realize I was officially done.)

That was it. No more cramps, no more PMS, no more wondering if my moon would show up during some big event.

Sure, relief…. but also, grief.

I’d left my Maiden years and my Mother years behind. I was embarking on that third phase of a woman’s life: the Crone years.

When I started coaching midlife women, I was still in the throes of menopause, transitioning to Crone. I realized that this is a powerful time of spiritual awakening, an opportunity for transformation and I wanted to share that potential with others. To rewrite the cultural story about aging.

My message was about ageless living—looking and feeling radiant and beautiful no matter what year you were born!

As in, yes let’s take care of ourselves so we are strong, flexible and glowing… AND, let’s enjoy and accept what is. Let’s stop trying to diet and botox our way back into our 18-year-old bodies.

And then… a couple of years post menopause, here I was, totally freaking out because …. FAT!

Rewiring From the Cultural Messages

If you’re a woman who grew up in western culture you likely were inundated with messages about the horrors of being fat. Our culture glorifies thinness—especially for women. (And that actually really pisses me off! But it’s a subject for another blog.)

As an impressionable adolescent I drank the Kool-Aid, and I yo-yo dieted my way through my teenage years.

And, despite even after I learned how ridiculous it is, for the past 4+ decades the number one criteria with which I’ve measured the viability of every outfit is, ‘does it make me look fat?’

Ugh.

I don’t want to be that woman! I know better.

But the narrative is planted so deeply in my brain wiring that I must devote Intention and Attention on a daily basis to change it.

And… I DO know it’s possible. With a different mindset I can make peace with grandma boobs, I can look at my rounder body and see a wise goddess… instead of a paragon to be ostracized because she doesn’t look like a waif.

And it’s not just weight that—well, weighs on me about my 56-year-old body. There are other changes too. Muscles that groan at me upon awakening. The way getting up from a meditation cushion has become an exercise in pain avoidance. Joints and bones that are less resilient and yell at me after too much walking on working out.

Sound familiar?

We don’t want to just give in as say, ‘oh, that’s just the way it is now…”

Yet, at the same time denial and resistance don’t work. After all, what we resist persists.

For me, it’s about accepting what is, while making choices that feel authentically good from the inside out. Not just the sort of choices that feel good because they satisfy cravings or artificially fill a void. (Hello, chocolate chip cookie with my coffee!)

This is a tricky balance—this being in acceptance…. yet also taking action steps and making daily choices that support living agelessly, with radiance, vitality and vibrant health.

So, how DO you make peace with an aging body?

1.Acknowledge and Accept what is. This always has to be the first step before any lasting change can happen. Stop fighting it, take a breath and simply allow that this is what is right now.

2. Be present with whatever emotion arises with this acknowledgment. Most of us do anything we can to avoid unpleasant emotions. It seems to make sense – they feel awful!

Yet, when allow ourselves to be with that emotion, feeling it in the BODY rather than amping up the panicked and painful thoughts, then it passes through in an amazingly short time.

3. Forgive yourself for any actions from the past. It’s much harder to be present and make choices from the present point of power when you are caught up in recriminations and regrets! Let them go. Begin again.

4. Interrupt unhelpful thought loops. When you catch yourself bemoaning your wrinkles, your belly rolls, or your aching joints, make a conscious decision to turn your attention to something that IS working, or that you are grateful for. Or, simply turn your thoughts to another subject completely.

5. Give yourself a compliment every day. If you can’t quite (yet) bring yourself to celebrate and love your Goddess-like crone body, look for aspects of yourself that you truly do like.

It could be your eyes or hair, it could be your cooking prowess, or perhaps your intelligence. Look for little and big things and say something nice to yourself. Bonus points if it’s out loud!

6. Remember who you really Are. We are naturally so identified with our bodies. And yet, we are so much more than that.
Stillness, meditation, inspirational reading are all activities that can tune you back into your true Divinity. Remember that this body is just a vehicle that moves you through this current life. You HAVE a body (and they are wonderful vehicles). But you ARE much more than a body.

If you’re able to engage these tips, you’ll find yourself naturally making healthier choices on a day-to-day basis. You’ll also start feeling better in your own body.

If you notice that it’s difficult to accept, to interrupt unhelpful thought loops, or engage these suggestions, don’t despair. This is brain rewiring AND nervous system recalibration. Just like anything worthwhile, it takes practice to get the desired result

And, if you’ve got some additional tips for making peace with your aging body, please share in the comments.

Yesterday I read an essay here on Substack about leaving a good man. Lin Wells wrote about leaving a 24 year marriage that everyone thought was perfect.

Lin wrote about the gaslighting and emotional abuse that no one else knew about, which finally propelled her to take the leap and file for divorce.

Her story was different than mine. Her ex-husband sounds way different than my ex.

And yet, I saw myself in that story.

I left a ‘good man’ after 22 years of marriage, 25 years together. At the time that represented half a lifetime together.

Lin’s story resonated so strongly that I immediately wrote a long comment applauding her for her courage and sharing in detail my own experiences with the “good man” I divorced, much to the shock and surprise of everyone around me.

I shared that comment as a note … but later that evening I started sweating about who might see it and tell my ex, perhaps alienating him and causing him to maybe even once again delete me from his life.

So I deleted the note instead.

But now, I’ve decided I do want to share part of my own story here. It started me on the journey that got me to where I am today. And I know now that this is a story that is shared by so many midlife women.

As I shared my one story in that comment note I felt SO much energy behind it.

As women we are trained to be grateful if we have a man who doesn’t hit us, who provides income and who is decent to the children. Gaslighting is normal and to be expected. We just have to consider ourselves lucky.

It’s time for that to change.

So, I’m taking the risk

But no, I don’t want to be deleted. I hope it won’t mean that

It hurts my daughters more than it hurts me. While my ex and I don’t see each other all that much, we are now cordial and he is willing to share the same room with me at a gathering.

It took 10 years to get there. We separated in 2012 and were divorced in 2014. Most of the ensuing years we were estranged—not by my choice.

My daughter was devastated when we split.. I had once (very stupidly) told her that if her dad and I ever split up we would always be best friends. Boy, did I get that one wrong!

Everyone wondered what happened. It DID seem like we were best friends. We threw great parties, we always looked like we were having a great time. He was a good father, a good provider, and when I had to work late nights in my store he cooked dinner for the family and even left me a plate!

The sex was even pretty good - when I was in the mood. But, like many women, I need to feel that emotional connection to warm up.

And yet…

He was only available for the good times. If I wanted to talk about anything difficult, he shut down. In our early years together I didn’t get this, something would come up and I would scream and cry, basically have a huge breakdown because I wanted to talk about it—but he wouldn’t or couldn’t.

“This is your problem,” he’d say. “I’m perfectly happy.”

And… it likely was my problem. But we never got to talk about it. Because he would just tune me out. My emotions were decidedly unwelcome in that marriage.

And so, I learned to just stuff it all in. Have another gin & tonic. Get busy with the child-raising, and the business, and all the many things adulting calls for. I stopped journaling during those years.

I mostly believed everything was fine. After all I had friends, a respected business, 2 lovely daughters, and a ‘good’ man.

I successfully hid my unhappiness from myself.

Until I couldn’t anymore. When I hit 50 it all crumbled.

That’s what midlife and menopause does. It wakes you up. And that awakening is not always pleasant.

But it always leads to growth.

I wrestled with my unhappiness for maybe 4 years before I made the leap. I tried to talk myself out of my feelings (I’d gotten very used to that by now.) It didn’t seem like I had a real reason to leave. Nothing was THAT wrong.

The kids had both left home. I wanted to explore the world. He’d lost any interest in that and wanted to be home.

So I turned that into the reason. Well, that and my discovery that he’d been involved in an emotional (not yet sexual) affair for the last year.

I left on a trial separation (after receiving a download from the Universe that it was time to move to Portland, Oregon… but that’s a story for another day.)

I packed my little Nissan Altima with whatever I could fit in there and headed north.

It took less than 50 miles to feel the shackles coming off.

In that moment I knew I was never going back. I was free! It was such an exhilarating feeling!

It was also scary.

I only had a few hundred dollars saved. I wasn’t moving for a job like sensible people do when they move 400 miles away from their community. I just had big ideas about growing an online business and doing freelance work in the meantime.

I leaned into the old adage: Leap and the net will appear.

Well… I waited and waited for that net to show up!

It turned out I had some growing up to do. And a lot grieving. I’d made the choice to leave, and yet the grief and sense of failure grew as the months passed.

I had lessons to learn about relationships and what part I play. And how and why I attract the relationships I was attracting.

It was time to confront all those emotions suppressed for the past couple of decades.

This took longer than I would have liked. Lots of experimenting. I kissed way more frogs that I would have preferred.

All worth it though! The outcome I am enjoying today has been 100% worth the struggle.

Despite all the bumps in the roads, the wrong turns, the let-downs, the financial struggle, I didn’t give up believing that what I wanted was not only possible, it was inevitable.

OK, maybe there were moments I felt like I was giving up. Afternoons spent in the fetal position after a particularly disappointing let-down, weeks of staying numb so I wouldn’t have to feel, days of doubting every choice I’d ever made.

But I always came back.

I lit a candle and prayed for guidance. I walked by the ocean or amongst the towering redwoods. I stepped outside at night, gazed at the waxing moon and vast starry skies—realizing that far greater forces are always at work than my tiny mind can comprehend.

I’d come back to knowing that Miracles are always possible, and that I wanted to make myself available for the miracle of a truly great relationship.

I also knew that the answers to our prayers usually show up looking different than how we imagine it. At least somewhat different.

I could have missed it when true love showed up in my life.

I had entered my 60’s and I was imagining someone my age or even a bit younger. He was 8 1/2 years older than me.

But if I’d learned anything by now it was that I needed to give anything with a spark of interest a chance. (That applied to any opportunity, not just potential partners.)

I chose not to listen to the litany of obstacles my brain and my protector parts kept pointing out when we went on our first couple of dates.

“Let’s just see what happens,” I’d remind myself. “There’s enough good here to explore.”

And Oh My!!

It took me 63 years to find out what it means to partner with someone who is willing to be fully present with ALL of it, the good, the bad, and the truly sublime! Someone who is actually a grownup and a fellow spiritual explorer.

It feels weird to say I am living my dream life… but the truth is I have to pinch myself every day.

If you’re still in the messy middle, if you’re still waiting to make a leap into the unknown, if you’re still waiting for your own happy ending - this is your sign that there IS hope.

It may or may not be that you need to leave a relationship like I did.

Maybe it’s a job you need to jettison, a side business or creative project you long to start, or a move to a new city.

Whatever it is, it’s freaking scary to take that first step.. Much less the full leap!!

Reinvention is scary.
And you know in your heart it is worth it.

I can’t promise it will be all ease and flow from there on out - it probably won’t be.

But the joy and self-respect you discover on the way…and the freedom on the other side is so very sweet!!

PS:

I’m a Life and Wellness coach, and I’ve been on a mission for 14 years now to unleash the RADIANCE and the BRILLIANCE of women at midlife and beyond.

I’ve learned a lot in those 14 years, and lived through what I teach and share with clients.

Follow me for stories, inspirations and ideas to take your own leap - even when you’re not sure if there’s a net - and ignite your own light in your second half of life.
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