I wrote about rebirth at 33. And it sounds beautiful, doesn’t it? Like a phoenix rising. But the truth is, starting over feels more like being reborn into a world where you don’t speak the language, don’t know the rules, and have to teach your nervous system how to feel safe again. It’s like I’m a newborn trying to build brand-new neural pathways, except I’m doing it with the weary bones of someone who’s already lived several lives.
Everything I once believed about the world, about myself, about how life should unfold, it’s all dissolving. The older version of me birthed this new version, sure, but she’s also standing there, blinking, lost, asking, “Now what?” Neither of us really knows what a healthy psyche feels like. I’ve read the theory, highlighted the books, nodded along in therapy. But living it? Walking around with this open heart and no blueprint? That’s a whole different thing.
No one talks about what happens after the awakening. The earthquake comes, the illusions fall, but then what? How do you build something real on a land that still trembles? Everything is clear now, terrifyingly clear. And after seeing the depths—your own, others’, the world’s, how are you supposed to just… grocery shop? Go on dates? Plan a five-year career trajectory?
That’s why lately, I’ve been oscillating between “What’s the point?” and “What if something terrible happens again?” Which, intellectually, I know is normal. Trauma loops are persuasive bastards. They whisper that safety lies in staying small, staying still, staying stuck. That’s the loop. But I also know the only way out is action—messy, imperfect, “I-have-no-idea-if-this-will-work” kind of action.
And let’s be honest, starting over in your 30s is terrifying. The older you get, the scarier it feels. You’re not as naïvely bold as you were at 23. You’re more tired, more cautious, more aware of just how high the stakes are. You feel like life should’ve looked a certain way by now. Married. Kids. Career locked and loaded. And what hurts most is that it’s not like I’ve been slacking off. I’ve been working hard. Really. So where’s my reward?
But if I really got what I thought I wanted back then, I’d be married to someone emotionally unavailable. I’d have kids with a man who wouldn’t have been able to make space for my softness. I’d be successful in a career that rewarded burnout and martyrdom. I loved teaching, but being an empath in that world nearly broke me. I couldn’t separate their pain from mine.
So yeah, I’m grateful for all the failed timelines. Every single one. Because now I get to start again on my terms. It’s not too late. In fact, maybe this is exactly the right time. I’m no longer building a house of cards that collapses at the first gust of fear, pressure, or pain. I’ve lived through enough big, bad wolves to know better. No more straw, no more sticks—I’m laying bricks now. Solid. Intentional. Storm-tested. I’m building a life with deeper foundations, with pillars strong enough to hold the weight of all that I am and gentle enough to make space for all that I feel.
fortuitouspurpose 