If you asked me when I was younger what I envisioned for the third act of my life, I’d have answered with some variation of the inevitable progression of the life I was leading. Maybe my large home in Stepford would eventually be replaced by a smaller one in a more temperate climate. Certainly I would take great pleasure in my adult children and their impressive accomplishments, and our lives would be pleasantly intertwined. I would travel often, and perhaps I’d finally get serious about writing and find the time to explore those other interests that I’d reserved for some day.

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Here’s what happened instead: at the tender age of 57, I began the process of waking up, starting over, and finally growing up. And I’ve never been happier. Or more at peace. Or younger at heart.

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Contrary to the popular song lyrics, waking up is actually harder to do than breaking up, which is what I realized I had to do after 25 years of marriage. Sleepwalking through life absolved me from dealing with any unpleasantness and prevented me from seeing the big picture. It also left me woefully ill-equipped to imagine the freight train that would speed towards me once I was awake.

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Determined to look up and ahead, the first year or so of my new life was fueled by adrenaline. I was fighting for my survival in multiple arenas. I was also game to try just about anything new, awarding myself bonus points if it was something that would cause the majority of people who knew me previously to blanch (prompting my daughter, fifteen at the time, to declare that I needed supervision). When the adrenaline ran out, I crashed. Hard.

 

This is when it dawned on me that changing only my external circumstances wasn’t going to cut it. That there was also some problematic internal shit that was clamoring for my attention. And this is when the tide slowly began to turn.

Years of therapy ensued. Years of baby steps forward being suddenly obliterated by giant leaps backward, or of giant leaps forward being overshadowed by a sudden stumble. Years of more painful losses amidst the forging of healthy new connections. Years of healing the many wounds in my psyche in microscopic increments. Years that looked different from the outside but didn’t really feel different.

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Until one day, when I handled a potentially fraught interaction so much more effectively than I would have previously and I mentally congratulated myself.

 

Dude, how nice is it to finally be a grownup in your sixties?

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Being a novice, I was sure I’d reached my final destination. That growing up was a one-and-done deal. So the first of the valuable lessons I learned is that growing up, by which I mean becoming self-aware and letting that self-awareness guide my thoughts and behaviors, is a lifetime journey. And as I continued to work toward creating an authentic life that I love, the lessons abounded.

I learned about self-love and self-compassion. I learned that it’s never too late to change or to undertake something that’s important to you. I learned that adversity breeds compassion and flexibility. And my favorite: I learned that there are miracles in calamity.

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My life today has little resemblance to my previous life. I’m physically and mentally healthier than I’ve ever been. I did relocate and although I’ve found it difficult to establish a new social network without the anchors of work or a neighborhood, I’m making some treasured connections. I have an incredible relationship with one adult child and no relationship at all with the other. I am happily single. This year I’ve started traveling regularly, and writing is now my occupation. And as I lean harder into embracing change, someday has become now.

 

I’m grateful beyond measure for all of it: the chance to start over, to take charge of my life, the happy surprises, the exponential growth, even the clouds that eventually revealed a silver lining. I’m grateful for my newfound confidence and self-trust and for my unshakeable conviction that there is more love and beauty and joy ahead than I ever imagined.

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