The Woman I Thought I'd Become
Remember as a kid when you thought that 30 was old? Maybe, like me, as you grew a little older, you then imagined 30 to be a magical time when you’d finally have everything together. All the stray pieces of your life that felt unwieldy and misshapen would miraculously fall into place and you’d glide through the days with all the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.
The reality of being 30 hit very differently for me.
I was dating a man who had recently separated from his wife and who was trying to mask the guilt of moving out of the family home. I wasn’t long divorced and I was stuffing down my own guilt about leaving a marriage that everyone wanted me to stay in. We were both using alcohol as a crutch and trying to create enough of a haze so that we wouldn’t notice just how far and fast we were both unraveling.
Almost twenty years later, I now know 30 is not remotely old, and most of us have got very little together in our first few decades.
Yet, even as we continue to age, we still hang on to the vision of a future self who’s got that easy and effortless life. We still imagine that somehow we’ll arrive at a place where we’re self-assured and stable in every possible way. Relationships will be perfect. Decision making will be a breeze. Stress will simply fade away and every opportunity will feel perfectly aligned.
Ok, so it didn’t happen at 30 but it will happen at 40!
No, wait, 50!
Ummm, 60?
At the ripe young age of 49, I’ve realized that while I may know myself incredibly well in many ways, and have the benefit of some very healthy boundaries that my younger self would be in awe of, the path is far from easy or even.
Aging is illuminating. We have an opportunity to discover so much about ourselves. And part of that discovery is the knowing that we’re never going to get to a mythical place of perfection. Not in this life, at least.
Deep within, we’re still that small child, or that unsteady 30 something, stumbling through life and not knowing all, or any, of the answers.
I’ve recently been viewing properties in upstate New York with my husband, Leon, as we search for our first home. We’ve been renting in NYC for 9 years now, and we’re very ready to put down deeper roots. My challenges with perimenopause symptoms, particularly the way it has exacerbated anxiety within my body, has definitely sped up our desire to find a place sooner rather than later.
As I sit in my office typing this, our bed is behind me, filling the space where my bookshelf, yoga mat, and much loved floor mirror used to reside. Our not-so-considerate new neighbors have been playing music and having yard gatherings at all hours and my nervous system hasn’t appreciated the assault.
The apartment is in disarray as we find ourselves in a space between spaces. We know for sure that we’re ready to leave this home, but we haven’t yet secured somewhere else. Although, we may have actually already met our next home…
We viewed a property a few weeks ago, the last one of the day, and I had a great feeling about it. It’s situated close to a private lake, it has plenty of trees and it appears to be in a peaceful community. The house itself is small and in need of a bit of a facelift. But I could close my eyes and visualize its transformation. It felt possible.
Leon wasn’t as convinced as I was and he had concerns about its size. Given our plan to rent out a second bedroom, he felt that it might be too close for comfort to have such a small place, with a shared bathroom to boot.
Our realtor strongly suggested seeing more properties and the following weekend we set off to do more viewings, one of which was a house built in 1757. Leon joked that it was older than America and we both felt that it would likely be a non-starter for us but we decided to take a look anyway.
What we found was a living space with gorgeous wooden beams and amazing light. A house full of history (Fanny Crosby, a famous hymn writer and the first woman to speak in front of the US senate was born there). We found an attached but entirely separate unit that is fully self-contained and ideal to rent.
We also found a dilapidated barn that wasn’t safe to enter, a roof that almost certainly needs replacing and a deck that definitely does, two bathrooms in dire need of refurbishment, and possible wood-rot around at least one door frame. And that’s without an official inspection.
Yet I can’t stop thinking about this place. It’s perfect for us in so many ways. It has untold opportunity and I can see us there so clearly. I see me sitting at the kitchen table sipping ginger tea. I see Leon smiling as he walks through the door. I see us by the fireplace talking about our week, feeling safe and content and held by a house that feels like our very own sanctuary. I see the rental unit being used for writers who want to enjoy a retreat, or women who want to claim some time for themselves to simply be. I see the barn restored and resplendent. I see it all.
Still, there are flags. Big ones. Our realtor is concerned about the amount of work the property might need. We are concerned about the high taxes, our modest budget, and whether we might be biting off more than we can chew.
Through it all I see my younger self. The one who imagined that future her, the woman I am today, would have been able to make decisions with conviction and without fear. She envisioned that she’d grow into someone whose confidence would carry her through any struggles or sticky spots without ruffling a single feather.
But I am her future self, and I am certainly not fearless. I don’t always know which way is next, but I do know that even the most wonderful dreams come with responsibility. Mortgages need to be paid, bills don’t simply disappear, and cupboards don’t stock themselves.
I’m not sure I’m ever going to become the woman whose life is tidy and together. The woman who never second guesses herself and doesn’t ever sink into a spiral of What Ifs?
Despite wistfully wishing for such a life, there’s some comfort in knowing that I get to keep figuring things out as I go. I don’t have to put pressure on myself to reach a place of perfection because it’s simply not attainable. And while I might not be the fictional woman I once hoped I’d transform into, I’ve also come a long way from the timid child and train wreck thirty-something I once was. Those versions of myself haven’t evaporated, but they’re not leading the way, either.
I am today’s woman. Confident. Uncertain. Bold. Scared. Ready to claim a new messy and imperfect chapter.
I don’t know what’s going to happen with this house that might become our home. Everything is unfolding layer by layer, just as it always is. I’m letting that be enough. I’m letting me be enough. And I’m sending love to my younger and future selves, knowing every woman I’ve ever been, or will be, brings something remarkable and undeniable to my story.
I’m sending love to you, too, as you navigate your own way forward in a life that may be similar or different to mine. What a wild and surreal ride it all is. Thank goodness we have one another.
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