I don't pay much attention to my dreams.

Most mornings they disappear before my feet hit the ground. But every once in a while, a dream lingers. It follows me into my first cup of coffee, tapping me on the shoulder and refusing to be ignored.

This dream did exactly that.

I found myself driving an oversized SUV. It was comfortable. Familiar. Easy to drive. I felt capable behind the wheel.

Yet I spent the entire dream trying to park it.

Over and over again.

I wasn't crashing. I wasn't lost. I wasn't even anxious about driving. I simply could not seem to find the right place to stop. I wanted to park the car, get out, and move on with my day. I had somewhere to be. Things to do. A life waiting for me.

But something kept preventing me from settling into a parking spot.

As I reflected on the dream, another detail stood out.

There was a bright blue van nearby, a smaller European-style vehicle with an incredible turn radius. It could maneuver effortlessly. It seemed agile, adaptable, and capable of changing direction without getting stuck.

I turned 40 in 2008. (I see you doing the math!)

The timing could not have been more interesting.

The country was navigating the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression. Retirement accounts were shrinking. Home values were falling. The news cycle felt relentless. At the same time, I packed up my life and moved north to New England with five children in tow.

I suddenly found myself learning an entirely new culture.

I had to understand an accent. (Cue Dunkin')

I had to learn how to heat a home with oil and radiant heat.

I had to navigate private schools, public transportation, Nor'easters, humidity that transformed my hair into a science experiment, and a daily obsession in the Boston media with Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen.

I learned that people were fiercely loyal to the Red Sox, that weather was a legitimate conversation topic, that "wicked" could be used as an adjective for almost anything, and that eating a lobster roll incorrectly might reveal I wasn't from around there.

Most confusingly, I often couldn't tell whether someone was talking about their car keys or their khakis.

I had moved several times throughout my life and had developed a simple rule: give yourself six months to settle in.

This move was different.

There were external stressors everywhere. We lived in a neighborhood where sirens were common. I watched my children closely. I spent my days racing between schools, activities, sports, playdates, and trying to help everyone establish a new sense of home.

At the same time, there were internal stressors I couldn't see.

I was unaware of the impact midlife would have on my body and, more specifically, my sleep.

Once I finally drifted off and knew the children were safely tucked into their beds, I began waking wide-eyed at 2:37 a.m., unaware that my body was changing and that sleep would remain as elusive as a Costco receipt when you actually need to return something.

Apparently, motherhood was not the final boss of exhaustion.

Midlife said, "Hold my chamomile tea."

The frustrating part is that for years many women blamed themselves. We thought maybe we weren't disciplined enough. Maybe we drank too much caffeine. Maybe we needed a better routine, less stress, more yoga, fewer screens, more magnesium, colder rooms, warmer socks, blackout curtains, white noise, meditation apps, breathing exercises, tart cherry juice, less wine, more wine... honestly, the list became exhausting in itself.

I knew sleep mattered, and I tried almost everything:
a glass of wine (or two), gummies, melatonin, magnesium, strict sleep schedules, calming tea, sleep meditations, avoiding screens, reading before bed.

Sometimes it worked.

Sometimes it absolutely did not.

And when it didn't, I became increasingly frustrated. I quietly wondered what was wrong with me that I couldn't seem to do this very basic human thing correctly anymore.

Sleep.

There is a moment many women experience in midlife that feels impossible to explain unless you've lived it yourself.

A quiet panic.
A heaviness.
A feeling that somehow life is... ending.

You look around and suddenly become aware of time in a way you never have before. Your body changes. Your children grow up. Your parents age. Your marriage may feel unfamiliar. Your career may no longer fit. You begin taking inventory of your life and asking questions you once avoided:

Is this all there is?
Did I become who I wanted to become?
Do I still have time?
What happens now?

For many women, midlife feels like standing at the edge of the unknown. And the unknown is terrifying.

We are confronted by aging, mortality, shifting identities, and the uncomfortable awareness that life is finite. We begin organizing paperwork, worrying about health, thinking about retirement, or feeling urgency around unfinished dreams. We become acutely aware that death will eventually knock on our door.

And yet, strangely, almost no one prepared us for this season.

We educate girls thoroughly about puberty. We prepare women extensively for childbirth and motherhood. Entire industries, bookshelves, and medical systems are devoted to those transitions.

But when it comes to midlife, menopause, and "the change," many women are handed silence.

Little information.
Little research.
Little guidance.
Little regard.

And if you have XX chromosomes, this transition will happen to you.

"Winds in the east, mist coming in. Like something is brewing, and 'bout to begin..."
— Bert, Mary Poppins

I am reminded of one of the scenes from Walt Disney's Mary Poppins, where the children ask how long their beloved nanny will stay with the family. Mary Poppins lovingly responds, "I'll stay until the wind changes."

The wind is changing as we head into midlife.

I believe it is time to call this season Midlife Reimagined.

Because we are not the same women we once were.

For decades many of us stayed in motion with the same goals, the same hustle, the same pace, the same striving, the same desire to hold everything and everyone together. We became caregivers, partners, mothers, professionals, volunteers, helpers, emotional support systems, planners, peacekeepers, and performers.

And then one day we wake up and barely recognize ourselves.

Some women call it burnout.

Some call it hormones.

Some whisper about it quietly to trusted friends because they fear sounding ungrateful, dramatic, or unstable.

But for many people, midlife can feel like a wreckoning.

Not just a reckoning with age, but with identity, exhaustion, expectations, relationships, grief, stress, and the body itself.

You wake up one day feeling unfamiliar to yourself.

The weight has shifted. Your patience is thinner. Your sleep is broken. Your emotions feel closer to the surface. Your career no longer fits the way it once did. The roles that once defined you begin changing.

And somewhere inside is a haunting question:

"When did I lose myself?"

Our current patterns didn’t appear out of nowhere. They are shaped by past experiences, especially those where safety, belonging, or approval felt conditional.

Take the example of growing up as a “Pollyanna.”

Maybe you were the child who stayed positive no matter what. You smoothed things over. You avoided conflict. You learned to focus on the good, even when something didn’t feel right. You may have been praised for being easy, resilient, or mature.

But what happens when that pattern follows you into adulthood?

It can look like:

• Deferring to others’ opinions, even when something feels off

• Avoiding difficult conversations to keep the peace

• Prioritizing others’ comfort over your own truth

• Minimizing your needs or feelings

• Looking for authority figures to tell you what’s “right”

It started simply.

Two strangers, one bench.
The kind of moment that feels almost cinematic - sun warming your skin, a shared appreciation for the view, condensation sliding down a glass of iced tea. Small talk unfolded naturally. The weather. The light. The ease of a quiet, human connection.

And then something shifted.

It wasn’t abrupt. It rarely is.

Opinions started being tossed into the air like a frisbee - casual at first, almost playful. But then they lingered a little longer. Held a little more weight. The tone subtly changed. What had felt light began to feel… humid. Heavy. Thick.

I noticed it in my body before I named it in my mind.

A slight sheen of sweat.
A tightening in my chest.
A subtle urge to retreat, paired with a strange pull to stay.

Because the conversation had moved into territory that mattered.

Values. Beliefs. The invisible frameworks that shape how we see the world.

And suddenly, we weren’t just talking anymore. We were colliding.

A small notification in my car. Tire pressure low.

At first, it did not seem like a big deal. I glanced at the tires, nothing looked flat, so I kept driving. For a week. But every time I started the car, there it was. A beep. A message. A reminder that something needed my attention, something extra I had not planned for.

And that word, extra, is often where the sigh lives.

I have visited the principal’s office more times than I can remember.

The welcoming fish tank. The glass paperweights with swirled colors of blue and red. The strange comfort of watching bubbles rise while your stomach dropped. All of it contrasted with the paddles hung neatly on the wall—one with holes drilled through it so it would whistle on its way to your bum. A sound you never actually heard, but somehow always imagined.

The bookcases were a distraction if you let them be. Rubik’s cubes half-solved. Snow globes from faraway places. Miniature landmarks. Polished rocks. A brass compass. Souvenirs from travels that felt worlds away from your current reality. Proof that this looming authority figure had a life beyond discipline.

And then there was the desk.

I am not here to condemn.

I am here to educate.

To ease the burden of silence.
To invite reflection.
To remind us that human beings were not designed for hierarchy, division, or systems that elevate some while diminishing others. Patriarchy, rigid hierarchies, and power structures that rely on inequality do not lead to flourishing. They lead to harm.

Despite my negative experience with religion, I still claim to be a woman of faith.

And faith, for me, is not a destination. It is a journey.

Journeys are messy. They are rarely direct. They include quicksand and terrifying forests that take the shape of monsters. But they also include sunlight, open fields, and the unexpected beauty of discovering something new about the world and about ourselves.

On my journey, I was taught one particular way of understanding the world. Later, I discovered that some of those teachings hurt more than they helped. That realization required me to do something deeply uncomfortable.

Change my mind.

"Isn't it great? This is exactly what the apostle Paul said would happen. We would be persecuted because we are the true church."

At first glance, that statement can sound faithful or courageous. But when you step back, something more complicated is happening.

In the story from "Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates" by Mary Mapes Dodge, a boy sees a tiny leak in a massive dam and instinctively plugs it with his finger. He stands there all night, terrified that if he lets go, everything will collapse. The town is safe because he never moves.

Now imagine that dam as your emotional system.

The small crack is the first sign of grief, anger, fear, shame, or doubt. Maybe it was not safe to feel those emotions. Maybe expressing them led to conflict, rejection, punishment, or chaos. So you learned to plug the leak.

You held it together.
You stayed strong.
You did not cry.
You did not rage.
You did not need.
You did not fall apart.

When Jayden was thirteen, his world didn’t turn upside down all at once. It shifted gradually, small bit by small bit, like a slow erosion. His mom was rarely angry with him, but she was distant in ways he could never name. She didn’t yell. She didn’t hit. Most days she simply wasn’t there in the ways a parent needed to be — emotionally unavailable during his wins, indifferent when he was hurt, and always ready with a gentle dismissal when he tried to talk about anything that mattered. At first Jayden thought that was normal. He thought maybe she was tired, or that kids just didn’t get to be that close to their parents.

When he was five, his father left. There were a few visits — long car rides and promises of “we’ll do fun stuff this summer” — only for dad to cancel at the last minute each time. “Something came up,” he’d say. “You understand.” Jayden learned to nod and say yes because it hurt less to pretend he understood than to watch the car pull out of the driveway and disappear again. Weeks later he would catch himself whispering into his pillow, Why doesn’t he want me?

She was fourteen when she realized she could rewrite the story.

Not on paper. In her head.

In her version, her parent was tired, not distant. Overwhelmed, not uninterested. Doing the best they could with what they had. In her version, the apology that never came had simply happened offstage, quietly, like a scene that mattered but did not need an audience.

When her parent forgot to come to the school event, she told herself they were working late. When the phone stayed silent for weeks, she said, They are not good at this stuff, but they love me. When a rushed conversation happened once every few months, she stretched it, replayed it, added warmth that was not quite there. She made it mean care. She made it mean effort.

This was not lying. It was surviving.

Scrupulosity can look like:

• Constant mental checking

• Seeking certainty where none exists

• Reassurance seeking

• Fear of motives being wrong

• Confusing anxiety with conviction

• Never feeling settled or enough

And often, from the outside, everything looks fine.

Anxiety is not a flaw. It is a part of you.

All parts of us are good. Anxiety is one of those parts that exists to interpret the world around us and keep us safe. It is a built-in safety guide. A primitive, fast-acting system designed for survival.

Think: Bigfoot in the woods. Think: The smell of gas in your house.

Anxiety scans, detects, and alerts. It shows up in an instant because it has to. Long before language, theology, or logic, our bodies needed a way to say, pay attention or run.

This is where fight, flight, freeze, or fawn live. These are not character traits. They are nervous system responses.

Anxiety is also the most jealous of our emotions. When it senses danger, it does not ask politely for the microphone. It takes over the whole system. Totalitarian, yes, but with one motive: protection.

This year, let gratitude be rooted in truth.
Let kindness include yourself.
Let growth mean you do not have to stay where you no longer belong.

Then take a piece of paper and create two columns:
REPEAT
DISCONTINUE

As you review your calendar, begin sorting.

In the Repeat column, write down events, commitments, and patterns that left you feeling more connected, energized, grounded, or proud of yourself. These might be trips, routines, work projects, relationships, or even quiet practices like walking, reading, or protected rest.

In the Discontinue column, note what drained you, kept you stuck, increased resentment, or consistently compromised your well-being. Some things may have been necessary for a season and are no longer sustainable. Naming that matters.

But what happens when we are not?

Do we judge ourselves for not matching the mood in the room?

Do we silently condemn others for their lack of cheer?

Or do we slide into despair, convinced something is wrong with us because we cannot conjure up joy on command?

This time of year has a way of shining a bright light on the tension between how we think we should feel and the truth of how we actually feel. I often remind my clients, and myself, that authentic positivity is not about pretending. It is about understanding the complexity of being human. Emotions swirl together like a candy cane or one of those refrigerator-sliced cookies.