There’s something no one tells you about personal growth: it often feels downright awful. Whether you’re facing a move, a career shift, an empty nest, the end of a relationship, or even a newfound purpose—you might feel like you’re falling apart. And in many ways, you are… just not in the way you think.
You’re not breaking down—you’re breaking through. And having experienced an incredibly stressful past few months which completely is a first world problem compared to what others are experiencing around the world today, I’ve learned a thing…or two.
Like a snake shedding its skin or a butterfly clawing its way out of a cocoon, transformation isn’t meant to be neat or comfortable. It’s itchy. Awkward. Anxiety ridden. And sometimes painful. But it’s also the clearest sign that you’re outgrowing something—and making space for something new.
This past year has been one big, emotional pivot. After years of living in a great family oriented area where I knew most of my neighbors, we made the bold and very risky decision (in a terrible real estate market) to move. A new town, a new rhythm, a new way of life. Sounds exciting on paper, right? And it is—on the days when I can feel the possibilities. But on other days? It feels like I’ve pulled the rug out from under myself.
Moving isn’t just about packing boxes—it’s about unpacking a version of yourself that you didn’t know you were leaving behind.
There’s a grief that comes with saying goodbye to the familiar, even if the new place holds promise—it’s been emotional and deeply internal and soon…it’ll be between who I was and who I will be becoming.
Adding to this shift is seeing our daughters spreading their wings and growing into their own stories. But I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t going to be a quiet ache left behind in the wake of their independence. There’ll be fewer shoes by the door, fewer spontaneous kitchen chats, and fewer reminders of the beautiful chaos that once filled every room.
And in the midst of all of these changes, I’ve had to make one of the hardest decisions as a writer: putting my third book on hold. I haven’t had the emotional bandwidth to give my characters the care and energy they deserve. Life has simply demanded too much of me elsewhere. And I’ve had to honor that.
It’s a strange thing, to pause something that feeds your soul in order to survive the soul shift happening in your own life. But I’ve come to realize that just because something is paused doesn’t mean it’s lost. That novel is still waiting for me. And when I return to it, I’ll bring even more depth, more heart, more lived experience. And honestly? That brings me comfort. Knowing that my creative spark will still be there, quietly glowing under the surface, is sometimes the very thing that gets me through the harder days.
The tough part of change is the in-between—the limbo where the old life has ended, but the new one hasn’t quite taken shape. You might feel like you’re standing in a hallway with all the doors shut. You can’t go back, but you’re not sure how—or where—to move forward.
So if you’re in a season of change—whether you’ve chosen it or it’s chosen you—please hear this: it’s okay if it doesn’t feel good right now. Growth rarely comes with a spa soundtrack and cucumber water. Sometimes, it sounds more like ugly crying in your car, or staring out the window wondering what your purpose is now.
Be kind to yourself. Let yourself grieve the life that was. Give yourself permission to rest, to not have it all figured out. And trust that the unsettled feeling you have is not failure—it’s transformation.
At this point in life, I’m sure many of us know more about reinvention than anyone gives us credit for. We’ve reinvented ourselves as mothers, partners, professionals, caretakers, creators. We’ve pivoted more times than a startup. And every time, we’ve come out a little wiser, a little stronger, and a whole lot more ourselves.
So yes, it’s uncomfortable. And yes, it’s okay to miss what was. But also—how exciting to think about what could be on the other side of this.
I may not have all the answers right now. Our new house may not feel like home for a while. My book may be waiting patiently on the backburner. But I’m learning to be okay with that. Because shedding your old skin isn’t weakness—it’s bravery. And it’s leading me, and maybe you too, toward a new version of life that we haven’t even imagined yet.
And who knows? That might just be the best chapter yet!
