The Forty Files

In Bridgerton, one of my favorite book series and, obviously, Netflix series (Shonda, call me), Lady Whistledown addresses her readers as “the dearest, gentle reader.”

For me, I will begin this by saying: my fellow soul sharers.

Because if you read my blog, or any of my work, I have a feeling you are a soulful person. Someone who understands that vulnerability is at the core of connection and communication. Someone who is willing to say the thing that is true, even when the truth is messy or inconvenient or still unfolding.

And I think, if you’re reading this, perhaps yours is, too.

So I’ll begin by saying this: my return to work was anticipated, celebrated, shared, and, now, if I am being truly honest, ending.

It didn’t work out.

There will be time and a place for me to explain why. There will be a version of this story that I can tell with more distance, more perspective, perhaps even a little humor. But for now, let me simply say that I am doing something I have spent a lot of my life encouraging other people to do:

I am listening to myself.

And I am reminded, once again, that an intuitive response can be one of the most ethical responses we have.

Not because intuition is always right. Not because every uncomfortable feeling is a sign that we should run for the hills. And certainly not because leaving something is easier than staying.

But because there is a particular kind of knowing that happens quietly.

It lives somewhere beneath the spreadsheets and pros-and-cons lists. Beneath the shoulds. Beneath the guilt. Beneath the very convincing voice that says, “You just started. Give it more time. Be grateful. Make it work.”

Sometimes your body knows before your brain is ready to admit it.

Sometimes the most responsible thing you can do is stop trying to convince yourself that something is right when, deep down, you know it isn’t.

And maybe that is what this season is asking of me.

Not to prove that I can do it.

I already know I can.

Not to prove that I can return to the workforce after eleven years away.

I did.

Not to prove that I can be a professional, a mother, a wife, a writer, a person with a calendar full of commitments and a heart full of people I love.

I am all of those things.

Maybe this is simply about learning that resilience does not always look like staying.

Sometimes resilience looks like saying, “This isn’t working for me,” and trusting yourself enough to do something about it.

Which is both terrifying and, strangely, liberating.

So, my fellow soul sharers, here I am again.

A little bruised. A little wiser. Still figuring it out.

Still writing.

Still listening.

And, apparently, still very much in the business of becoming.