The End is Not The End

I stopped measuring my life by what was expected of me. I started measuring my life by what I expected of myself. That bar was high. And it keeps rising higher.

I kept showing up, for myself, for my kids. Living in a stew of grievance and resentment never served me. I was fortunate to learn that early, and fully trust that the only person in my corner was me. I could rely on my lived experience and practice what it taught me. The rest? Noise.

Part of that is because it’s in my nature to go through. Not around, not under, not over, but through. I loathe confrontation; I thrive on reading a situation properly. Nothing gets decided or settled by avoiding it. Or blaming. Or judging. Or shaming. Show up, face the truth, and deal. Own it. All of it.

One lesson was on repeat for the longest time: sometimes a thing doesn’t mean what you thought it did at the start. Goalposts move and point to something entirely different. I’ve chosen to take back control — my sovereignty, my agency — is paramount.

The other part is life. Living it fully. There are a few things I’ve done that have not turned out as planned. Lined up in the order I lived them, they stop looking like a list and start telling one story.

Retirement. Well, technically, I’m on maternity leave, since I never went back to corporate employment after my second child was born – for reference, 1997. My life is fuller now than it was back in the mid-2000s when I was raising them!

I became a life coach to figure out how to single-handedly raise four kids, 12, 13, 15 + 16. I read a lot of Brené Brown in those days. My kids tease that they weren’t raised, they were coached. I’ll take it.

The real estate licence — a divorcée rite of passage. I never used it. I realized I wasn’t built for a business more cut-throat than the grocery career I gave up.

“We want a name we can be proud of, so we’re taking yours.” — Cole. I’d asked them only to anglicize their birth name. They had other ideas. All four changed their names.

Then, the goalpost that moved furthest of all. In August 2020, I lost my partner. I am sad to miss all of our tomorrows and grateful for all the yesterdays — heartbroken and joy-filled that Bill spent what was left of his life with me. I moved to Southampton expecting one thing: a built-in community I already knew. I arrived with one expectation and was handed a completely different life. Instead, I built a genuine and caring community of my own.

The life I was handed keeps unfolding.

The end is not the end.

I stopped waiting for the goalposts to hold still — indeed, I stopped needing them to. I found freedom in the pivot. In the self-trust of knowing there was nothing I couldn’t handle. I’ve already handled so much. The proof is in the past, so resounding that the future can only be bright. This is not Pollyanna-speak; I have the receipts.

The only end will be when I’m dead, and there is no more shit to turn into sunshine.

* Relevance. Ritual. Rebellion. *

Journal prompt: Where have your goalposts moved — where did something stop meaning what it did at the start? The grievance is allowed; the question is what came next. Did you find the pivot and turn that shit into sunshine? What did taking your power back feel like?

Thanks for being here. If this landed, tap the heart, or pass it to someone whose goalposts keep moving and who’s ready to stop waiting for them to hold still. New work follows the moon.