Welcome to my reinvention story—or rather, ONE of my reinvention stories. Because aren’t women constantly reinventing themselves? We’re resilient because we’ve learned the hard way, which is to say, by doing the work. By the time we reach peri-menopause and menopause, we’re more than tired. We’re hot and bothered, which is to say, mad as hell.
That’s what this newsletter aims to be about: authentic stories by and for reinventing, resilient, and REBELLIOUS women.
I am writing a memoir about my midlife reinvention. After what feels like 1,000 shitty first drafts, my enthusiasm for the narrator (me) and my belief in the writer (also me) has ebbed and flowed. Right now, it’s flowing!
For the next handful of weeks, while I focus on finishing my book (really!), I’ll be serving up my favorites from the AMID LIFE archive—mostly early attempts from the book. I hope you will continue your support with a like or a share, and maybe …
Stay alert for exciting news when I return in the fall, including CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS to the Moments of Change series, and a website glow-up.
I’m so excited to show you the AFTER!! In the meantime, enjoy the BEFORE.
The following essay was first published in October 2023.
I thought the Life Wizard I interviewed was a bit too woo-woo for me when she said, “You already know your path; you just haven’t seen it yet.” I hired her anyway.
In hindsight, I realized she was right.
Our roadmaps are a grand cartography plotted since birth. Multi-colored pins mark the circumstances into which we are born, the relationships that lift us up or hold us down, moments of inexplicable wonder, and soul-shifting trauma—all dots waiting to be connected.
Like Vermont, in my case. I had no history with the brave little state other than an abiding love for Ben & Jerry. Yet, here I am.
It’s not random. Not luck or serendipity. As
mused, “All my choices that led me to the here and now were intentional and I have no regrets.” Paige affirmed what I’d long wanted to believe.The map may already be drawn for us, but we determine the route and the destination with every choice we make.
You see, I chose Felix, and because of Felix, I found Vermont. Would I have come on my own? No way to know, but I am sure of this. I made my way here, and I chose to stay.
In our early years, Felix and I drove to Vermont nearly every weekend, toting mountain bikes or skis. Still wound up from the workweek and our city commutes, we would thread through traffic just as motivated as we were to get away for a while.
“Masshole!” We cursed the red-plate drivers who cut us off on I-93. “Yankees suck!” we shouted at New Yorkers (as Red Sox fans do) when they clipped by us at speeds more suited to the nearby Nascar track.
Then, just south of Exit 32, the massive granite shoulders of Franconia Notch would appear. The last flat-landers (what we call anyone not from the mountainous regions of Maine, New Hampshire, or Vermont) peeled off toward their slopeside-lakeside condos while Felix and I continued northbound—we had the road to ourselves.
We drove a little slower, breathed a lot slower, and turned off the radio news as the road narrowed to two lanes threading through the White Mountain National Forrest. One time, driving into the notch toward Cannon Mountain Ski Resort, where the summit-tram-house light shone bright and steady, I insisted that light was the North Star.
I remember seeing the highway sign welcoming drivers to the Green Mountain State for the first time. I felt a strong sense of déjà vu—no, it was more like a homecoming. A few minutes later, when we passed the exit for Route 2 in St. Johnsbury, I returned to the backseat of my grandfather’s car.
We must have taken Route 2 on drives to visit our cousins. It’s still the main east-west highway between Maine and New York. The hills and valleys were every shade of green and gold and red. Shredded wheat haybales dotted fresh-mown fields.
At six or seven, I would have held Softy, my special pillow, close to my cheek, watching rambling white farmhouses, maple trees, and sugar houses roll by.
Forty years later, I saw it again so clearly. When we turned off the exit, past the black and white cows and the tall yellow Victorian with the red barns and white picket fences, I remember thinking, I want to live here someday
What I wish I’d known
For most of my life, I thought there were “right” paths everyone should follow. I tried several routes along all kinds of roads—steep, rocky, scenic, or paved with fool’s gold. I felt like a failure when everyone else seemed to be enjoying the ride and I was getting motion-sick. I felt like a failure when the road got too rough to continue. I was lost and at a dead-end.
It never occurred to me that I could build my own road.
Maps serve many purposes: celestial, nautical, geographic, weather—treasure! They place us in context with the world. The poet Joy Harjo points out that the oldest known map, the Imago Mundi, describes one region as “the winged bird ends not his flight.” Other spots on the map read “the light is brighter than that of sunset or stars,” and “where a horned bull lives and attacks the newcomer.”
Draw a map of your life with words. Maybe you are a traveler. Maybe you are the destination. Maybe you are a buried treasure.
Take a deep breath and write.
Catherine
Work hard. Be brave. Believe.
Connecting dots, making memoir myself right now. This landed at just the right moment. Waving from my desk to yours.
Love your story or discovery and ending up where you are. Thanks for the shout out! :)