Going Home

A reflection on roots, return, and the woman I’ve become

I’m writing to you from New York, the place where it all began.
The air feels different here. The rhythm of the streets, the smell of pizza and rain, the sound of voices that carry both warmth and edge. It’s all so familiar… and yet, I am not the same woman who left decades ago.

Returning home is always layered.
It stirs memories and awakens the ghosts of dreams that never manifested.
It calls forward the girl I once was, the one with big, wild hopes, and invites me to meet her with tenderness rather than regret.

These days, I feel grounded in who I am, at peace with who I’ve become.
And yet, when I come back here, old judgments rise to the surface like echoes from another life:
You never had children.
You’re single.
You’ll grow old alone.

I hear those voices, some spoken, some implied, and for a flicker of a moment, they land.
But then I see more clearly.
I catch glimpses of the people behind those words, still caught in old identities, confined by roles that once gave them purpose but now feel like cages.
They’ve built lives that look full, yet their eyes tell stories of longing.

I don’t say this from a place of superiority or judgment, only awareness.
Because I, too, have known what it means to feel stuck.
To live inside a version of myself that had quietly expired.
But life, in her mercy, always gives us chances to wake up, to shake ourselves out of the trance and start again.

Not having a husband or children gave me something precious: freedom.
The freedom to follow my own rhythm.
To reinvent myself again and again.
To devote my life to healing, creativity, and community, to live guided not by obligation, but by soul.

And still, I hold reverence for the path I didn’t take.
I can only imagine how much courage it takes to mother children, nurture a partnership, and still carve space for one’s own becoming.
Each path, whether solitary or shared, is its own sacred initiation.

When I walk these New York streets now, I feel the convergence of all my selves,
the girl who longed to be seen,
the woman who left seeking her voice,
and the one who has finally come home to herself.

This, too, is midlife’s gift:
to witness the distance between who we were and who we are,
and to bow in gratitude for both.

Perimenopause mirrors this process so exquisitely. It’s not just a hormonal shift, it’s a soul recalibration. A stripping away of false identities and external validation until only truth remains. It’s a homecoming to the bones of who we are, unadorned, wise, wild, alive.

This Thursday, November 13th at 6pm PST, I’ll be hosting a FREE virtual circle for women in perimenopause a sacred space to breathe, reflect, and return home to yourself.

If you’re navigating this in-between place - the ache of endings and the birth of beginnings - you’re not alone.

✨ Click here to register and join us

We’ll gather in community, share stories, and remember together that this chapter isn’t an ending….it’s an awakening.

Come home to yourself, sister.
You belong here.