A Life That Fell Apart at 50

For a long time, I didn’t think my story was interesting enough to write down. I mean, who wants to read about a woman who had a perfectly good life that fell apart, and then got better than she could ever imagine?

Turns out, a lot of people.

But I didn’t know that yet. What I knew was that I was 50, newly divorced, and terrified about what came next. I didn’t have a plan. I just had a feeling that something needed to change, and that I was the only one who could change it.

Starting Over in Midlife

Starting over in midlife wasn’t something I planned. I slowly started to reinvent myself.

That’s when I started my blog. It kept me sane. I’m no literary great— I just needed somewhere to put my thoughts. And honestly? I was nervous about making a complete idiot of myself. But I kept going. I’m still not entirely sure why. Maybe I thought if even one sentence helped someone out there, then it was worth it. Turns out that’s reason enough.

I moved back to the city, which sounds simple but was an enormous change. But I was home, where life felt better, more like me. I got a part-time job, not because I needed to, but because I needed a reason to get up and somewhere to be.

Dating Again in Midlife

And then, something I never saw coming, I met someone.

Just when I had given up trying to find anyone. Dating in midlife is its own story entirely. After 30 years with one person, you forget who you are outside of that relationship. You don’t even know what you want anymore, let alone how to find it.

But there he was.

And yet it wasn’t love at first sight. It took me a while to love again. All the pieces were there— I just didn’t know how to be loved by someone else.

Paris Was Calling

And then COVID happened. But once the world opened up again, we made up for lost time. France, England, Italy, Mexico— we conquered them all.

And somewhere along the way, we both fell in love with Paris. Perhaps me more than anyone. Paris was calling me. Not just for two weeks, but to actually live there.

Writing My Memoir in Paris

I had started writing my memoir long before Paris—it had been living inside of me for years. But it was Paris that finally gave me the space, inspiration and the courage to finish it. And when I typed the last word? We celebrated at the Hemingway Bar at the Ritz. Because if you’re going to finish your memoir in Paris, that’s exactly where you should raise a glass.

Why Starting Over Matters

So why did I decide my story was worth telling?

Because it’s real.

Because starting over is terrifying and exhilarating and messy and beautiful all at once. Because nobody talks honestly about what reinvention actually looks like—the fear, the doubt, the unexpected joy, the person you become on the other side.

I’m just a woman who had a life that fell apart and got better than she ever imagined.

And if one sentence in my memoir makes you feel less alone, makes you think maybe your story is worth telling too, then every word was worth it.

The memoir is coming, just as soon as I find an agent brave enough to take me on.

Stay tuned!