One of the things I’ve been realizing lately is that I’ve lived at least twenty different lives in the past twenty years.
Maybe more.
I’ve been a soldier and a stay-at-home mom. A wine bar owner and a coffee shop owner. A business coach and a writer. A drinker and a sober woman. A flower farmer and a quilter. A marathoner and yoga instructor. A podcaster. A golfer. A person obsessed with productivity. A person who now finds bird-watching genuinely fascinating.
I’ve been the woman with long hair and short hair and very, very little hair.
I’ve had a pixie cut, a perm, professionally straightened hair, extensions, a buzz cut, and hair in every shade imaginable. Red. Black. Brown. Blonde. Platinum. Gray.
I Thought Every Version of Me Was Permanent
And every single time, I thought some version of this:
“This is me now.”
And maybe it was.
For a while.
Then it changed.
And do you know what happened?
It all just kept growing back.
The hair.
The interests.
The confidence.
The dreams.
The willingness to try something new.
I think we’re taught to believe that choosing something is making some grand declaration about who we are forever.
Choose a career.
Choose a major.
Choose a spouse.
Choose a path.
Choose a five-year plan.
Choose your thing.
And then stick with it.
But what if some of us aren’t meant to become one thing?
What If Some of Us Are Meant to Become Many Things?
I spent years wondering if there was something wrong with me because I kept changing.
I’d become deeply interested in something and throw myself into it. Then I’d move toward something else. I’d reinvent myself. Again and again and again.
I thought I was inconsistent.
I thought I lacked discipline.
I thought I needed to figure out who I really was and finally stay there.
Now I’m wondering if I had it backward.
Maybe every version of me was real.
Maybe the business owner was real.
Maybe the woman who drank too much was real.
Maybe the woman who quit drinking was real.
Maybe the woman who loved building businesses was real.
Maybe the woman who now wants to spend the afternoon gardening and then go play nine holes of golf is real too.
Maybe We’re Not Supposed to Arrive
Maybe we’re supposed to keep becoming.
I look back at all the versions of myself with a lot more compassion now.
She wasn’t flaky.
She wasn’t lost.
She wasn’t having an identity crisis every six months.
She was simply becoming the person that season required.
And seasons change.
Gardens change.
Interests change.
We change.
Maybe We’re Supposed to Keep Becoming
The beautiful thing about living twenty lives in twenty years is that you begin collecting evidence.
Evidence that you can survive change.
Evidence that you can start over.
Evidence that you can try something and decide it’s not for you.
Evidence that you can become fascinated with something entirely new at forty-seven that wouldn’t have interested you at twenty-seven.
Evidence that almost nothing is as permanent as we think it is.
I used to think changing my mind meant I didn’t know myself.
Now I think it means I’m paying attention.
Because every version of me has left clues.
The soldier taught me resilience.
The drinker taught me compassion.
The business owner taught me courage.
The sober woman taught me honesty.
The gardener is teaching me patience.
The writer is teaching me attention.
Every season taught me something.
It wasn’t reinvention so much as it was refinement.
And perhaps that’s what becoming yourself actually is.
Not finding one true, fixed identity and remaining there forever.
But giving yourself permission to meet new versions of yourself over and over again.
The internet constantly tells women in midlife:
Find yourself.
I think I have.
Many times.
And I fully intend to keep meeting her.
I’ve lived twenty lives in twenty years.
I’m shooting for twenty more.
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If you’re in the middle of becoming too, I’d love to have you here. Every Monday, I send one honest essay about identity shifts, reinvention, and becoming more yourself. ❤️
