I walked away from everything and everyone I knew after my mother died, just before my fortieth birthday.

For my birthday, I decided to do the most selfish thing possible—since everyone else kept calling me “selfish” anyway.

By that point, I had lost my mother and my brother. My husband had left me. The family and friends I thought I had stepped away because they didn’t want to get involved. They didn’t see how much pain I was carrying.

Only my children seemed to see how hard I worked every single day to take care of everyone else while somehow making enough time to keep myself alive.

Over the years, I stopped giving the man I had built a life with my valuable time and energy because he wanted to spend it doing things I didn’t enjoy. I was never a huge football fan. I sure as hell loved being a football mom, though. I loved watching my kid play and seeing him come off the field saying, “Mom, did you see…?”

Those were the moments that mattered.

The things that truly brought me joy during those years were making my kids smile, teaching them how to accomplish whatever task was in front of them, and creating art.

There were also years filled with hiking and days at the gym that left me feeling amazing simply because I had blood pumping through my veins and could feel my body moving.

I think I’m beginning to remember that person.

Yesterday, I told my friend they had full control over whatever we did. I realized I could confidently allow them to be in charge most days without fear because their idea of a day is walking the bike trail along the beach, stepping into the ocean, pulling out a mat, and doing a yoga flow in some of the most beautiful places we can find.

That sounds like me.

Maybe I have a long road ahead before I completely understand who I am outside of being a mother. At least now I know I can be with someone who sees me and can show me the beauty of the world in a way that touches the same part of me I have been searching for my entire life.

I have spent my life dreaming about walks along the beach.

I have dreamed about having the perfect workout buddy.

I have imagined what life might feel like if I had someone around my age who genuinely enjoyed doing the same things I do—not because they were doing them for me, but because those things brought them joy, too.

Now I just need to get my body moving regularly enough to become healthy enough to live another sixty years.

I still want to inspire other people to share their stories. I want people to talk about what happens when you let go of everything you know and take the leap—because sometimes that leap is difficult in ways no one could possibly imagine until they have taken it themselves.

Sitting in my shoes today, I understand why so many people leave their old lives for a few years and eventually return to whatever life they were originally born into.

Starting over is hard.

But I refuse to remain trapped in the life that was created for me.

I refuse to become numb to the pain of my yesterdays just because numbness might be easier.

Maybe I will bleed heavier when I fall from whatever height I manage to reach.

Maybe I will finally find myself on the path I was built for.

Maybe I’ll wander the earth for the remainder of my days and accomplish absolutely nothing anyone else considers important.

I know one thing for certain:

If my life is filled with walks along the beach, hiking, the gym, window shopping, creating art, and spending my time socializing when I’m not with my best friend or happily alone, my life will be a dream come true.

I want to travel so much.

I don’t know exactly how to make that happen with a cat and a dog. The options exist, but how can I expect to go to India for a month without someone I genuinely trust to keep my babies safe?

And the truth is, I don’t really want to go on that particular adventure alone.

I know an experience like that can change a person. I also know how malleable I can be at times, and there is a part of me that is afraid of leaving as one version of myself and having no idea who will come home.

Maybe that is part of learning my identity, too.

I wish I knew exactly what life had to offer me.

I don’t.

I only know that I have reached a place where the pain of becoming someone new feels less frightening than the pain of continuing to pretend I am someone I’m not—or remaining someone I have already outgrown.

Maybe learning my identity isn’t about finally discovering who I am.

Maybe it’s about giving myself permission to find out.