Now & Then

There’s a quiet space between now and then.
One I didn’t realize existed until I found myself sitting inside it.

Not in silence… but in reflection.

I’ve been looking at my own reflection in the mirror more lately. I do that often. It’s one of the ways I remind myself that the look back is real, that the woman staring back at me didn’t arrive here by accident. There’s evidence in her eyes. Proof in the stillness. A softness that only comes from surviving long enough to choose peace on purpose.

Being on the other side of thirty-five is strange. Not because life suddenly changes overnight, but because the shifts don’t stop. You’d think by now things would settle—but instead, they deepen.

From 30 to 33, there’s an early rising. A preview into your thirties that gently taps you on the shoulder and says, If you’re willing to change this… and maybe let go of that… you could become someone entirely new.

From 33 to 35, you start to settle into the shift. You make adjustments. You take inventory. You look around your life and think, Okay. I can live here. Even if the story doesn’t look the way you imagined, there’s a quiet acceptance that follows. A sense of groundedness.

And then there’s the other side of 35.

The side where your resolve changes. Where the conversations with yourself get shorter but firmer. Where you stop negotiating with misalignment—not because you’re angry, but because you’re tired of explaining what you already understand.

That’s where I am now.

At 37, I’ve swallowed every ounce of pride I once carried—much of it rooted in insecurity disguised as self-protection. I realized that for years I was apologizing for my reactions while excusing the absence of reciprocity. I kept showing up fully while giving others permission to meet me halfway—or not at all.

I stayed quiet. Non-confrontational. Generous with grace. I convinced myself that patience was maturity and that endurance was love.

But endurance without alignment is just self-abandonment.

Somewhere in the space between now and then, I stopped living my life like a storage unit—stacking unresolved feelings in corners, rearranging them just enough to make room for the next season. I realized I wasn’t meant to hold everything. Some things needed to be cleared. Some walls needed to come down. Some rooms needed to be reimagined entirely.

That kind of work is disruptive.

It means deciding what no longer belongs in your inner home. It means letting go of relationships you’ve outgrown… not because they were bad, but because they were no longer honest. It means admitting that history alone is not a reason to stay when misalignment has become the guide.

In this space, I found myself having brave conversations… sometimes aloud, sometimes only within. Saying things like,

Maybe our time has come to an end. And learning that not everyone is meant to come along for the ride.

Some people are meant to walk with you for a season. Others get off at the stop that makes sense for them. They may catch up later—or they may not. And both outcomes are okay.

I’ve always been a glass-half-full kind of woman. I still believe relationships are opportunities to grow together. But I’ve also learned that growth happens at different speeds, and not everyone is committed to the same depth of work.

Growth, like healing.. requires intention and discipline.

It asks for consistency, not convenience. It isn’t loud. It isn’t performative. Most days, it looks like choosing differently when no one is watching.

In my thirties, I’ve learned that self-work isn’t about fixing what’s broken, it’s about learning how to live more honestly inside yourself. About pausing long enough to ask what you need now, not what once kept you safe.

And in the space between now and then, there’s an unspoken permission that continues to meet me where I am:

To try again.
To extend grace.
To choose peace without guilt.
To keep becoming—

starting with myself.