49.

This one feels different.

Not in a “throw me a parade” kind of way, but more like a slow, soul-deep exhale. A settling in.

45 was my grand exit from 20 years of sitting under fluorescent lights in an office. Yes. TWENTY YEARS. 

46 was my year of chasing justice (spoiler alert - I caught it).

47 was part demolition, part resurrection, rebuilding the foundation of my 120-year-old farmhouse and, coincidentally, the foundation of myself after a 25-year relationship that had flatlined. That year, I also figured out how to work for myself without starving (although I did lose a little weight), which is really the dream.

48 was the year I blew out candles living all on my own for the first time in my life. No roommates. No partner. Just me… and celebrated with a night out with my girlfriends, because solitude is great, but so is prosecco, custom artwork, and opportunities to get dolled up in something thrifted. 

Is my life now perfect? Absolutely not. I dated a little, which only confirmed, and **WARNING** I’m stubborn, opinionated, and apparently “a lot” for some men. Well, imagine that... I shrank myself to fit other‘s comfort zones for most of my adult life, and I’m done. Take me as I am or leave me alone…

The house is still mid-project. the loft I envisioned as a guest nook is exactly as I left it two weeks after my ex moved out. The stairs to it are half-covered in stick-on wallpaper from the “maybe this will save my failing relationship” era in 2020, and the “Happy Birthday” banner that’s been in my living room for years? Coming down today. (Yes, it’s been repurposed for every birthday since. Yes, that’s depressing.)

But now the unfinished stuff doesn’t feel like failure. It feels like proof of life.

Proof I’m still building. Still becoming.

For the first time, the mess is mine alone. And I love it. I can leave a project half-done, tools scattered, paintbrush in the sink, and nobody’s in my way. I’ve stopped apologizing to the half-painted walls that have stared me down for five years. They’ll get finished before I turn 50. Probably.

Honestly, they’re a little like me….in progress, but still standing.

This past year, I learned the difference between being alone and being lonely. I was lonelier sharing a roof with the wrong person than I’ve ever been out here by myself. The farm keeps me busy, but also offers quiet when I crave it.

The kind of quiet you choose for yourself. That’s freedom.

I’ve cried plenty this last year, often in that strange spot where joy and grief overlap. I briefly thought about getting a roommate for the extra income, but realized what I really needed was clarity. And thanks to my business, I can afford to keep this place on my own.

It’s not luxury living by any means, but neither am I. I’ve got my ol’ ’77 Ford truck my ex never cared to ride in (his loss), my practical Nissan, and my John Deere S180, which has had more action than my dating life. Priorities.

People assume it’s hard to maintain nine acres alone. It is, but those people underestimate my stubborn streak. I’ve been mowing, weedeating, and wrangling this land solo since day one. The hum of the engine, the smell of gasoline, the world muted under ear protection… that’s my meditation.

I’ve tightened my business schedule, streamlined my dog hikes, and now I’m home most days by lunch. That slower pace is real wealth. The kind where you can drink poolside several days a week ;) I’ve spent more time in a swimsuit this year than I have in the last two decades combined. I actually have tan lines for the first time in decades.

So here I am, almost 49.

A few more lines, a lot more backbone, and deeply, unapologetically me.

I know what I want… to nurture my friendships, protect my peace, and enjoy my independence without ever shrinking for someone else’s comfort.

This year isn’t about reinventing myself.

It’s about finishing what I started.

Letting the gears catch.

Letting things be easy where they used to be hard.

I’m not chasing transformation.

I’m living in it.

Because the real milestone isn’t the number.

It’s waking up here.

On this land.

In this body.

With this peace.

And it feels damn good.

xo

-s