I turned forty in August 2020. This midlife milestone caused a bit of a riptide of self-evaluation. The natural season of personal investigation was paired with the rare living conditions dictated by a global pandemic. The months leading up to my birthday were spent in Covid lockdowns confined to the house with my four children who were supposed to be distance learning. My husband, a school superintendent, was considered essential and spent 3 months in his office.

I was left to my own devices and at the mercy of stir-crazy children. When I was not menacingly coercing my third grader to work on his times tables, I was sitting on the patio in the spring sun meditating on all that was and all that was not. More than anything I found myself in the center of a labyrinth of questions. I’ll be honest, it was rough. The questions were hard and the answers were even harder. Where have I been? Where am I going? What is my life’s work? What am I made of? What expectations can I abandon? Which are valuable? What did a I build? What the hell was the last decade about?

I can’t say for sure if the circumstances made this soul searching better or worse. Perhaps I would have been too busy to do the deep work before Covid arrested the usual rhythm of life. Perhaps the social distance and strain of teaching my kids all day created a peculiar atmosphere of distress that would not have otherwise been the case. It was a unique time to be undertaking self-assessment. While it may be impossible to know absolutely, what I do know for sure is that I had lots of time to think, process, celebrate, and grieve.

I dug through memories like an archeologist, sifting through conversations and events and beliefs. The work was paramount for unearthing the expectations I had absorbed. I dug them up and catalogued them. I purged a great deal because they no longer fit; I had outgrown the definitions of the past. I left behind arbitrary limitations based on gender and errant theology. I dumped boat loads of assumptions about my own capacity. I lit fear on fire. I carried away purpose and vision and rootedness. I broke open goodness. I bathed in the beauty of nuance. 

Through all of that and at some magical point I discovered that I trust myself. I will say it again: I TRUST MYSELF. It took me a while to find I do not need to decide things by consensus or check what I am doing with the actions of the wildly fickle masses. I trust my conscience and my motives. I believe in my own wisdom and the trueness of my compass. I trust that I can decide when duty and obligation to others supersedes my personal needs and when my needs must outshine everyone and everything else. I can be honest with myself about who I am and give equal amounts of correction and grace. I can attend to my own health and sanity without guilt or insecurity. I can do things that are good for me without remorse. I have autonomy and a will. I trust myself to evaluate and assess my own path and my own needs.

My word, this is a glorious space to be in. My head has poked above the fog and it is beautiful up here.