Letting Go of the Plan: How I Learned to Thrive in the Life I Didn’t Expect

Trying to get it together in your mid-40s but what does that mean?

Dear Reader,

My therapist challenged something I said recently. Well, she always does, but this one stopped my overthinking long enough to hear a record scratch followed by silence.

I said I just had to "figure it out" in terms of my life in general.

"What else do you need to figure out? You're an adult. You're grown. You know who you are and how you are. What else is there?"

Huh. Interesting.

The writer in me challenged that. There’s always something to figure out. Plot twists, character traits, meet-cutes, something! There’s always SOMETHING! That is how I’ve routinely lived my life—figuring it out. The journalist in me calls it answering questions. I always get my questions answered even if I had to wait for said answer. This is a trait that has helped me survive so many years — thinking about things as a story that needed rewriting or fixing.

But life isn’t always a story that needs to be developed, at least not all the time. Sometimes it just needs to be. This is tough and always has been. You might as well tell me the world was flat and we all fall off the edge when it tilts toward the sun.

So, what else was there to figure out?

Nothing? Maybe nothing? Maybe it’s time to just ease into the life I have because the fight for the life I wanted is making me miss it. It’s making me miss this life. So, I took inventory. A life-intory, if you will. I began mentally cataloging the experiences I’ve accumulated: the cross-country moves, the friendships I’ve nurtured, the classes I’ve taught, the experiences that grew me into the woman I am. Each moment felt like a puzzle piece I hadn’t fully appreciated until now. I realized they didn’t add up to the traditional picture of success I had envisioned so long ago, but they created something more personal.

At 46, my life is not unfortunate. And that—THAT—was the shock of my life!

First, for the past couple of MONTHS, I thought I was 47. I actually had to pull out a calculator to figure out that I had, indeed, aged myself by a year. So, there’s that. Second, this was not the life I wanted. In fact, it was the exact life I did NOT want.

• I didn’t want to live at home in my 40s.

• I wanted to be married.

• I wanted children.

• I wanted to be an accomplished writer.

• I wanted to be a columnist or a kept woman.

Only a couple of those things are true. The rest? A matter of perspective.

I live in my childhood home in my 40s, yes. But I lived in three states, writing for newspapers for a chunk of my adult life. While MANY lessons were learned in those dozen or so years, I missed my family. I was alone. Now, I’m lucky to have my mother, to be her caregiver, and to share that responsibility with my sister, who also lives at home. My family is intact, and we move forward together.

I wanted to be married and have children. Nature took care of the children part. Not being able to have children puts things in perspective. Once the grief fades, truely fades, you find places for the love to go. I give writing advice and, sometimes, life advice to college students who are entering adulthood. I have a goddaughter who loves me and is part of my community. My new pet, my puppy, is pampered and spoiled by me. When it comes to marriage, it would have been nice, but it’s only a fraction of an existence. I have friends who root for me. I have peace. I have purpose.

A columnist? I was one for a bit, at The Shreveport Times. It was interesting, though maybe not as glamorous as you’d expect. But being a blogger, podcaster (at one time), and now a Substacker? That’s been way more fun and liberating. And I haven’t fully explored this part of my life yet. This part, I do need to figure out.

Accomplished writer? I’m getting there. I have one book out—a poetry collection. I’m working on my second one and a short story collection (Murakami Challenge, anyone?). I’m getting booked for readings. I’m teaching creative writing classes. And I’m submitting work to magazines. Yeah, I’m a writer, though sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.

What I’m saying is, I have the career AND the family. All of it. I am Frances from Under the Tuscan Sun.

I have the life I asked for. Do I want to do more things like travel more (van life is still in my mind’s eye). Of course I do and it can still happen. And will probably happen. Do I want to write more? Always. (Frankly, I can probably one of the most prolific writers on the planet and it won’t be enough.) And I will write more. And publish more. There’s so much to say!

So, yes, no surprisingly, my therapist was somewhat correct. What else is there to figure out.

Here’s what is left to figure out — to sink into the life I wanted, to see it fully and beautifully, without blinking or hesitating. To open my eyes to world that is mine, all mine, and enjoy it. Finally.

After decades of struggling and surviving, I need to figure out how to enjoy thriving. I’m not sure how to do that. Surviving has become my default—the fixing of a story. Perhaps thriving must be a concept I must define for myself and must be a muscle to grow.

That is what I have left to figure out. But maybe we don’t and we just breathe for awhile.

-Icess