It's time.
Everyone talks about fresh starts, but for me this one feels heavier—more real. This isn’t just a turn of the calendar. It feels like the beginning of another life, or maybe the first honest one.
Lately, I keep circling the same questions in my mind:
Can you actually shed parts of your story and begin again?
Can the past be hushed if the present is loud enough?
What do you do with the pieces of your life you wish you could just throw away?
In December, I quit my job. The job that finally gave me some security after years of uncertainty. Walking away from that felt reckless and terrifying—and also necessary. Past the surface level issues, I didn’t fully understand why at first. I just knew I couldn’t stay. Do I feel prepared and ready for this? Nope. I feel like a raw, insecure, terrified mess.
Almost ten years have passed since my divorce. I minimize it in my head sometimes, like it shouldn’t still matter. People get divorced every day. But I was married for nearly 35 years. My whole world was wrapped around church, community, family—around us. The marriage was difficult and painful, and the ending was brutal. Infidelity. Public exposure. The quiet disappearance of people I thought would always be there.
When I look back, I see how much pretending I did. Pretending everything was fine. Pretending we were happy. Pretending I was okay. And then one afternoon, the whole thing collapsed.
Even after that, I kept pretending.
I was nearly broke. I lost my home. My children scattered. My life felt completely and literally undone. And still—I told myself I was fine. COVID made hiding easier. Staying home felt safe. Invisible. Acceptable. I didn’t have to explain my absence to anyone.
Then in 2023, something surprising happened. I was offered a pastoral role. I didn’t expect that door to open again, and I was grateful it did. I stepped back in carefully—polishing my words, caring for others, keeping my own heart tucked away. I stayed useful. I stayed small. I worked from the edges, where it felt safer to exist.
I’ve never liked introspection. I’ve spent my whole life running from it. And I think, even in this dream role, I was running again.
As 2025 came to an end, I couldn’t ignore the restlessness anymore. I had to ask myself some hard questions. Was I staying because I was grateful—or because I was afraid? Afraid of starting over. Afraid of being unseen. Afraid that nothing better was waiting for me.
That realization hurt. It felt like a lack of faith. A shrinking of hope. It felt like I was delusional.
Another question kept surfacing: Is life something you endure and adjust to—or can you actually choose it? Can you design it, instead of just surviving it?
So I started imagining. Not going back. Not fixing what was broken. But creating something new.
I made quiet lists, just for myself:
I want relationships that feel mutual.
I want purpose that doesn’t cost me my own soul.
I want joy that surprises me again.
I want to live without fear of being seen.
I want a home that feels like safety—for me and for my family.
I didn’t know how to get there. I just knew I couldn’t stay where I was.
Then my daughter came back from Europe and quickly found a job across the country. And suddenly the choice was right in front of me. Stay—safe, stuck, aching quietly. Or leave. Start over. Trust that God might meet me somewhere unfamiliar.
I chose to leave.
As I write this, the movers have already come. My life is packed into boxes. Loose ends are being tied. Soon we’ll be on the road. I don’t feel brave all the time. Mostly, I feel tender. Exposed. Uncertain.
I know change doesn’t happen just because you want it. I’ve failed enough New Year’s resolutions to know that. One study says it takes about 66 days to form a new habit. That feels like a long time—and also not long at all.
So this year, I’m committing to bravery instead of outcomes. I’ve set a challenge for myself: 52 brave things. One each week. Try. Show up. Fail if necessary. Success isn’t the point. Willingness is.
This feels like an experiment. A risk. A leap. Edmund Hillary is quoted with this sentiment— “It's not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.” That is what I am looking forward to! It might feel scary, but that has to be okay. For the first time in a long while, it also feels honest. No more pretending. So welcome, 2026! Welcome, change. Welcome, joy!
- Connie
