“Mommy, have you had your midlife crisis?”

That was 2015 and my son was age eleven at the time. I laughed and wondered to myself what had brought on the question.

Truth was, a midlife crisis was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I was busy working full-time, single-parenting my son and his younger brother, getting divorced from their father, and taking care of my elderly parents. Admittedly I didn’t do this all alone – I had a part-time nanny and my parents a live-in caregiver. Plus my sister, providing as much help as she could long distance. But still I was in charge of my three-generation family, feeling overwhelmed and exhausted all the time.

Six years later my life has changed considerably. My husband died unexpectedly of a heart attack before we divorced, leaving me a widow. My father died of cancer 14 months later. My mother moved into a long-term care home. My boys grew into teenagers and became more independent. Worn out, I reduced my work from full-time to part-time. And then from part-time to casual. I craved freedom and flexibility.

With that time to finally breathe and think again, the angst set in. It wasn’t totally unexpected – it had been lurking around the edges for years. But now I had to confront it. My midlife crisis had begun.

My parents had grown up in Europe during the Second World War. Their expectations were drilled into me from a young age: graduate from university, get a professional job that would provide a steady income, marry eventually and have kids. In other words, be “successful.”

They meant well and for a while that formula worked for me. They were never prouder than when I received my master’s degree. I got promoted and earned a higher salary than my father ever had. Their happiest moments were the birth of their two grandsons. I had fulfilled their dream.

Their dream, but not entirely mine. After years of living their version of a successful life, I was increasingly feeling like an imposter. I wanted the freedom to be the authentic me, not the image of me that they had created. …

But letting go of a formula that has “sort of” worked takes a different kind of courage. Navigating the open road ahead has been a leap of faith into the unknown, risking a freefall into the abyss. For I have discovered that one can’t hold on to the old and grasp for the new at the same time. For me at least, it has had to be all or nothing.

Many people who face a similar moment of reckoning struggle with what to do “next”. Fortunately, that hasn’t been my challenge. Instead I had simply subjugated what I’d always wanted to do: be a writer. It had taken me years to figure out what exactly to write about, but parenting my kids and caring for my parents as they aged had revealed my voice. And my social media posts along the way humorously describing the joys and at times despair and frustration of my daily reality had helped me hone my craft. But I also knew that I needed more supports to achieve my dream. I signed up for a writing course, surrounded myself with wonderful new and supportive creative people, and started my own blog. And in the end, I just needed to write. And write. And then write some more.

Letting go of conventional “success” hasn’t been easy. I often hear my parents’ voices whispering in my ear, expressing their disapproval. I feel them looking over my shoulder with disappointment and disbelief. Then there has been the hard reality of taking a huge hit in income. I am also not insensible to the reactions of my successful friends, who have been mystified by, if not actually disdainful of, my choice to change careers from a steady corporate gig to the unpredictable life of a self-employed writer. Being true to yourself comes at a cost.

Along the way there has been qualified success, a lot of hard work, and intermittent self-doubt. The best days are when I write something true and good. The icing on the cake is when I receive positive comments from my readers. In many respects it has been a tougher slog than my parents’ version of success and it continues to be a work in progress, measured one story and one “Like” at a time.

My midlife crisis has been freeing, mostly of the regret of the road otherwise not taken. I can finally truly be me. Non, je ne regrette rien.