Mazal Tov. It's an idea!

I spent too much of my life frustrated and embarrassed that my skill set didn't seem to neatly fit in. I believe that we have the power of self authorship, and that a great player creates a new game that favors their strengths and avoids their weaknesses. That’s what I’m doing. That’s what I invite you to do.

Midlife. A word that, much like “taxes” or “jury duty,” carries a sense of dread, even if it’s inevitable. Shakespeare, in his infinite wisdom, sketched the arc of life, with bookends mirroring each other. We begin helpless, and, in the end, we return to that helpless state. But what about the middle? What about the deconstruction that occurs when systems which had held in place break down, and we must be brave enough to shed an old skin? What Brene Brown refers to as a death?

Seventeen years ago, I found myself in a small hospital waiting room in Jerusalem, gasping between violent contractions. My second son was on his way, and he wasn’t waiting for anyone, least of all me. The contractions came hard and fast, relentless, making the epidural a distant fantasy. In the grip of pain and panic, I made a solemn declaration to my husband between gasps: "I’m sorry I’m leaving you with two infants."

It felt like death. Not the poetic, softly lit kind that the Victorians were so fond of, but the raw, terrifying version. It was all-consuming. In that moment, I believed that this was it—my own personal Shakespearean tragedy. I hadn’t ever experienced this pain and had no frame of reference.

But then, as if on cue, the doctor popped her head in, took one look at me, and with casual confidence said, "Looks like you’re doing great. Other people need me. I’ll be back in two minutes to wish you Mazal Tov." 🩺

And she was right. Two minutes later, there I was, holding a chubby newborn and feeling the kind of relief that’s almost hallucinogenic. What I’d thought was the end was, in fact, the beginning.

Here’s the thing: we mistake pain, loss of control, and helplessness for a downward spiral. But those feelings can also be the birth pains of something new. Midlife, with all its unraveling, is part of this process. You’re not dying; you’re birthing. Beginnings are bloody. Chrysalises and snake skins and shedding are nothing that I invented. Beginnings are ongoing.

I don’t know how this manifests for everyone, but I do know that there’s intrinsic wisdom inside each of us. We all hold a map within, guiding us through these uncharted territories. But maps are tricky things—they’re only as good as the context you have to read them. The body may know how to birth, but it sure helps to have a calm woman who has seen it before give you a calm nod and let you know that what feels like disaster is in fact creation. That’s where outside perspectives come in. Reality checks matter. Friends who love you enough to tell you when you’re reading the map upside down matter. 🗺️

The way to get through midlife and the unraveling that comes with it is to restructure your life with guides who you trust. Friends who want to see you read your own map, who will cheer you on when you’re on the right path, and gently (or not so gently) course-correct you when you’re not. Friends who aren’t afraid of the unseemly, who will sit with you in the mess and still see the potential. When I lost my job in my twenties, a friend came over with two bacardi breezers. And we set on my kitchen floor. She didn’t say anything. But I’ll never forget her not running away. I thought it was a crises. She showed me it was less scary to the outside observer.

So, if you find yourself in the thick of it, believing, as I did, that you’re on your way out, remember this: it might just be the start of a new chapter. And if a doctor pokes their head in to tell you that you’re doing great, believe them. They might see which way is north for you.