It hit me the other morning. I was sipping my coffee—Oscar had already brought it to me in bed like he always does—and I realized… the house was quiet. Not just quiet quiet, but peaceful. No one arguing downstairs. No one stomping around. No doors slamming or text messages full of guilt trips. Just the soft hum of the refrigerator, the dogs curled up by my side, and the tiniest thought whispered through my mind: Is this what peace feels like?
And then came the weird part: I didn’t quite know what to do with it.
For most of my life, chaos has been my normal. There was always something to fix, someone to help, someone to apologize for. I was the referee, the emotional shock absorber, the one who “handled it.” I knew how to function in a storm—but the calm? The calm felt almost… suspicious.
When you’re used to living in fight-or-flight mode, peace can actually feel uncomfortable. Like something must be wrong, because nothing’s wrong. You catch yourself waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You start to wonder, If I’m not fixing, fighting, or surviving—who even am I?
And that, my friends, is the juicy part of starting over at 47. It’s not just about leaving people or situations behind—it’s about figuring out who you are when you’re no longer in survival mode.
I’ve had to sit with questions that I never really had time to ask before.
What do I actually like to do on a Sunday morning?
Do I even want to talk to certain people anymore, or was I just used to the drama they brought?
What does my voice sound like when I’m not using it to defend myself?
The truth is, chaos gave me a role. It made me feel needed, even when it was breaking me down. It gave me excuses, too—excuses not to dream bigger, or rest, or listen to that little voice inside that was begging for a softer life.
But here’s what I’m discovering now:
Peace is not boring. It’s not a downgrade.
It’s a blank canvas. And honey, I finally have the brush in my hand.
I’ve started doing things that are just for me. Like rearranging the furniture upstairs the way I want it. Sitting outside with Oscar and the dogs, just watching the trees sway. Listening to music I love without worrying if someone else will complain about the volume or the genre or the band name.
I’ve even had moments—little slivers of time—where I caught myself smiling for no reason at all. No chaos. No high-stakes crisis. Just joy. Quiet, steady joy.
Don’t get me wrong, the chaos doesn’t disappear overnight. Sometimes it creeps back in through memories, through a phone call I wasn’t expecting, or through a moment of self-doubt.
But now, I notice it. I can name it. And I get to choose whether or not I invite it in.
That’s the magic of this new chapter.
I’m not just surviving anymore. I’m choosing. I’m creating.
I’m becoming someone I haven’t met before—but I think I’m really going to like her.
So if you’re starting over too, and you’re wondering why the quiet feels weird—give it time. Let yourself get to know the version of you that isn’t in constant crisis. Let her stretch her legs. Let her breathe.
She’s been waiting for this. And trust me, she’s got some really beautiful things to say.
Love,
Aunty Christine 🫶🏻💜🤟🏻
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