Is this a Pre-Midlife Crisis?
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📺 “Your Friends & Neighbors” on Apple TV+: I’m late to the game on this new series, but after hearing all the buzz, my boyfriend and I are finally giving it a try. I feel like I’m going to instantly love it. From the reviews it almost ‘Wolf of Wall Street’ meets “White Lotus.” In it, Cooper (Jon Hamm) is recently divorced from his wife (Amanda Peet) and has just been fired as a hedge fund manager. Desperate for cash, he begins breaking into his neighbors’ homes to supplement his income by selling off their Patek Philippes, and other luxuries. I especially love the nod to capitalism, and the voyeuristic look into the lives of the ultra-wealthy.
🎧 Lost Notes: Groupies: If ‘Almost Famous’ is as burned into your brain as it is in mine, you’ll love this podcast series, which delves into the lives of the women who worshipped bands, and even shaped music, becoming rock icons themselves.
📺 “Four Seasons” on Netflix: A “watch while you fold laundry” kind of show with an all-star cast that includes Steve Carell and Tina Fey. In it, three sets of couples, who have been friends for decades, gather for vacations across seasons, a lake house, ski trip, eco resort. It’s all very low-stakes, with some relational drama, but its pleasant nature is part of the appeal.
When I turned 35, it didn’t feel like a crisis exactly—but something was definitely cracking open.
I remember blowing out the candles on my birthday cake while, quietly, the rest of my life was catching fire. My marriage was falling apart. My sense of direction had gone foggy. And even though I was starting to feel more at home in my own skin, inside I felt like I was made of rubble.
Around that time, someone asked me, “If I handed you a match, how fast do you think you could burn your life down?”
I didn’t even pause. “Five seconds,” I said. I meant it.
I wasn’t just overwhelmed. I was unraveling. Layer after layer of grief, loss, identity—peeling back all at once. A 13-year relationship (10 of them married) ended. The job I had wrapped myself around started slipping through my fingers. The familiar scaffolding—routine, safety, the version of me I’d been carrying—was coming down, and I didn’t have a blueprint for what came next.
Everyone told me I was brave. Strong. Resilient.
Mostly, I just felt empty. And exhausted. And completely unsure of who I was without all the roles I had built my life around. I walked around my own home like a stranger, quietly panicking and trying to act fine.
There were nights I stared at the ceiling and thought:
What have I done? What now? How do I even begin again?
I couldn’t imagine a life outside of what I’d known. I didn’t feel hopeful. I didn’t feel powerful. I felt like a ghost with a drained bank account and a very expensive therapist. Divorce costs more than anyone tells you. Emotionally and otherwise.
And somewhere deep in the noise was this voice:
They’re going to say I fell apart. That I’m unstable. That I lost it.
And the truth? I did fall apart. But then, slowly, I started choosing not to put the same pieces back.
Not all at once. Not gracefully. But something shifted.
I stopped clinging. I got curious about what might happen if I let the silence stay a little longer. I started rebuilding—not from who I used to be, but from where I actually was. Not polished. Not performing. Just… me, figuring it out.
These days, I care more about comfort than cool. I want a bra that fits, friends who get it, and enough energy to show up for my kids and myself without resentment. SPF is non-negotiable. So is therapy. I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I’ve got good instincts and noise-canceling headphones, and that’ll do for now.
Half my closet doesn’t fit. I live alone part-time. I say no a lot more than I say yes, and I don’t shrink to make anyone more comfortable anymore.
Time feels louder now. I know how fast it moves. How many things I’ve said yes to that drained me. How sacred it is to be surrounded by people who don’t make you feel like too much.
I’m 37 now. I have a three-year-old and a nine-year-old and a knee that occasionally reminds me I’m not 25 anymore. And honestly? I don’t want to be. I don’t miss her.
I like who I am now—more rooted, more honest, less interested in being understood by people who never really listened anyway. I let go faster. I explain myself less. I recover more quickly when things fall apart, because I trust that I’ll know how to begin again.
For the first time in my life, I can say this and mean it:
I’m fully here. I’m fully awake. And I’m not looking back.
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