I Thought Reinvention Was Something You Did Once

For a long time, I thought reinvention was something you did when life forced your hand.

You lost the job.The children grew up.You retired.A relationship ended.Your health changed.Something you had counted on disappeared.

Life closed a door, and after some amount of grieving, complaining, resisting and perhaps eating things you shouldn’t, you eventually found another door.

That was reinvention.

At least, that’s what I thought.

I’m not so sure anymore.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately because I’ve spent much of the past several months working on something called The Bloom Again Method, a course I’m creating for women navigating the second half of life.

And somewhere along the way, something rather funny happened.

The woman creating a course about reinvention realized she’s still reinventing herself.

Apparently, there is no graduation ceremony.

I Thought I Had Already Done This

I spent roughly 30 years in the corporate world, much of it in information technology and product development.

That was a significant part of my identity.

Then, at 58, I lost my job.

If you’ve ever had a career end before you were ready for it to end, you know that you don’t simply lose a paycheck.

You lose your routines. Your title. Your colleagues. Your place in the machinery. You lose that little answer we give when someone asks, “So, what do you do?”

For a while, you may even lose some understanding of who you are.

Eventually, I built something entirely different.

I became an artisan chocolatier.

Talk about a plot twist.

I went from corporate meetings, project plans and technology to tempering chocolate, developing recipes and building Chocolate for the Spirit.

I ran that business for about 12 years.

Surely that was my reinvention.

Except eventually that chapter ended, too.

Then came writing.

Then books.

Then Bloom Again.

And now I find myself at 73, sitting at a computer learning new technology, recording lessons, editing video, figuring out online course software, working with artificial intelligence, writing, creating and occasionally wondering why on earth something that worked perfectly yesterday has decided not to work today.

So much for arriving.

Maybe We Never Arrive

I think that’s one of the things I’ve misunderstood about life.

We talk about finding ourselves as though somewhere out there is a completed version of us waiting to be discovered.

Find your purpose.

Find your passion.

Find yourself.

And once you find it—congratulations! You’re done.

But what if that’s not how it works?

What if a meaningful life isn’t about finding the one thing we’re supposed to be?

What if we’re allowed to keep changing?

That’s a particularly important question for women in the second half of life.

For decades, many of us organized our lives around responsibilities.

Careers. Children. Partners. Parents. Mortgages. Deadlines. Appointments. Other people’s needs.

We became very good at doing what needed to be done.

Then something changes.

And suddenly there is this unfamiliar person asking a surprisingly difficult question:

What do I want now?

Not what should I want.

Not what would be practical.

Not what would impress somebody.

Not what does everybody expect me to do at my age.

Just:

What do I want now?

I don’t think we ask ourselves that question nearly enough.

You Don’t Need a Five-Year Plan

Here’s another thing I’m learning.

We have made purpose much too intimidating.

We think the next chapter needs to arrive with a mission statement, a business plan and perhaps dramatic background music.

It doesn’t.

Sometimes the next chapter begins because something catches your attention.

You take a class.

You visit somewhere you’ve never been.

You start painting again.

You volunteer.

You rearrange a room.

You start walking.

You learn something new.

You call someone.

You finally stop doing something you’ve hated doing for years.

You become curious.

That’s enough.

You don’t have to know where it leads.

In fact, one of the ideas at the heart of the work I’m creating now is beautifully simple:

Notice. Imagine. Bloom.

Notice what is happening in your life.

Notice what gives you energy and what drains it.

Notice what you’ve outgrown.

Notice what keeps tugging at you.

Then imagine.

Not What should the rest of my life look like?

That’s an awfully big assignment.

Instead:

What could be different?

What would I like to try?

What might feel interesting again?

And then bloom—not as some perfect final version of yourself, but by taking a step toward whatever you’ve imagined.

Then, eventually, you notice again.

And the whole process begins anew.

At 73, I’m Still Asking

I find this strangely comforting.

Because I don’t have everything figured out.

At 73, I still wonder what comes next.

I still have ideas that work and ideas that don’t.

I still get excited about something new.

I still change my mind.

I still discover things I thought mattered that don’t matter nearly as much anymore—and things I barely noticed before that suddenly matter enormously.

I’m still learning.

I’m still experimenting.

I’m still asking questions.

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe growing older doesn’t have to mean slowly narrowing our lives until we’re left with a comfortable little collection of things we already know.

Maybe it can also mean having enough experience to finally understand that we’re allowed to change the plan.

Again.

And again.

And again.

So Here’s My Question for You

Maybe you’re in a transition right now.

Or maybe nothing dramatic has happened at all.

Maybe life is perfectly fine.

But there’s a little restlessness you can’t quite explain.

Instead of asking:

“What am I going to do with the rest of my life?”

I’d like to offer you a smaller question.

What wants my attention now?

A curiosity?

A relationship?

Something you’ve neglected?

Something you’ve always wanted to learn?

Something you’re ready to stop doing?

A part of yourself that has been waiting patiently for you to notice her?

You don’t need to know what it means.

You don’t need to know where it leads.

Just notice.

Because I’m beginning to believe reinvention isn’t an emergency response to a life that has gone wrong.

It’s part of a life that is still being lived.

And apparently, we’re never quite finished.

I’m very glad about that.

Thank you for reading Julie’s Journal.

There are countless things competing for our attention every day, so I never take it for granted when you spend a few minutes of yours here with me. Thank you for reading, thinking, responding and continuing these conversations with me.

And if today’s Journal made you think of someone—a friend, sister, colleague, neighbor or another person wondering what might come next—please share it. Sometimes one question arriving at exactly the right moment can open a door.

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Until next time,

Julie Bolejack, MBA

The Mindful Activist

Notice. Imagine. Bloom.

P.S. Ever wonder why I put MBA after my name? Stay tuned and I’m going to explain that next week.