There was a time in my life when everything I thought was solid and permanent crumbled in front of me. I had already faced loss — the passing of my parents and in-laws, the goodbyes to dear friends. But nothing prepared me for the double punch of divorce and financial devastation. I had always been strong, resourceful, and optimistic, but suddenly I was staring at a bank account that was nearly empty and a future that felt like quicksand.
I remember nights when I would sit in the dark, terrified, wondering if I'd ever be able to rebuild, wondering who would ever want to hire a woman in her fifties starting over, and wondering who I was without the titles, the marriage, or the security I had once leaned on.
The shame was crushing. I didn't want anyone to see how badly I was hurting, so I smiled on the outside while silently falling apart on the inside. I had always been the strong one, the encourager, the person others leaned on. But now, I was alone with my doubts, my grief, and my fear.
There were mornings when I could barely get out of bed. It felt like I was trapped in a body that wouldn't move and a mind that couldn't stop spinning. At my lowest point, I questioned whether I had anything left to give or whether my best years were already behind me.
I also struggled with my health during that season. Stress eating became my escape, and the weight crept on. My energy sank. I wasn't just carrying the heaviness of loss and disappointment; I was carrying the physical heaviness of extra pounds and the shame that came with them. That only deepened the spiral. I felt invisible, unworthy, and uncertain of how to climb out of the hole I had dug for myself.
That season could have defined me. It could have been the place where I stopped. But something deep inside — maybe stubbornness, maybe faith, maybe the tiniest spark of hope — refused to let me stay there. And that's when things began to shift.
The first step wasn't a miracle. It was small, almost imperceptible. I reached out to a coach. I admitted that I couldn't do it all alone. That decision changed everything. I began journaling, pouring out the thoughts that kept me awake at night. Over time, those pages became the raw material for what would eventually turn into my first book, Who Am I Now? At the time, I didn't know I was writing a book. I was simply trying to find my way back to myself.
I also discovered personal development on a deeper level. I had studied it before, but now it wasn't theory — it was survival. Authors and teachers like Lou Tice challenged me to rewrite the story I was telling myself about who I was and what I could become. Slowly, I started to believe that my past didn't have to predict my future. I began to envision a life of freedom, purpose, and contribution — even though I had no clue how to get there yet.
Along the way, I found a community. People who were on their own journeys of growth and healing. People who believed in health, in mindset, in possibility. Their energy was contagious. For the first time in years, I felt like I belonged. I said yes to opportunities that scared me, including stepping into network marketing — something I once would have dismissed. I said yes to coaching others, even when my voice shook. And each "yes" became a brick in the foundation of a new life.
Health became another lifeline. I made the decision to lose the extra weight that had crept on during my darkest days. Forty-five pounds came off and stayed off. I wasn't just getting smaller; I was getting stronger, more energized, more confident. I was proving to myself every day that I was capable of transformation.
Daily practices helped me cement this new foundation. I committed to morning routines of gratitude journaling, affirmations, and visualization. Instead of waking up with dread, I trained my mind to begin the day with hope. I surrounded myself with people who lifted me higher instead of dragging me back into old stories. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, I began to notice a shift: my laughter returned, my energy rose, my eyes sparkled again.
That season of rebirth has taken m places I never imagined. Today, I am in my seventies, medication-free, pain-free, and living with more energy than many people decades younger. I've built a thriving business in the health and wellness space, where I get to empower other women to reclaim their health and wealth. I coach business owners on mindset, helping them grow not just their companies but their confidence. I've stood on stages as a professional speaker, sharing my story with people who tell me afterward, "You said exactly what I needed to hear."
But perhaps the most beautiful part of this rebirth came later than I ever expected. At seventy-two, when many would say love and new beginnings are behind you, I attracted my ideal life partner. Our relationship is proof that joy, intimacy, and deep connection are possible at any stage of life. Together, we are building a chapter that feels more meaningful than anything before. He cheers me on in my business, I support him in his passions, and we share adventures that keep us both young at heart. It is, truly, a love story that still takes my breath away.
Looking back, I can see that the very experiences I thought would break me were actually preparing me for this. Divorce, financial devastation, weight struggles, loss — they weren't the end. They were the soil out of which a new me could grow. They forced me to ask the hard question: "Who am I now?" And the answer, I've discovered, is that I am a woman who is still evolving, still growing, still capable of beginning again — no matter my age, no matter the obstacles.
Rebirth, I've learned, isn't a one-time event. It happens again and again in a lifetime, if we're willing to let go of what no longer serves us and step into what's possible. My story is just one example. And if you're in a season of loss or fear or uncertainty, I want you to know - it's not the end. It might just be your beginning.
Today, I have the privilege of helping other women write their own rebirth stories — in health, in wealth, and in life. It is the most rewarding work I could imagine, and proof that the hardest seasons often lead to the most meaningful purpose.
