Coming Home to Myself: A New Chapter at 67

At the age of 67, I’ve experienced something this past week that I haven’t truly known for over three decades—freedom. Not just the kind that comes with age, wisdom, or a quiet house, but the kind of raw, radiant freedom that blooms from surviving years of control and finally stepping into the light.

For the first time in 32 years, I had family over… without him. There was no tension hanging in the air, no walking on eggshells, no scanning expressions for signs of irritation or disapproval. Just pure, beautiful laughter. Genuine connection. A week full of love, joy, hugs, and heartfelt conversations. No fear. No need to explain myself. No one questioning why I was happy or who I chose to spend time with.

And perhaps most beautifully—no one controlling me.

After all those years, this simple truth feels like the most extraordinary luxury:
I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, with whomever I choose.

That sentence alone could make me cry—not from sadness, but from a deep well of gratitude and relief. I had forgotten what it felt like to be spontaneous. To say “yes” to life without hesitation or needing someone else’s permission. To cook what I love, play music that makes me dance in the kitchen, stay up late laughing, or simply rest without guilt.

This past week, I reconnected with the woman I used to be 33 years ago. She’s still here—she never left, not really. She was buried under years of control, manipulation, and emotional survival, but she’s rising now. A little wiser, a little older, but still vibrant. Still kind. Still fun. And stronger than ever.

To anyone reading this who’s still in the storm: please know, it is possible to come out the other side. I won’t lie and say the road here was easy. Healing is messy. It took courage, therapy, soul-searching, and a painful unraveling of old lies I had come to believe about myself. But once you get a taste of your own power, your own peace—there’s no turning back.

Being surrounded by family who see me, love me, and support me—not because they have to, but because they want to—has reminded me of what life should feel like. And what I deserve.

At 67, I’m not winding down—I’m reawakening. I’m planning things for me. I’ve got dreams, travels, friendships, and quiet moments ahead that are mine and mine alone. I’m no longer living someone else’s version of my life. I’m living mine.

So here’s to this new chapter—of freedom, of laughter, of reclaiming joy.

And to every woman who’s ever felt trapped or invisible: you are never too old, too late, or too lost to come home to yourself.

I did. And it’s glorious.