2026 has started with a bang… I turned 45.
And somewhere between raising children, leading teams, rebuilding a life, and finding myself again, I realized something important: I’ve learned things worth saying out loud.
Not because I have it all figured out but because I’ve lived enough to stop pretending I do.
The season that shaped me most was becoming a mother. Motherhood didn’t just change my life; it changed me. When I first became a mom, I believed I was weak. I wanted children desperately, but I didn’t believe I was strong enough to do it well. What I learned slowly, painfully, beautifully, is that being a good mom is hard work. It will break your heart and build it back stronger than you ever imagined.
Motherhood is rewarding, terrifying, and heartbreaking all at once. You’ll have sleepless nights. You’ll question yourself. You’ll wonder if God made a mistake choosing you. But He didn’t. The process is the point. And before you know it, your children are grown, making choices you never imagined, and your job shifts from protecting them to loving them through the good, the bad, and the unthinkable.
One of the hardest lessons no one prepared me for was this: Your children will become adults and make decisions beyond your control. Decisions that don’t reflect how they were raised. That doesn’t mean you failed. It means they are their own people exactly as God intended. They were never meant to be clones of you.
For a long time, I confused endurance with strength. I stayed. I pushed through. I survived. And it cost me my identity, my self-worth, and my focus. I was so busy doing, being, and performing that I lost connection with who I was. I forgot what made me happy. I forgot my dreams. I forgot that I mattered too.
The moment everything changed was the moment I realized I had to leave my abusive marriage. Survival had consumed me. Leaving wasn’t just about safety, it was about remembering myself.
And then something beautiful happened.
Laughter came back. Real laughter. The kind that isn’t afraid. The kind that doesn’t shrink or whisper.
My voice returned. I began creating memories with my kids that we’ll carry forever. Joy didn’t tiptoe anymore it lived with us.
That healing changed how I lead. I tell the truth now but I protect dignity while doing it. I lead with intention, strength, compassion, and compromise. I’ve learned that titles don’t equal power. Leadership is lonely. People will judge you loudly without knowing you at all. If you listen to every opinion, you’ll lose your mind.
And yes, I still struggle with being a people-pleasing, sensitive perfectionist in positions of authority. When criticism comes, the story I’m tempted to believe is that I’m not good enough. That I don’t belong here.
What brings me back to center is this:
I reread the words of people who believe in me.
I talk with my Heavenly Father.
I remind myself that if I wasn’t meant for this, I wouldn’t be here.
And I look at my kids… their pride, their support, their belief in me.
For a long time, I believed love was pain. I believed real love wasn’t something I was meant to experience. I thought love was endurance. Survival. Silence.
I was wrong.
Healthy love looks like compassion, kindness, understanding, and soft hand-holding. It looks like a hug when I walk through the door. A phone call asking how my day was. A personalized movie poster from my fiancé for my birthday – thoughtful, intentional, and full of care.
To accept that kind of love, I had to unlearn some deeply rooted beliefs:
That my voice didn’t matter.
That disagreement meant danger.
That I had to be small to be loved.
One of the boundaries I’m most proud of now is setting a tone for how I show up, what I will and won’t tolerate, and how I refuse to be treated. I mean what I say. And I’m proud of the woman I’m becoming.
If you’re younger and exhausted from trying to be everything to everyone, hear this: It’s not your job to please everyone. You can’t. People will judge you no matter what you do. Meet others with respect and kindness and then take care of yourself. This life is too short to live for everyone else. Honor your happiness and your future self.
At 45, I’m finally allowing myself to take up space.
This blog. My brand. My voice.
I’m standing where I once hid.
I used to think success was measured by titles, houses, cars, and trips. Now I know better. Success is confidence and peace. It’s laughter in a home I bought on my own at 42. It’s going to bed at night knowing I gave the best 100% I had that day and actually believing it.
I wish I had stopped apologizing sooner. For everything. Even when I did nothing wrong. My voice is not something to be sorry for. My thoughts, feelings, and opinions aren’t either. The only things worth apologizing for are actions that truly hurt others.
When my kids look back, I hope they see soft strength. A woman who loved them unconditionally. A life worth living fully. Someone who enjoyed the little things and fought for what mattered. Most of all, I hope they say their mom loved God and worked every day to grow her relationship with Him, showing them that He is the way.
At 45 I don’t have all the answers, but I do have clarity. I’m not interested in proving anything anymore.
Not my strength.
Not my worth.
Not my place.
I know who I am, what I stand for, and what I refuse to carry. I lead with intention, love with safety, parent with grace, and live with faith. I don’t need permission—and I don’t need to shrink.
This life is mine. And I’m finally living it that way.
XO Lish