That wasn't what I expected

I don’t think we talk enough about the early stage of change. The bit after the decision is made, but before anything feels settled or rewarding.

The few months of my new routine and new life was harder than I thought it would be. Not because I regretted the decision, but because starting again strips away the familiar coping mechanisms you didn’t realise you were relying on. Where is the manual for this shit I asked myself?

Everything felt raw.

One of the biggest challenges was the sudden absence of structure I didn’t even know I had. Even routines that no longer served me gave my days a shape. When those disappeared, the days felt oddly empty and overexposed.

I had to learn how to build new rhythms from scratch. Mornings felt longer. Evenings felt quieter. There was nowhere to hide from myself, and that was confronting.

What would have helped was resisting the urge to fill the space immediately. Letting the discomfort show me where intention was needed, rather than rushing to recreate busyness for the sake of it. I have simce learnt to relax more and that it’s ok not to be busy all the time.

There were days when I knew exactly what I wanted to build, but still felt flat, tired, or emotionally heavy. The excitement I expected was replaced with a quieter, more serious energy. The kind that requires commitment rather than enthusiasm.

I learned quickly that motivation is unreliable. Routine is not.

On the days I moved my body, worked on my art, or took one small step towards my plans anyway, everything felt more manageable by the afternoon. I underestimated the emotional hangover.

Change, even when chosen, has grief attached to it. I grieved versions of myself I was leaving behind. I grieved familiar spaces. I grieved the comfort of knowing exactly how my life worked, even when it wasn’t aligned anymore. Some days I felt strong and certain. Other days I felt untethered and strangely sad, without a clear reason. That emotional whiplash was unexpected.

Old patterns tried to edge their way in. When I was tired or overwhelmed, my old habits resurfaced. Reaching for distraction instead of rest. Avoiding the budget instead of facing it. Second guessing myself instead of trusting the plan. I noticed how quickly my nervous system wanted familiarity, not progress.

One of the strongest pulls back to familiarity came through my first relationship after leaving my husband.

He was an old flame. Someone from my past. Someone my nervous system already recognised.

In the quiet of those first few months, I found myself missing him intensely. I told myself it was a soul connection, that he was "the one" That what I felt meant something deeper.

What I started to see, slowly and painfully, was that I wasn’t missing a mutual connection. I was missing familiarity. I was missing being attached. I was missing the version of myself that knows how to orient her life around someone else.

I also had to face something harder. I was never really his in the way I wanted him to be mine. A pattern of having no real boundaries. Of moulding myself around someone else wants and needs. Of softening my standards to keep a connection alive, of hoping potential would turn into presence.

I realised how quickly I slipped back into being the adaptable one. The understanding one. The one who fills in the emotional gaps. The one who waits.

Letting that go was grief on top of grief.

Because I wasn't just letting go of him, I was letting go of a fantasy. The story. The hope that someone from my past could meet the woman I am now. Accepting that he was never going to be truly be there for me was brutal. But it was also clarifying.

The loneliness I felt after that was different, cleaner, quieter. It didn’t come with self-abandonment attached and choosing not to return to that pattern felt, for the first time, like loyalty to myself.

I was noticing where I was slipping back into old patterns, something else was happening at the same time. Wins were appearing. Not huge cinematic ones.

Quiet, grounded ones. The kind that feel like confirmation rather than adrenaline.

I was offered a brand new sauna for pennies rather than thousands. Something that would have been completely out of reach suddenly wasn’t. Not through hustling. Not through forcing. It arrived through conversation, connection, and being on a different path. It felt like the universe saying, keep going. You’re facing the right direction and alongside that, my world started to change socially too.

Through friends, and friends of friends, I met some incredible, beautiful people. People with substance. With stories. With depth. With kindness.

My circle started to shift. Less noise, less performance, less surface. 

More honesty, more creativity, more support, more laughter. A new friends circle formed, not because I went looking for it, but because I had changed the rooms I was standing in.

Those moments mattered.

Because they showed me that even while grief was moving through me, life was already meeting me differently.

The work wasn’t in stopping those impulses entirely, but in catching them sooner. Choosing a walk with Neil over scrolling (I got Neil for just this reason if I’m honest. My emotional support dog if you will). A pause instead of self criticism.

Changing my routine meant changing how I moved, ate, slept, and trained. My body didn’t always thank me straight away. Being over 50 definitely makes things harder in the recovery stages of working out. Some days I felt energised and strong. Other days I felt sore, tired, or emotionally fragile for no obvious reason. Hormones, nervous system adjustment, and fatigue all played a part. I had to learn to listen rather than push. Consistency over intensity became the rule.

In the quiet moments, doubt crept in. Was I being unrealistic? Was I too late? Should I have stayed where it was easier? (fuck no by the way)

Those questions were rarely loud, but they were persistent. It’s always a default setting in our brains to head back to what we know, bad or not.

What grounded me was remembering why I started. Not the end goal, but the feeling that staying would cost me more than going.

What got me through the first few months was not discipline.

Not confidence.

It was self respect.

It was choosing to keep my promises to myself even when no one was watching.

It was building days that felt honest rather than impressive.

It was letting grief exist without letting it drive.

It was learning that peace doesn't always feel good at first. Sometimes it feels empty before it feels safe.

The early stage of change is not aesthetic. It's quiet, clumsy and emotional. It's full of guessing and small private wins no one else sees. But it's also where the foundations are laid and foundations are never glamorous. They are necessary.

Same Person.

New chapter.

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