Milestone birthdays have a way of inviting reflection, but turning 60 feels less like a reflection and more like starting over. Not a hard reset, but a gentle return to self—after years of giving, managing, and doing for others.
When I turned 50, I gave myself a gift: I did 50 fabulous things that year. It made the year so much fun, rich with new experiences, laughter, and intention. But something else shifted that year, too. At 50, I stopped thinking about how many years I had lived… and started thinking about how many years I had left to live. It wasn’t morbid—just clarifying. Time became more precious.
Now at 60, the shift is deeper. It doesn’t feel like counting years anymore—it feels like a complete rebirth. Starting over. Not the next chapter, but an entirely new book. This is my Phoenix Year—a powerful season of midlife reinvention for women, a time to rise from the ashes, to rediscover the woman I am becoming, and to reclaim my voice, my space, and my joy.
After 31 years of coaching others to create their ideal lives, this year I’m reinventing myself and approaching my new life with curiosity and gentleness. My daughters are growing up, the divorce is finally complete, and for the first time in what feels like decades… I have space. Not just on my calendar—but in my mind, in my home, and in my heart. Real space to be. Not to wife or mother, nor to manage, organize, or compromise. But to sit quietly and ask, “What do I want now?”
What burned down
There were days during the divorce when I couldn’t tell if I was grieving the marriage or grieving myself. The woman I’d once been, the woman who was a successful business owner, the one who held everything together, who did lots of laundry, who made sure birthdays were celebrated and feelings were soothed and school forms were turned in—she is gone. I’m always going to be a mother but I’m no longer a wife, and my role as mother is changing as the kids transition into full independence over the next few years. I feel the same inside, but I’m not her anymore.
The last few years demanded everything of me—emotionally, logistically, and legally. It was like managing a hostile takeover of my own life—and still showing up to work, to parenting, to the world. I kept thinking, once it’s all done, I’ll rest. But rest doesn’t come on its own. You have to choose it.
So this year, I’m choosing me.
My Phoenix Year begins by the lake
I’ll be spending July and early August in Wisconsin, with my mother in our family home by the water. A return to my roots, to the garden, to the rhythms that feel comfortably safe. This is where I’ll celebrate my birthday, rest, party, and gently begin putting life back in order after so much upheaval. Starting over.
We’ll swim in the lake, we’ll do puzzles, we’ll go on bike rides along the water. I’ll read lots of books from the amazing library up the street. I might even learn to play bridge (my mom is a great player).
We’ll honor the passing of my beloved Aunt Kate with a ceremony—lighting candles, reading a passage from one of her favorite books, scattering her ashes into the stream so she can join her husband. That feels right.
There’s also the repair and organizing of the house—we’ve inherited furniture from Aunt Kate, and it doesn’t quite fit. We’ve got dishes of hers to take to my aunt on the East Coast.
This year, I’m going to…
- Heal from grief, burnout, and divorce.
- Receive love, support, inspiration, and even boredom. Let life unfold gently.
- Love and celebrate the friends and family who stood by me when I could barely stand. And to give that love and support back in spades.
- Explore. It might be a sister’s road trip to New York. Maybe an October retreat in Arizona’s desert. I’m saying yes to fun and adventure!
- Write journals, reflections, perhaps a new book.
- Be free in my bones, in my rhythms, in my choices.
Letting life unfold
I’m not sure how this year of starting over will play out—and that’s part of the joy. After years of calendars and school runs, I’m letting go. I want to wake up and ask, “What would feel good today?” And then go do that. Or not. Either way, I’ll be listening to my intuition and following the path that appears the most appealing to see where that takes me.
I have no clue what will emerge. Maybe it’s a quiet year. Maybe I’ll write a new book. Or maybe form some new friendships. I don’t know—and that’s exactly the point. Starting over at 60 isn’t about having it all figured out—it’s about being brave enough to begin again without needing a map.
The wisdom of 60
Here’s what I know now:
- I no longer say yes when I mean maybe.
- I no longer explain myself to people who aren’t really listening.
- And I no longer silence my joy to make others comfortable.
For the first time in 21 years, I’m not designing a life around someone else’s needs. I’m not orbiting anyone. I am my own sun.
What about you? If you’re standing in the ashes of something—an old identity, a relationship, a life that no longer fits—take heart. The rise is coming. It doesn’t need to be flashy or loud. It just has to be yours.
For inspiration on how to reclaim your story and rise stronger than ever, I like Rising Strong: How the Ability to Reset Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead by Brené Brown. A powerful guide for anyone starting over at 60 or embracing midlife reinvention for women.
Check out my Coach Yourself to Success Course for practical tools and personalized coaching to create a life you love.
