There’s a strange kind of grief that comes with growth. Not the grief of what you’ve lost, but the grief of what you can no longer pretend not to see.
One of my Besties and I talk every day. We’ve been through everything together: marriages, divorces, children, step-children, careers, loss of loved ones, breakdowns, and breakthroughs. She’s a bit older than me, fully retired, and living in rural North Carolina. I’m newly reinvented and living in Bali.
We still laugh. We still love. But lately… I feel a shift.
We always imagined ourselves riding off into the sunset together like Thelma and Louise, Laverne and Shirley, or Oprah and Gayle. We had a vision. A rhythm. A pact.
But this new reality of mine feels like a divergence from the plan.
There’s also the rhythm itself. The pace. The energy. The urgency that pulses through every conversation back home. It’s fast. It’s sharp. It’s wired for survival. And I get it, 100%. I lived in that current for decades. But now, my nervous system is learning a new tempo. One that honors pause. One that doesn’t mistake exhaustion for excellence. And sometimes, when I speak from this slower rhythm, it doesn’t land. It doesn’t match. And that mismatch can feel like distance.
She’s carrying a lot right now, supporting an adult child navigating addiction while also facing the quiet unraveling of a long-held partnership. There’s grief in that reckoning. A tenderness. A fear of starting over. She doesn’t feel ready to leave, so for now, she stays. Not out of weakness, but out of complexity.
And me? I’m living in a different rhythm. I’ve launched a new chapter. I’m earning more than I ever did working for the state of North Carolina, thanks to some sovereign financial moves. I’m writing. Healing. Boxing. Building FreedomBeyondFifty. Studying. I’m becoming.
And I feel guilty as hell.
Sometimes I downplay my days. I tell her I stayed home when I was actually out exploring waterfalls or temples. I shrink my joy so she doesn’t feel the sting of contrast.
But the truth is that it’s not working. Because even when I dim the light, the shadows still show.
Last night, something shifted between us. A moment of tension. A pause that felt heavier than usual. I sensed the ache of a woman who feels left behind, and I didn’t know how to hold it without shrinking myself.
And here’s the part that’s hard to say out loud: Her pain is real—entangled between loyalty and longing.
And I get it. I do.
I know what a marriage on life support feels like. The quiet erosion. The struggle between vows taken and the loss of feeling in your limbs. I’ve been there. And that’s why my role now is not to judge, but to love. To support. To hold space for her becoming—whenever she’s ready to choose it.
So I’m writing this for every woman who’s ever felt guilty for growing. For every friendship strained by the distance between survival and expansion. For every moment when your joy feels like betrayal.
Here’s what I’m learning:
You don’t have to shrink to stay connected. You can love someone deeply and still outgrow the dynamic. You are not responsible for someone else’s refusal or delay to choose freedom.
And maybe the most radical truth of all:
Your joy is not a betrayal. It’s a permission slip. For her. For you. For all of us.
I took one step closer to my version of Freedom. What does Freedom look like for you?
