51 Years of Becoming

A life rewritten through growth.

Dear Friends,

Here at A Life Considered, I show up putting my best foot forward.

Writing for me takes time. A lot of it.

It can, and sometimes does come easy, but most of the time it is a labor. Yes, a labor of love, but a labor no less. I have only once hit publish when I felt rushed and I look back at that piece seeing many needed edits to make it what I believe you deserve and what I am capable of. So behind each finished piece, laid previously bare, a lot of messiness.

For, I am human with a lot of messiness.

At this very moment, my family and I are in a hugely messy, transitional space. The home we purchased this past January, which we anticipated moving into relatively quickly, became a complete remodel with an almost 2 year delivery date; this October my husband and his team launched a new business; and my children continue to move through the tween/teenage years which are the most transitional of childhood.

We are incredibly privileged to be healthy, to have these opportunities, and to have so much love for each other as we chart this new terrain with support and kinship.

Still, I feel as though I am drowning. Rising to so many important and time sensitive responsibilities, yet at a tremendous cost to my peace of mind and healthy routines.

Last night was my breaking point. I had no more to give as I sat crumpled on the floor having failed myself and my children. Extended too far.

The piece I am publishing today was hard to write because it took me back to times past that are painful to revisit. So much healing, growth, and evolution having taken place, yet the internal discomfort I felt remembering, the deep anxious sighs that accompanied these earlier life recollections, illuminating that some stones still have not been turned over and alchemized. Last night’s pain shared between my children and myself when I just lost my capability to be the adult and mother my children needed, also reminded me that we are never exonerated from “doing the work.”

This realization also comes full circle to where my letter to you today began. How writing, editing, and publishing a piece takes me time. For, a very real process unfolds behind every essay — some very personal, others more intellectual, while others more fun. But a journey nonetheless for me.

Lastly, I want to address a very real burden I have been carrying which is that I have also let you down by not upholding my commitment to you to publish each week. I have felt very uneasy about this.

Despite my efforts to fit more into each day by working tirelessly efficient, cutting out personal time, and sleeping less (none of which I recommend for anyone I care about), I find myself with 24 hours each day and the deep blocks of time I need to write have been almost nonexistent.

For this I say to you, I am sorry.

I will do my best to do better.

And for those of you who have so generously supported me as a paid subscriber, it would be my pleasure to do right by you by crediting you a few months free for the time I have not been here consistently. Reply to this email with this request and consider it done.

I am here to share what I know to be true. To that end, I am honored to be in community with you. Writing for you, my children, and myself is one of my greatest pleasures and I believe one of the gifts I have to give in service to my little slice of our world.

Sending you all love! xoxo - WRW

51 YEARS OF BECOMING: A life rewritten through growth.

At 4 I internalized I was unloveable and unwanted when my father abandoned me.

At 9 I realized I was unworthy of time, attention, and interest from my mother and step father.

At 11 I started acting out my pain, fear, and waywardness. Looking to be seen. To be loved. To be good enough to be chosen by my family.

At 13 I was the black sheep of the family. The identified patient. Incorrigible. Bad.

At 15 I understood betrayal when my mother sent me away to live elsewhere, picking her marriage over me, her daughter, so it felt.

At 16 I assumed shame and responsibility for being sexually abused.

At 18 I had fully accepted that I was not good enough and generally unworthy.

At 22 I began “to do the work” embarking on the 20 + year journey of therapy, re-raising myself and alchemizing my childhood trauma. I was committed to making sure my own children, if or when I had them, never experienced or felt what I had.

At 35 I stopped numbing myself with alcohol.

At 37 I read insatiably on personal growth and raising children. Hundreds of books, and counting, to this day.

At 38 I delivered my first child, charting a new path of breaking the chains of the generational trauma and dysfunction passed down through my family for decades.

At 45 I recognized that our greatest gifts are born from our greatest life challenges.

At 47 I found acceptance and peace with the devastating hurt and disappointment I’d harbored from my birth family. “We all do the best we can and sometimes our best just isn’t good enough. Yes, and it’s not personal.”

At 48 I discovered my voice and found my power.

At 49 I started my Substack, A Life Considered, channeling the wisdom I’ve learned into thoughtful insights and reflections on navigating our relationships with others, ourselves, and the world for a more connected, meaningful life.

At 51 my story is not finished. I am writing it every day. I look forward to, and hope that through the wisdom I share at A Life Considered, I can support you in writing yours.

What is your timeline of transformation? Please share it with me, us, or at the very least with yourself. For, we all have come so far, which I think we forget if we don’t take a moment to reflect.

Leading into the Thanksgiving holiday here in the United States, wherever you are in the world, I am so very thankful for your presence in my life.