An Ode to 45
Looking back over this past year, I am in awe of myself—truly.
And I say that with a bit of surprise, because when I zoom out and look at the last eight to ten years, I don’t just see growth. I see recovery. I see a woman returning home to herself.
On the outside, I’ve always looked like the bubbly one—put together, quick with humor, the social butterfly. But on the inside, my inner child was still fighting for space. Fighting to be seen. Fighting to be heard.
Forty-five taught me how to heal her
without asking for permission,
without seeking approval,
without over-explaining.
Those three things freed me more than I ever imagined.
Somewhere between healing and hibernating, I realized I wasn’t disappearing. I was being preserved.
I healed parts of myself I didn’t even know were still hurting—places that had gone dormant, hidden beneath performance and responsibility. At some point, I took a real sabbatical—mentally, emotionally, spiritually.
Not because of one incident,
but because of obedience.
It was preservation.
It was courage.
It was God.
For years, I felt pressure to perform—to be a good parent, a good partner, a good friend… a good, well-rounded person. But there was no outlet deep enough for what I needed. No conversation or coping strategy that could reach it.
I needed something higher.
Stronger.
A different kind of peace.
I needed God—and I found Him.
Unapologetically.
I didn’t ask permission.
I didn’t over-explain.
I didn’t provide a reason.
I simply stopped.
Everything went quiet, like someone flipped a light switch. I knew I needed less of me and more of Him—just to preserve what was left. I had been pouring from an empty vessel, and forty-five became my saving grace.
Forty-five was my call to action.
It became a year of self-discovery—learning who I was, who I am, and who I am becoming. I learned how to be free. And that still feels strange to say, coming from someone who has spent her life being everything to everybody.
I don’t know when I decided I needed permission to take care of myself—but one day I looked up and realized my family was grown, living their own lives.
And here I was. Thriving… but alone.
I never imagined it would be this hard to take care of one person.
I was the one who made the schedules, followed them, rearranged them, and handed them out to everyone else. Now, I had to do that for myself. I had to build an entire ecosystem from the ground up—a soft place to land, a life that felt like home.
The hardest part of forty-five was learning how to return.
Return to myself.
Return to God.
Return to softness.
I thought living solo in my forties would be brunch and bold lipstick. Turns out it’s more like silence… and God.
And yet, this was exactly what I needed.
Toward the end, forty-five softened. It became gentler, easier to carry—once I finally relinquished control. When I let go, I noticed something else too:
I didn’t lose people.
I released what couldn’t follow me into peace.
The conversations, connections, and expectations that no longer suited me fell away without regret. I spent more time with myself—refining my space, enjoying the quiet, honoring the comfort and luxury I’ve built within my home.
I didn’t know how I would come out on the other side of this healing hibernation. I only knew I had to go through it.
I couldn’t go left.
I couldn’t go right.
I couldn’t go back.
I could only go forward.
And on the other side, I found relief. Familiarity without heaviness. A home without excess baggage.
So I thank God for His kindness.
I thank my family for their love.
I thank my friends for understanding that sometimes you have to step back, reassess, and be honest—really honest—about your life.
Change will come.
Some people will be left behind.
Some will walk with you for a season, but not into the next.
And you have to be okay with that.
At times, forty-five felt like the upside down. But I am grateful to be stepping into the light—and grateful for those still standing with me.
So thank you, forty-five.
It’s been real.
With love, always — La O.
