Letting Go of Who You Thought You’d Be: Finding Peace in a Life You Never Expected

The Life I Thought I’d Have

15 years ago, if you had told me I’d walk away from my career—the life I had meticulously built—I wouldn’t have believed you. Back then, I had a clear vision of what my future would look like: a senior leader in education, a high achiever who had always been ambitious and driven.

My career was meaningful. I worked with children with additional needs, disadvantaged young people, and families facing challenges. I believed deeply in what I was doing.

At the same time, I was incredibly busy. My husband traveled frequently for work, and I was balancing a demanding career while raising young children. The pressure was immense. Eventually, it took its toll.

For the first time, I stepped away. I took a career break when my children were little, longing for a slower, more intentional life. It was a beautiful time for our family—simple, unhurried, and full of presence.

But in 2016, when both of my children were in school, I did what I thought was expected of me. I went back to work.It made sense. We had financial goals, societal expectations told me it was “the right time,” and if I’m being honest, there was a part of me that still found validation in my career. I loved my work, I loved the sense of achievement, and for a while, I thrived. I pushed myself, took on further study, and imagined myself progressing further—maybe even into a principalship or the inspectorate.

I thought I had figured out a way to do it all—to be the career woman, the mother, the wife, the high achiever. But life has a way of teaching us lessons we don’t expect.

The Identity We Build vs. The Reality We Face

For years, my career was a huge part of my identity. It wasn’t just a job—it was who I was. It gave me a sense of purpose, security, and validation. I was the one who got things done, the one who could navigate difficult situations, the one people turned to for leadership.

I was also deeply empathetic, always considering the bigger picture—what was going on behind closed doors for students, for parents, for teachers. Not everyone understood that approach. Some just wanted to teach and move on, but for me, education was never just about curriculum. It was about people, their struggles, their stories, and how we could help them.

Looking back, I see now how much my sense of self was tied to that role. Even now, I catch myself saying, “I’m a teacher on career break” rather than introducing myself as a blogger, a digital creator, or simply someone who has chosen a different path. It’s hard to let go of a title that was such a fundamental part of my identity for 25 years.

But while my career gave me structure, a social world, and a sense of purpose, it also came at a cost. I poured so much into my job that there were times I had little left for myself, or even for my family. I always believed I could find balance, but balance isn’t always within our control—especially when life throws unexpected challenges your way.

The Breaking Point: When Everything Changed

For years, I kept going. Even when the stress built, even when life outside of work became increasingly difficult, I kept believing that if we just pushed through a little longer, things would settle.

But they didn’t.

Then, everything happened at once.

• The aftermath of COVID changed everything in education. The pressures on teachers, students, and families were immense. Society felt angrier, more entitled, less compassionate.

• My neurodivergent child’s anxiety became more pronounced—returning to school after lockdowns was incredibly difficult, and there was little to no support available. I fought for every assessment, every intervention, every piece of help we could get, and it still wasn’t enough.

• My husband made the brave decision to leave a long career in the corporate world to step into a completely different sector—one that was uncertain, unnerving, and nothing like what we had known.

• At the same time, a massive leak forced us to leave our home for two years.

It was too much.

One morning, in the midst of all this, I walked into my boss’s office and said I wouldn’t be coming back after the Easter holidays. I didn’t second guess it. I knew it was time to walk away.

My family needed me. I needed me.

Grieving the Life I Thought I’d Have

At first, I didn’t feel grief—I felt relief. I needed to step away.

But over time, the grief crept in.

I grieved the illusion—the life I thought we were building, the one where things would always be steady, predictable, safe. The one where my career would continue, where my children would have plain sailing, where we had done “everything right” and so, surely, things would be easy.

I grieved the lost time—years spent in stress, survival mode, just trying to get through. We often say that time passes in the blink of an eye, but looking back, I feel like we lost years to uncertainty and struggle.

I grieved the loss of connection—friendships that faded, the social world of work that disappeared overnight. And while I don’t miss the job itself, I do miss the people, the camaraderie, the shared sense of purpose.

But more than anything, I grieved the version of myself I thought I’d always be.

Letting go of her was harder than I expected.

Finding Peace in a Life I Never Expected

And yet—here I am. More content, more fulfilled, more at peace than I have been in years.

I’ve stepped fully into this season of life, and it feels right. I’m embracing the roles that feel most meaningful to me—being a partner, a mother, a homemaker, and a creative—fully and with joy.

I have stopped wishing time away—no longer counting down to weekends, holidays, or “better days.” Instead, I am trying to live each day fully, as it comes.

I have reconnected with creativity—writing, photography, homemaking, storytelling. For years, stress and exhaustion blocked that part of me, but now, it’s flourishing again.

I have redefined success.

• It’s not a title.

• It’s not external validation.

• It’s not about climbing a ladder.

Success, for me, is peace.

It’s contentment. It’s being here, now, fully present in my life. It’s creating a home and a space where my family feels safe, loved, and able to be their true selves.

And while I hold a quiet ambition for what Our Little House in the Country could grow into, I know that its success will always be measured in meaning, not numbers. It will grow at its own pace, in a way that is authentic and aligned with the life I’ve worked so hard to reclaim.