Chapter 38: Riding the Rails with My Shadow Self — And Yeah, I Still Got It

Well, lookie here—a July 7th baby turning 38 and laying her troubles down on the railroad tracks. I spent my birthday in my historic little hometown doing all the things I love: soaking up the sun on the river, strolling through the cemetery, wandering haunted buildings, sipping cold beer, and hanging out at an old train station. Low-key and perfect.

Two more years to go until the big 4-0.

Shit.

Hey, it’s not over. It’s just getting started, right? Sure, at 38, I’m basically halfway to death. But it’s not like I’m the Crypt Keeper, for God’s sake. Though if I were, I’d fully embody the darkness that came with it. Life’s too short not to embrace your whole self, right?

You know, there was a time when I used to get wildly existential about this birthday business. I’m talking full-on panic attacks about unrealized potential, the fact that time is rushing by quicker than I can grasp it, and the inevitable ache of wasted youth and beauty. I spent a painful amount of time overthinking and over-dramatizing potential outcomes that, in hindsight, don’t seem to matter much now. It’s safe to say I’m far less histrionic these days—but no less astonished by how quickly time passes.

Somehow, life feels better here. Sure, I’ve got a perpetual case of mom brain, but in many ways, my thoughts are clearer—more distilled. I’m no longer weighed down by questions of who I’m supposed to become, or whether I’ll ever find her.

My mid-thirties were a time warp for good reason: raising young kids, losing intimacy in the drudgery of trying to keep my home and family life rolling seamlessly, losing myself. Followed by one existential reckoning after another about where this path of motherhood was leading. It was a season marked by intense, often painful growth—filled with lessons I probably should’ve learned in my twenties, but didn’t.

It was humbling. Messy. And somehow, I’m grateful for all of it. Pain, as it turns out, is a potent teacher. It holds a mirror to the parts of yourself you’d rather not see, but eventually can’t avoid.

And out of every so-called “truth” I’ve uncovered about myself, here are a few standouts:

First off, I’m not emotionally volatile. I’m emotionally courageous. There’s a subtle difference here, and I’ve been gaslit my entire life about it. I will almost always let people know what my emotional landscape looks like. I’m willing to be vulnerable and authentic with whatever feelings arise in the moment, and this probably scares those who are more repressed in that way. As the resident empath and know-it-all in my household (they called me Lisa Simpson), I grew up being the emotional archivist of my family. I held what they couldn’t. But obviously, I had no levee back then, and so sometimes I erupt and revert to a much younger place emotionally. It’s been helpful to validate this instead of judge or shame myself for it.

Secondly, I’m not too old to do anything. Be that having a baby (as I’ve found out in the best, most beautiful way), writing a book, starting a Master’s degree, or changing careers. I tell myself that story so I don’t have to begin something entirely new and walk into the forest of uncertainty. It’s a work in progress to buy into this—but I’m getting there. Time to fully embrace that beginner’s mind, right?

And as far as other people go? It’s okay to let go of relationships that no longer serve you, even if they’re family. Not everyone deserves access to your life. This is one of the most beautiful things about having a family of your own to tend to, and I think it’s powerful to model those boundaries for your children.

And you know, above all, I’ve learned about integration. Being able to merge all the “less desirable” aspects with all the good things into one full, capable, grounded sense of self—instead of denying them or feeling shame. It’s a nuanced shift, but it’s not performative. It’s freeing. That’s where authenticity lies. I’m excited for what the next couple of years have in store as I move through the world with more self-possession and containment. Come what may, I know I’m whole as I am, and I can get myself through the next chapters just fine.

As it turns out, I’m not just riding the rails—

I’m the damn locomotive.

Cheers to 38, baby.