Finding Forty

This year marks thirteen years since I divorced my first husband.

Thirteen years.

When I signed those papers, I wasn’t walking away with no idea what I wanted.

Actually, I had a pretty good idea.

I wanted a healthy marriage.

I wanted children.

I wanted a home filled with laughter, chaos, love, and purpose.

I wanted a life that felt peaceful instead of exhausting.

I could see the destination.

What I couldn’t see was the travel plan.

I couldn’t see the detours.

I couldn’t see the roadblocks.

I couldn’t see the losses, the lessons, the waiting, the rebuilding, and all the unexpected twists along the way.

And I sure didn’t expect the journey to take thirteen years.

Back then, I probably thought I’d blink and be settled.

Life had other plans.

There were seasons of growth.

Seasons of grief.

Seasons where I questioned everything.

There were foster children who left fingerprints on my heart.

A career that continued to evolve.

A second marriage that taught me love is less about perfection and more about commitment, grace, and showing up.

Then came Liam.

Then Elias.

The very things I had hoped for all those years ago arrived—just not on the timeline I would have chosen.

Funny how that works.

At almost forty, my days are filled with things I never imagined would consume so much of my mental energy.

Swallow studies.

Food allergies.

Daycare schedules.

Google calendars.

Arguments about morning routines.

The endless responsibilities that come with loving people well.

Yet somehow, underneath all the chaos, I can see it.

The life I was reaching for all those years ago.

Not exactly as I pictured it.

Better in some ways.

Harder in others.

But undeniably mine.

Thirteen years later, I realize I wasn’t wrong about where I wanted to go.

I just had no idea how long the road would be.

Or how much the journey would change me before I arrived.

And honestly?

I’m grateful it did.