I started this blog in 2011. I was 26 years old. Recently married, a new homeowner, a sparkly Master’s degree in my hand, trying to imagine a life that was fresh and authentic, not just derivative of a vision imagined by others before me. A self-styled life.

I knew I didn’t necessarily want a 9-5 job. I knew I enjoyed homemaking but that cooking, gardening, and decorating (and then later, raising kids) would never be everything for me (the whole “trad wife” thing wasn’t a thing in 2011, but I would surely have eviscerated it then if it was). I knew I wanted to travel but also build a home. I knew I wanted work in my life that felt meaningful and important. I knew I wanted to write.

I turned 40 recently. I am generally sanguine about many aspects of aging. There are perks to being the adult in the home. And despite our cultural obsession with youth, I welcome a process of aging gracefully. Forty wasn’t a number that intimidated me.

I cannot help, however, the impulse to assess where I am at this point in my life. I can’t really call myself a “young adult” anymore; I’m squarely “middle aged.” I’ve moved into a new category; it’s a natural moment to “take stock.”

When I think back to some of the feelings I had when I started this blog, the part of me that is kind to myself tells me I’m doing pretty good. I published a book (maybe not a best-seller, but something I’m proud of nevertheless). I’ve made a beautiful family in a lovely home in a place that feels like it has the best of what city life and country life can offer. I’ve travelled (though we haven’t done a sabbatical and the list of places to go is endless). I’ve done some meaningful work, perhaps not exactly in a way I would have imagined, but meaningful nonetheless. My vision in 2011 was for a quieter type of “success,” and in many ways, I’ve had that.

When I am less generous in my assessment, the primary point that trips me up is the “professional life.” This is where the weight of my own expectations is a burden and I don’t feel I’ve necessarily accomplished what I would have liked to at this point in my life, despite perhaps at times having told myself I didn’t want that. I know part of the problem is that my dreams are many. I’ve envisioned many different and even conflicting futures at different points in my life–sweeping visions that bubbled up inside and set me flying on streams of possibility, and cozy visions that felt like a perfect mug of coffee in the hand–and to think I could accomplish all of them is a bit unfair, or even impossible.

Part of the hope for a “self-styled life,” for me, was about somehow marrying pieces of all of these visions and desires (this epiphany occurs to me as I write this) in one lifestyle. And of course, part of the issue is that in our current structure (Yay, capitalism!), “building a life” equates to creating a means of financial sustainability. Success = money, and as much as I say I don’t care about money, there’s part of me that might not feel “successful” until I’ve actually made money (and, I mean, I have made some money but our system tells us it’s never enough). Cobbling together an atypical yet lucrative career that also somehow meets all of these needs and desires is a tall order, especially when the demands of everyday life are so… demanding. Kids, maintaining a home, contributing financially to the home. It’s a challenge not to get completely sucked into the everyday.

Yes, sure, we could find, in minutes, self-help authors and “influencers” who have claimed to do exactly this. The “American dream” tells us that we can ALL chase our dreams and become billionaires doing it. But, I’m skeptical.

It’s also true that new life circumstances force changes on the visions we have of our “ideal self.” I never would have thought I’d become something of an expert on the self-help industry, but here I am, hosting a podcast about it and presenting at international conferences (ok, so I’ve only done that once so far, but I felt like a total badass when I did).

So, back to 40. At this point, I’m like, 40.166…, actually–a moment ago the sun warmed my feet, but now thunder rumbles in the clouds and the silver underbellies of leaves stare at me, reminding me that time is inexorable. Where do I go now? I’m certainly not done. I could still get a PhD and become a professor. Anyone can take the foreign service exam. Still time. But choices are hard.

On the other hand, maybe I need to just revisit some of my own advice, and remember that perhaps we can have and do it all, just not all at once. I’ve realized some of those earlier visions, and maybe now it’s time to move on to others.

I suppose it’s open-ended. Just like this reflection. I’m not sure how to finish it. And just like this blog. It’s always been open-ended, even when life diverted my attention from writing here. Even when blogging felt less relevant. I’ve never seen this one as “over.” Maybe that’s what the self-styled life actually is, ever was: open-ended, subject to change, an ever-evolving vision.

What do you think?