The Reinvention Diaries

 The Loneliness of Starting Over

We love to celebrate new beginnings. We talk about the excitement, the possibilities, and the glamour of transformation. We admire the mountaintop—the achievement, the breakthrough, the dream realized.

But before you reach the mountaintop, you have to cross the valley.

The valley can be dark. It can be isolating. It can be frightening. But it can also be a place of discovery. The valley is where we learn. The mountaintop is where we appreciate the view and enjoy the rewards of our hard work. Most of life, however, is spent somewhere in between.

Starting over can be incredibly lonely.

I’ve been a loner for most of my life, long before I met my husband and long before I got married. Being a loner wasn’t about having difficulty making friends. It was about being willing to continue alone when necessary.

And there’s a difference.

Being alone doesn’t automatically mean being lonely. In my case, I was usually too busy pursuing goals to spend much time dwelling on loneliness. Of course, loneliness still crept in from time to time—we’re human. But when you’re focused on building something, there’s often little room to sit with those feelings for very long.

One lesson I’m still learning is that reaching your goal can bring its own kind of loneliness.

Sometimes the people you expected to celebrate your success aren’t the ones applauding when you arrive.

When I moved to France, one of the greatest gifts was entering a built-in community through the university system. Whether it’s a community college or a university, you’re surrounded by people with a shared purpose.

As a study abroad student, I benefited tremendously from that environment.

I participated in a work-study program that eventually led to part-time employment after graduation. The woman I worked for helped me find housing and later attended my wedding. She was also a fellow expat.

Another expat from New York City became one of my closest friends and confidantes. Through her, I met others who expanded my world even further. One of my university advisors introduced me to local expat organizations and eventually sang at our wedding.

Those relationships became part of the foundation of my new life.

Being a loner meant that starting over never scared me. I’ve always approached life with the understanding that if something needs to get done, I may have to do most of the work myself. I’ve certainly received help along the way, but I’ve learned not to depend on help arriving exactly when I need it.

I’ve always been willing to roll up my sleeves and figure things out.

That’s why moving abroad didn’t frighten me.

What frightened me was the thought of reaching middle age without ever attempting the things on my bucket list.

I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I’d taken the leap.

After arriving in France, I built a new community. Then I got married.

When planning our wedding, I completely understood that many people would be unable to attend. International travel requires time, money, and logistical planning. My husband and I even planned our celebration a full year in advance to give people plenty of notice.

What surprised me wasn’t who couldn’t come.

It was discovering who didn’t want to.

At first, I assumed practical limitations were the reason. Eventually, I realized that for some people, the issue wasn’t resources at all. It was a lack of interest. There was little enthusiasm for celebrating this new chapter of my life.

That realization was difficult.

Then, after I launched my YouTube channel and began sharing my story, I received an overwhelming amount of encouragement and support.

Until one comment.

One comment stood out because it wasn’t criticism of the content. It was deeply personal and filled with hostility. Reading it, I realized immediately that it wasn’t really about the video.

It was about me.

And suddenly, other pieces began to fall into place.

I started looking back and recognizing patterns I had overlooked for years. Moments that once seemed isolated now felt connected. Resentment I thought had been resolved had never truly disappeared.

Instead of feeling hurt, I felt liberated.

I finally understood.

Moving to France hadn’t simply expanded my geography—it expanded my world.

The texture of my life changed. My daily relationships changed. My sense of possibility changed.

None of that would have happened without a willingness to venture out alone.

Ironically, marriage has caused me to reevaluate my independence even more.

To be a good partner, I have to maintain a strong sense of self. Not only for myself, but for my husband as well. Our relationship benefits when both of us continue growing as individuals.

I am inspired by my husband, our friendship, and the life we’ve built together. I want to continue evolving, learning, and becoming a better version of myself.

But I also recognize that none of this would have happened if I hadn’t first been willing to walk alone.

I never would have moved to France.

I never would have taken opportunities in unfamiliar places.

I never would have rebuilt my community—not once, but multiple times.

Since arriving in France, I’ve essentially started over twice. Each time required me to step into uncertainty, navigate the valley, and build something new.

One piece of advice someone shared with me has stayed with me:

Even in marriage, you have to be willing to do things by yourself.

As I build my brand and pursue entrepreneurship, much of the work happens in solitude. The vision is shared with my husband because it contributes to our future together, but the daily work often happens alone.

And surprisingly, I value that.

I spend a great deal of time in solitude, even as a married woman. That quiet time allows me to listen to myself, reflect, create, and stay connected to who I am. It helps me show up more fully in my marriage when my husband comes home at the end of the day.

Likewise, my husband has his own passions, including coaching soccer. Our separate interests don’t divide us—they enrich our relationship. They give us new experiences to bring back to one another.

I’ve learned that partnership isn’t the opposite of solitude.

In many ways, true partnership grows from it.

The greatest lesson of starting over is this:

The people you expect to accompany you on the journey are not always the people who will walk beside you.

Sometimes the community you need is waiting on the other side of your courage.

You find it only after you’re willing to go alone