What’s Next? A Personal Reflection on Legacy, Life, and Midlife Reinvention

This past weekend, I found myself in the most unexpected place: Homer, New York. My oldest child had invited me up to visit, and they knew exactly how to win me over—a vintage car show. I’ve always had a thing for them. Something about the shine of chrome and the craftsmanship of another era lights me up.

But as much as I enjoyed the cars that day, it wasn’t the automobiles that left me thinking. It was the town itself.

Homer is one of those small towns that feels like it’s been lifted from a storybook. As we walked through the festival, live bands played on the street corners, shop doors were wide open, and laughter spilled into the summer air. Victorian homes lined the streets, each one with its own character, each one whispering stories of families that had passed through. My daughter pointed out a corner house, immaculately landscaped, with wraparound porches that practically begged for morning coffee and evening conversations. She turned to me and said, “Mom, you could live here.”

And for the first time in a long time, I thought—maybe I could.

Dreaming Into a Different Future

For years, I assumed that when the time came to move north, it would be to the Catskills. I know that region well, and it always felt like the natural next step. But lately, the Catskills have become overrun with New Yorkers moving north for their own fresh start. The charm is still there, but the affordability is not.

The Finger Lakes, though—this was different. Lovely. Accessible. Affordable enough that I could have not just a house, but a lifestyle. And the added bonus? My oldest is building their life here. Maybe they’ll have children someday. Maybe I’d get to be nearby, present for the little moments, the school plays, the Sunday dinners.

It felt like possibility. It felt like home.

And yet, as quickly as that thought surfaced, another followed: I don’t know a single person here besides my child. No friends. No community. No familiar threads tying me in.

That’s when the reality set in—because, as dreamy as it sounds to pick up and start again in a charming town, reinvention is never just about the house or the scenery. It’s about the people who make up the fabric of our days.

The Ties That Hold Us

The truth is, my life is in New Jersey. I’ve lived here my entire life, although I've moved around over the decades, its beauty and people are a part of me. I moved to a small town tucked away in the mountains in the upper west corner of the state just two years ago, and slowly but surely, I’ve found a circle of good friends. Not a huge group—I’m an introvert, after all—but a meaningful one. I’ve found my favorite spots, the rhythm of weekends, the comfort of knowing where to go and who to call.

And then there’s my family. My parents are approaching their 90s, and being near them feels important. My youngest sister, who’s also one of my closest friends, lives just thirty minutes away. We do so much together, and I treasure that bond. Leaving would mean leaving her, too.

And of course, there’s my youngest child, who still lives with me in New Jersey. For now, the house is full of life. But I’m not blind to what’s coming: they’ll move out soon enough, and I’ll be left with silence echoing through the rooms.

That’s the question I can’t shake lately: what next? What does the next chapter of my life look like when the kids are all fully launched, when the house is quieter, when the calendar isn’t built around others' schedules?

The Challenge of Midlife Connection

I’ll be honest—making friends at this stage of life isn’t easy. I’m not the type to hang out in bars or stay out late, and I don’t have the same built-in social opportunities I did when my kids were younger. Playdates, school functions, sports events—they kept me connected. Now, I have to be more intentional.

And I’ve been lucky to find some community here—through volunteering, through hiking groups, through the gradual weaving together of shared interests. But it takes time. And that’s what makes the thought of moving again so complex.

Because at my core, I do love change. It’s not something I fear—it’s something I crave. Change is what lights me up. New friends, new scenery, new opportunities. It’s what makes me feel alive.

That’s why I spend weekends hiking new trails, traveling to new countries, and lately, kayaking on surrounding lakes that sparkle like glass in the summer sun. I even spent part of last winter clearing hiking trails as a volunteer—something about leaving a path better for the next person fills me with quiet joy. I’ve gotten involved in local theater groups, too. It’s not just about activity, it’s about getting out of the house and meeting people with similar interests.

For me, reinvention isn’t a one-time event. It’s a way of life.

What the Next 20 Years Might Hold

When I look ahead, the next twenty years feel like a canvas waiting for paint. Some of the strokes are clear already: I imagine myself as a grandmother, traveling the world, collecting lived experiences like souvenirs. I see myself laughing with close friends, maybe sharing those travels with a partner.

But beyond the personal, there’s a bigger dream: I want the Soul Professional Movement—the global community I’ve built for conscious entrepreneurs—to spread beyond its current borders. I want to be on bigger stages, connecting with others who are committed to raising the vibration of the planet. I want to be part of something larger than myself, something that ripples out far beyond what I can see.

That, to me, is legacy. Not just the business I leave behind, but the impact—the energy, the community, the shift in consciousness.

Practicing What I Teach

As a midlife reinvention strategist, I help people reimagine what’s possible for themselves every single day. And in doing so, I’m constantly reminded that the same is true for me. Helping others see their own limitlessness makes me feel limitless, too.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about where else I want to lend my gifts. I’ve applied to serve on a few boards. I’ve been exploring fractional leadership roles with causes that matter deeply to me. Because even though I’m only 57, I feel myself stepping into that elder stage—the stage of giving back, of mentoring, of sharing wisdom in ways that can ripple outward.

And I’ll admit, this stage feels good. There’s something grounding about recognizing that I don’t have to hustle the way I once did. That my value isn’t in how much I produce, but in how deeply I give, how much wisdom I share, and how intentionally I live.

The Coffee Shop Questions

So here I am, sitting with these questions like I’m sitting across from you at a café table.

Do I stay in New Jersey for a few more years, close to my parents, my sister, and my youngest? Do I eventually pack up and move north, starting fresh in a town like Homer, where charm drips from the porches and festivals light up the streets?

Do I invest more of myself into travel, chasing experiences across the globe? Or do I root myself more deeply in one place, building a tight-knit community that grows old together?

Maybe the answer is both. Maybe reinvention isn’t about choosing one path, but about giving ourselves permission to hold multiple dreams at once.

The Universal Question for Midlife Reinvention

The truth is, this isn’t just my question—it’s everyone’s. At some point, we all reach a chapter where the next page isn’t written yet. Where the kids are grown, the parents are aging, the friendships are shifting, the career is changing. Where we pause long enough to ask: what next?

For me, that answer is still unfolding. It’s a mix of personal longing and professional vision, of family ties and future dreams. It’s a balance between the quiet joy of hiking trails and the roar of a crowd when I step onto a stage.

But if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: change will always light me up. And whatever the next twenty years hold, they’ll be filled with it. New places, new people, new opportunities to give back and grow.

That’s the gift of midlife

reinvention—it’s never really about starting over. It’s about continually choosing to live fully, right where we are, and daring to imagine what else might be possible.

So here’s to what’s next—for me, and for you.

If reading this has stirred something in you—if you’ve been wondering what your next chapter could look like—I’d love to talk. Sometimes it just takes one conversation to open the door to what’s possible.

Message me, and let’s dream out loud together.