I Haven’t Got a Clue

An Honest Confession About Midlife & The Freeing Art Of Not Knowing

Age graced me with the humility to admit—not only to myself but to the whole world—that I haven’t got a clue. And to be very OK with it.

Over ten years ago, strong with the birth of EvokingGrace.com and my rising status as a starlet in the spiritual world (which lasted about five minutes—in my head), I thought I had an answer for every “mundane” problem people shared with me. If I didn’t, I believed I had to dig up something clever to fill that awkward silence when you admit you don’t know.

It was during a networking event that I started to suspect I was just grasping for air. A successful woman who often sought my soulful take on life—and held a prominent job in finance—had asked me to meet her for after-work drinks.

Her face was red and blotchy. Heavy and exhausted, she’d had a long day—months, a lifetime—and would have loved to go home. But she felt it was her duty to stay and mingle. Because that’s what successful people do. And because her husband was out doing the same somewhere across the capital.

A little younger than her fifty years, he still had the energy to work hard and party harder. She hadn’t yet accepted she’d been reclaimed. Hormones and the soul have a very particular way of inviting us to slow down. When we ignore that call, we suffer. The body always shows us first, while we slowly crumble and can no longer keep up with our ever-rushing world.

This lovely, overwhelmed woman was drowning, but she kept looking away from the shore right in front of her, because everything she’d known was behind her. Partying. Living hard. Her beloved younger man, most of all.

Hormones, Heartbreak, and the Invitation to Slow Down

Wanting to help—and probably to impress her—I offered a few obvious suggestions. Painful clichés, really, when she suddenly confessed how aggressive she’d become whenever she drank.

‘These days, the moment I have that extra drink, I turn into a bloody witch,’ she blurted out, almost casually, while tucking into a sausage roll.

‘Oh well, can you just have something alcohol-free?’ a younger, eager me piped up, sipping my carrot juice on the rocks. “Or water? No one will notice. They’re all drunk anyway.’

‘But my husband will know. And I like having a drink with him.’ She spat her food out quickly, her big, puffy, heartbreakingly sad eyes fixed on mine.

That was the moment I should have seen that she wasn’t looking for rescue. She just wanted a hug. Someone to say, I hear you, sister. I’m with you. And maybe hand her a little wine and a canapé. That was the float ring she hoped someone had thrown at her.

But I didn’t. Instead, I stood there thinking,

What the hell, woman! Ditch the booze, for God’s sake. Simple. And maybe ditch the husband, too.

Easy, right? Easy.

And also so very naïve. And arrogant.

All these years later, I’ve been that woman more times than I’d care to admit.

Some days I've stared in the mirror, hardly recognizing the blurry shape staring back, and turned away when my own sad, puffy eyes seemed to ask, 'What are you going to do about this now? Huh? What’s your fix for this lady? You’ve tried the diet and the creams, but the puff ain't going no-where.'

I’ve looked at my wine glass long enough to know there couldn’t be 'just one more.' Never much of a drinker, it still broke my heart to realize I couldn’t keep my husband company over a little bourbon after Sunday lunch. Otherwise, I’d turn into the Incredible Hulk meets Godzilla, and he’d be there quietly trying to escape while dodging the flying plates.

The Truth About Midlife: No More Clever Fixes

I’ll be 51 in about 50 days.

Last year, before my golden birthday, I posted a video every week sharing what I’d learned in my first half-century—fifty truths I thought had helped me live well.

This year, I can only share this: I haven’t got a clue. Maybe this will disappoint you, but this is the most honest I’ve ever been, and there is no point in lying, hoping to get a few extra likes on social media.

I don’t know what my body will need tomorrow to keep up with all the changes. I don’t know whether I should do more of this or less of that. I’m learning as I become someone I often don’t recognize—but who still surprises me.

She is finally comfortable not having all the answers and trusts her higher intelligence has her back, even when nothing makes sense. She doesn’t know whether she’ll stay in the ‘Big Smoke’ or move somewhere a little more hideylic, nor does she have a five-year—or even five-month—plan.

What she does know instead is this: Every choice, every screw-up, every beautiful and painful thing has led her right here. To these words quickly filling the once blank page. Because that’s how living works: we stumble forward, bruised and unsure, and somehow we keep going.

Most of us are just doing our best. Quietly, clumsily. Often without recognition, and seldom feeling like we’re doing nearly enough. But it's never about being 'enough, ' and always about remembering there’s more to us than the dark corners we get stuck in.

I’ve lost touch with the blotchy, drowning lady. I suppose I never wanted to admit that no matter our status, hopes, or dreams, there always comes a time when none of us has a clue.

I felt responsible to offer her certainty, when the kindest thing would have been to say, Hey, let’s figure this out together. One mess after another, we’ll get there. And maybe—if we’re lucky—we’ll get to laugh at ourselves along the way.