Not long ago, I got a call from my manager that started with a weird question about my “career path.” It was framed as a conversation about growth, but I could tell—instantly—that something was off. They started throwing out random ideas: Had I considered doing this instead? Or that? The tone was oddly upbeat. But I knew.

I felt it before anything was said: that pit in my stomach, the heat rising in my cheeks. And as much as I hate to admit it, I cried. Not in a dramatic, Oscar-worthy way. Just quiet tears with no words. Because in that moment, I saw the writing on the wall.

I suddenly became aware of how people like me—experienced, seasoned, and not exactly junior-level—are often treated in industries obsessed with the shiny and new. I was valued, but not valuable enough to keep.

That moment gutted me. I was 51, in an industry (creative, comms, PR) that’s obsessed with newness. Agencies chase the next big trend, the next shiny face, the next “fresh” POV, which is usually code for younger. And suddenly I was out of a job with a fairly-new mortgage, a whole lot of experience, and a sinking feeling that no one was going to hire me again.

I didn’t sleep that night. Or many nights after. I doom-scrolled LinkedIn, reading post after post from people in the same boat; many of them stuck, searching for 1-2 years. I felt like I was standing in a line that had no end.

And then, my husband said something simple that shifted everything: “Why don’t you take a break? Just a few days. Get some space.”

So I did. I rented a cheap Airbnb an hour away, up in the mountains, and spent two days talking to myself out loud, journaling, walking, and crying (again). But in the quiet, something cracked open.

I started to remember who I was.

I wasn’t some out-of-touch relic. I was someone who had built things. Solved problems. Created teams. Mentored people. Navigated chaos. Told stories that mattered.

I had been focusing so much on what someone else said about me, I forgot to hear my own voice.

That weekend, I heard it again.

I came back home and started looking—not just for jobs, but for something. Stories, role models, a sign that it was possible to find a new path at this stage of life. But most of what I found was either about “staying young” or “embracing menopause.” And listen, there’s absolutely value in those narratives, but it’s not all there is.

Where were the women who changed careers at 55? Who started over at 60? Who moved across the world, launched a new venture, found romance for the first time, or simply decided to live life differently than they had before? Where were the women like me?

That’s why I started Chapter51 Collective.

This isn’t about pretending aging doesn’t exist. It’s about rejecting the idea that it diminishes us. I’ve been at this fork in the road before. When I was in my late 30s, after yet another awful date (more on this in a future post), I decided I wanted to move countries and try living somewhere completely different. I left Los Angeles, moved to Ireland, and eventually met my now-husband.

But let me be clear: It wasn’t easy. It was a long, complicated process filled with paperwork, setbacks, and moments where I had no idea what I was doing. But I’m scrappy. I figured it out and I made it work. Because deep down, I knew I wanted more than what my life looked like at that time.

Now, here I am again. At another fork. This time, older, wiser, and yeah, a little scared.

But also ready.

Chapter51 Collective is a space for stories like mine—and yours.

Stories of reinvention, resilience, curiosity, and all the things we’re still becoming. Not stories about how to stay young, but stories about how to stay alive.

If one woman reads this and feels a little more seen, a little less stuck, then I’ll have done what I set out to do.

And while Chapter51 Collective isn’t my full-time job, it’s the most meaningful work I’ve ever started. In parallel, I did take on a contract role—something I wasn’t sure I was qualified for at first—and that, too, became a chapter of unexpected growth (I promise I’ll write about it in a future post). It’s a reminder that reinvention doesn’t always mean leaving everything behind. Sometimes it means saying yes to what scares you, and building something new alongside what keeps you steady.

So, let’s write this next chapter together.

Everything Changed, and So Did I