For all appearances, my life in Los Angeles was enviable. I was 37, living in a lovely condo in a beautiful part of Pasadena. I had a close group of friends, my family was nearby, and my work (at least from the outside) seemed like something people would dream of. I was a freelance journalist writing for one of the biggest celebrity magazines, interviewing the likes of Jon Hamm and Jennifer Garner on the red carpet at movie premiers. I spent evenings at the Chateau Marmont, gathering details for a slew of feature stories, watching Hollywood unfold around me. It was the kind of career that made for good stories at parties.

But the truth is, I was lonely. I was anxious. And I felt deeply stuck.

Journalism, the career I’d poured myself into, was changing fast and I was feeling the heat. My editors at the big celebrity publication were pushing me to do more dirty work to dig up the kinds of stories that were selling tons of magazines for our biggest competitor. My lowest point? The day I knocked on Jennifer Lopez's father's door to ask how he felt about becoming a grandfather--only for him to blink at me in confusion and say, "Jennifer's pregnant?" Actually, that wasn’t even the lowest point. The day she gave birth, my editor rang and asked if I’d head back to her father’s house for a reaction quote. Are you kidding? He’d already slammed the door in my face, and now I was supposed to show up again, like some kind of tabloid groundhog? II lied and said I went, and that he wouldn’t answer the door. I just didn’t have the heart. and deep down, I knew I wasn’t long for this job.

In addition to becoming a complete hack (the kind of reporter who'd bombard someone at their home for a cheap scoop), I was watching budgets shrink, opportunities vanish, and worrying constantly about what would come next. And that nagging fear was matched only by the loneliness that settled over me no matter how full my calendar looked. I could be surrounded by people, but I still felt invisible.

Dating didn’t help. I’d been on Match.com for months, enduring a rotation of first dates that went nowhere, crafting careful messages, fielding endless questions from well-meaning friends about how it was all going. It felt like a second job, only one that paid in disappointment.

And then came a date that cracked something open.

Ben (not his real name) seemed normal enough--which, in the world of online dating--felt like a win. We met for a drink, and early in the conversation, he smiled and said: “I wouldn’t say you’re exactly average.”

For a split second, I thought maybe he was paying me a compliment. Maybe I wasn’t as invisible as I felt.

Then he followed it with: “I’d say more like ‘more to love’ or ‘a few extra pounds.’”

I realized he was referring the answer I'd chosen for Match.com's "Body Type" multiple-choice question (I truly hope this is not a thing anymore!). In one breath, he confirmed my worst inner fears; the things I already told myself in my lowest moments. That I was ugly, overweight, not the type of girl that guys are into. That I didn’t measure up in a city full of supermodels and actors and the producers who date them. I said something about him being bald and short (because sometimes, in the moment, the truth is all you’ve got), grabbed my purse, and left. The next day, I quit Match.com.

And then I started asking myself the harder questions. Why am I still here? What am I waiting for?

I kept hoping something would change: a career breakthrough, a relationship, some magical event that would shake me out of this rut. But nothing was happening, and I realized: if nothing was changing, maybe it was because I wasn’t changing anything.

That was my turning point.

I decided that if I changed the biggest thing in my life, everything else would have to change, too. Living abroad would require me to start over: new job, new friends, new rhythms. Talk about jumping into the deep end! I didn’t know if it would solve everything, but I knew that staying where I was and doing what I was doing hurt more than the fear of starting over.

*Christmas party with my new work colleagues in Dublin*

It took nine months. After visiting Ireland on assignment and reconnecting with friends there, I applied for a writer’s visa, received the approval, packed up my life, and moved. It was scary, and messy, and not cheap. There was paperwork and bureaucracy and moments when I questioned everything. I think of Rebecca's blog, where she talked about how much harder all of the crap that comes with moving abroad would've been in her 20s; in my late 30s, I had enough life experience to manage such a monumental task. And once I arrived, there was a difficult adjustment period. There were nights I felt just as lonely in the small town of Drogheda as I had in Los Angeles.

But slowly, it started to work. I transitioned from journalism into marketing, managing social media for Guinness and Kerrygold — work I truly loved. I started a blog to document my new life (which, to my surprise, got media coverage) and somehow parlayed that into a bi-weekly radio spot, sharing funny stories about my daily foibles as I adjusted to a whole new country and culture. Taxi drivers would hear my voice in the cab and say, "Hey, yer the one from Gerry’s Late Lunch on LMFM!"

More than the career shift, though, it was the people who made Ireland feel like home. There was a warmth and openness that I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. Sunday lunches, pub meetups, casual dinners — people actually showed up. Plans weren’t tentative or subject to change depending on who else texted. No one was holding out for something shinier. There was a reliability, a steadiness, a kind of realness that I hadn’t experienced in a long time. And maybe for the first time in my adult life, I felt like I could just be myself; no performance, no posturing, no pretense.

I made new friends, met the man who became my husband, and built a life that felt right. My original plan to stay for one year turned into seven years, and an entirely new chapter.

And here’s the truth: I’d do it again.

Not necessarily move countries (though I’m still not giving up on my dream of owning a pied-à-terre in London one day!), not repeat the exact same path. But even now, at 52, I would be willing to make another big change, because I’m even wiser now than I was at 37. I know that it’s never too late. The hardest, scariest choices are often the ones that set you free.

And I’ve made other big changes since then. At 43, my husband and I moved back to the U.S. to start a new chapter. A few years later, after buying a house and settling into what we thought would be our forever city, we sold it and moved states to be closer to my family, which meant starting a new mortgage at 47. At 51, I was laid off from a company I’d been with for seven years, and I pivoted again. I took a contract role in a space I knew little about (B2B tech product marketing), convinced I should take any job given the market. I was terrified; I thought I’d be out of my depth, that I wasn't "technical" enough for the role, that I’d fail (we really are hardest on ourselves, aren't we??). Instead, I discovered a whole new area of marketing I love. And a few months ago, I was hired full-time at that company on a different team, doing work that challenges me, fulfills me, and surrounds me with people who are both talented and kind.

And yet — how often do we, especially as women, talk ourselves out of making these leaps? How often do we tell ourselves it’s selfish to want something different, that we should be grateful for what we have, that it’s too late to change course? We’re taught to put everyone else first, to stay steady, to be the dependable one, to not rock the boat. We convince ourselves that change is a luxury we don’t deserve, or that if we don’t do it while we’re still “young,” the window has closed.

But that’s the lie we’ve been sold. The truth is: you deserve to choose yourself. At 37. At 52. At any age. The only “too late” is the one we decide to believe.

If you’re standing at that edge, wondering if you can — or should — make a leap, let me say this: you can. You absolutely deserve to.

The Year I Stopped Waiting and Started Over

From Burnout to Freedom: A Journey to Reinvention and Inner Wisdom