How life unraveled—and what I’m learning as I rebuild.
One year ago, life looked completely different.
I had recently left my corporate job and was trying to find my footing with my Etsy shop. Garret was still working full-time—a job that, truthfully, was slowly killing him. He was exhausted. He was depressed. His physical symptoms were growing more concerning by the day, and I had the quiet fear that we were inching toward a heart attack or stroke.
And yet, we felt… secure. Or so we thought.
We had just paid off the last of our medical and consumer debt from an emergency during a time when we had no insurance, and were ready to begin actively saving. We believed Garret’s position was stable—he was a veteran, the senior employee on his team, consistently ranking as one of the top producers, and had a loyal client base. His stock options were set to vest in a month. We thought we had time.
But we were wrong.
Five days after my 60th birthday—just shy of one year ago—they fired him. “Reduction in force.” No “thank you”. No acknowledgment of his ten years of service. No grace. No dignity. Just an abrupt termination and a pitiful severance package contingent on signing away the right to ever pursue legal action for age discrimination.
In a moment, everything changed.
We’ve spent the past year trying to rebuild something from that collapse. Garret has pursued consulting. I’ve poured myself into my studio and small business. We’ve worked hard. And yet, the financial return has been minimal. There have been days full of grit and gratitude… and days thick with grief, frustration, and exhaustion.
The ground we thought was stable turned out to be sand.
But here’s what I’ve learned in the process:
Security doesn’t live in paychecks or policies or promises from employers.
It lives in truth. In tenacity. In the love between two people who refuse to give up.
It lives in creativity. In community. In small acts of courage, repeated daily.
This has been the hardest year of our lives—and also, in many ways, the most clarifying.
As I approach 61, I carry more honesty than I ever have. More depth. More faith. More softness, too—but it’s the kind that’s been fire-forged, not naïve.
This isn’t the life we planned.
But it is the life we are building.
And somehow, there’s greater beauty in that.
If you’ve ever walked through a season where everything shifted beneath your feet, I’d love to know what helped you find your way. Feel free to reply or share your reflections.
And if you’re new here, welcome. This space—The Studio Journal—is a mix of art, planning, reflection, and life in all its beauty and mess. I’m glad you’re here.
