51 and Falling

I didn’t think I’d make it to 51. In my mind, I’ve always been 26. But now that I’m here, the view is different—clearer, messier, more honest.

The first red flag wasn’t metaphorical. It was literal: I kept falling down. One day I almost passed out while driving, just trying to get the car to a safe stop.

Next came the seizures. The misdiagnoses. The neurologists who told me it was all in my head. (And I told them, yes, I know something is wrong with my head. That’s why I’m here.)

I was in physical crisis—but still trying to build a business with someone who turned out to be a literal career criminal. The FBI eventually told me. My body had been trying to tell me a lot sooner.

And yet, I kept going. Because I’d been taught, like so many women, that if you stop, you lose. That rest equals failure. That it’s your job to carry it all.

But now, I’m 51. And I’m calling BS.

We are not the problem. The system is.

And if you’re here, too—maybe falling apart a little, but still standing—you’re not alone.

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