The Story You Might Tell About Me, And Why You're Wrong

Understanding Our Stories

You might look at my life and tell yourself a story.

Let’s be honest; it would make sense if you did.

You know the one: a woman who jumped out of reality and dragged her children through a hot and steamy lump of midlife crisis. The story where she moves to another part of the state to hide from her mistakes, keeping the gossiping locals from witnessing her chaos. The narrative where she goes back to school, adding financial debt to an already bulging loan account, while juggling a new career, a new home, and a new business—all after forcing her ex-husband through a nasty divorce. Walking away from the $560,000 house wasn’t enough; she needed to take him for all he was worth. It’s no wonder that outsiders perceive this as walking away from something good and stepping into her own version of the Twilight Zone.

I’m certain there are those who believe I couldn’t be pleased with a brand-new house on a countryside hilltop, four beautiful children, and a husband offering me the world. I know there are others who tell the story of the young female lawyer, supported by the county and state to thrive in a rural law practice, only to throw it all away to escape scrutiny. I am painfully aware of the tales spun about the girl who always seems to be running away from a respectable life, building something solid, just to casually light a match to it all because she can’t figure out who she is.

The Complexity of Perception

"That girl," they all say, “she’s a mess, ungrateful, and blew everything up. She threw away a respectable career, realized she made a mistake, and even went so far as to marry a woman because she thought she couldn’t make a man happy. She must think she’s not desirable to debase herself to such an unconscionable decision!” “Or…” they whisper, “She’s just looking for attention.”

“That girl,” they continue, “stands on a soapbox, makes herself the center of attention, and searches for rebellion because she doesn’t know what she wants anymore. No one can keep up. She’s trying, but we all know what’s good for her if she’d just listen.”

“That girl,” they all say, “is not the kind of person I need telling me how to live a better life when she made a mess of the one she had.”

And honestly? I get why it looks that way. If I were watching from the outside, I might tell that same story too. It’s neat. It’s simple. It ties things up in a way that feels safe—like there’s a clear reason someone would disrupt their own life. As long as you don’t do that, you’ll be fine. But lean in close so I can whisper a small truth in your ear: “that’s just not what happened.”

The Quiet Truth

What actually happened was much quieter, slower, and infinitely more uncomfortable than a dramatic, one-time breakdown. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide, “this is the day I blow up my life.” That sounds much more efficient than the slow process that ensued. Instead, I woke up—over and over again—to a feeling I could no longer ignore. One that persisted no matter how much I tried to ignore it, perform over it, and smile through it.

My life wasn’t being lived for me. It was being lived to gain praise where I felt I was never enough. It was being lived seeking love from someone who struggled to give it, begging for reciprocation that would never come because I didn’t love myself enough to walk away. It was being lived for recognition in pursuit of a deep desire to be relevant and needed because abusive caregivers in my youth abandoned me in ways that left me wanting unconditional love that I thought was meant to be earned.

I didn’t lose stability; I was performing it. Over a two-year period filled with boundaries, therapy, grief, and confrontation, I confronted a deep hollow sadness that was building under the life society told me was meant to be fulfilling. I had built a life that looked stable on the outside, but required me to slowly abandon myself on the inside. And that kind of stability? It’s not peace. It’s maintenance. It’s holding everything together just well enough that no one asks questions. It’s performing contentment so convincingly that even you almost believe it. It’s saying, “This is good. This should be enough,” while something in your chest quietly whispers, but it’s not. That whisper doesn’t scream. It doesn’t demand. It just lingers… patiently… like it knows eventually you’re going to have to listen or risk imploding.

Choosing the Inconvenient Truth

I didn’t just walk away. I chose something most of us are trained to override—the quiet, inconvenient truth. The kind of truth that doesn’t come with a roadmap or a handbook on life. The kind that doesn’t make sense on paper. It triggers every voice you’ve ever internalized: Be grateful. Don’t be dramatic. This is what everyone works for. Why would you leave something good for a life of struggle on your own? And maybe my personal favorite—“Who do you think you are to want more than this?” (That one hits just right, doesn’t it?)

But here’s the thing about truth—once you hear it clearly, you don’t get to un-hear it. You can delay it. You can negotiate with it. You can try to drown it out with your own version of logic, responsibility, or a very convincing to-do list. But it stays. It nags. Eventually, the discomfort of ignoring it becomes heavier than the fear of following it.

And no—I didn’t blow up my life. I simply stopped performing it and asked others to show up honestly rather than staying for their pretty promises. I stopped confusing “this looks good” with “this feels right.” I stopped chasing gold stars for a life I didn’t actually want to live and took inventory of the real difference I wanted to make. I switched the famous narrative of “I am good at this so why change it” to “I have passion for this so pursuing it is my only option.” I stopped trying to convince myself that if I just adjusted my attitude, everything would magically click into place. (As if fulfillment is just a mindset issue. As if your body doesn’t keep receipts.)

I had built something that worked—on paper. Academically, I was a shining star. I had built a life that made sense to others. You turn eighteen, go to school, have the baby, get married, build a house, continue your career until maybe you get to retire, or… something like that. To many people, I had a life that checked all the right boxes.

And yet… I felt like I was living slightly to the left of myself. Close enough to function. Far enough to feel it. That’s the part no one really talks about. You don’t have to be miserable to be misaligned, although I was pretty miserable. You don’t have to hit rock bottom to know something isn’t right, although rock bottom looked eerily like begging a husband who would rather leave for weeks and drink away his problems to stay and fix our marriage.

The Illusion of Stability

I was cutting off my mother and having no one in the scariest moments of my life—financially, emotionally, and mentally. I was sinking a new business and fearing lack of stability with no one to support me but myself. I was emotionally taking my worries out on children who shouldn’t have had to shoulder those burdens. I was sinking into loneliness, depression, and fear as I was isolated and told that people were calling me a loose cannon. Sometimes, everything is “fine”—and that’s exactly the problem. We know nothing of what’s on the other side of the slight smile and assurance that we robotically offer the public because we have been told that showing our emotions means we are unstable.

The Bravery of Honesty

I didn’t make these changes because I was lost. I made them because I was finally honest, and sometimes, this blatant honesty is the bravest, scariest thing a person can do. It often goes against the grain of what’s expected. When you are perceived as spontaneous, you are seen as untrustworthy, inconsistent, unstable, impulsive, and unpredictable, causing people to distance themselves. Many fear what they cannot understand or the unknown of your next move.

So, because I was already isolated, I could drown out the noise of what everyone else wanted, needed, or asked of me. I was just honest. Honest about what I actually wanted. Honest about what I didn’t. Honest about the fact that many of my decisions had been shaped by expectation, tradition, and fear—not truth. And let me be very clear—I didn’t arrive at that honesty gracefully. There was resistance. There was denial. There was a solid stretch of time where I tried to intellectualize my way out of it, because surely if I could just understand it better, I wouldn’t have to change anything.

I remember talking to my own couple’s life coach one night, claiming, “I can do it. I can let go of all of my needs and just love them through it. They’ll see someday; they’ll return what they can’t give now if I’m just patient. I can just love him like Claire loves Jaime on Outlander. I can just be a mom, a daughter, and ignore what they won’t give, be the bigger person. I can.” She sat and listened patiently while I rambled on, trying to convince myself that I could do the impossible. She sighed and said, “Ashley, Jaime always showed back up for Claire. Do you think you could live a life of no reciprocation? Truly?” Her question was met with silence that felt unending. “I think so; I am going to try,” I said.

Spoiler: that didn’t work. The pain of never being chosen time and again crept back up until it reared its ugly head, and I was back to begging for everyone in my life to see my efforts and value me the same way. I knew what was wrong in my marriage; my relationships with my kids as I tried to reactively parent them into submission; my relationships with my siblings and parents that were based on desperation for me to stay in my role as the scapegoat so they didn’t have to see their own parts in the play they performed. I thought if I just did nothing toward this new awareness, I could silently be the one who knows and just energetically will the system to right itself. But it never did. Turns out, awareness without honest action just becomes a really sophisticated way to stay stuck.

The Common Struggle

This is the part that matters. This isn’t just about me. There are so many people living lives that look right but don’t feel right. Lives that are stable, impressive, and acceptable—but quietly exhausting. Lives where everything adds up on paper, but something still feels… off. Instead of questioning the life, they question themselves. They look externally for answers because surely the discomfort isn’t caused by the systems they exist within and give permission to exist. Surely, it must be themselves that are wrong and antagonistic. Maybe I’m just ungrateful, they think to themselves. So many others have it way worse than me; what on this earth do I have to complain about? Maybe I expect too much. Maybe this is just how it is. So, they do as expected of them; they adjust. They minimize. They learn how to tolerate instead of transform. Over time, they get really good at it.

We’re taught to wait for a breaking point before we change. We wait for some undeniable crisis, and sometimes even that is not enough. Because what will other people think? We wait for something dramatic enough to justify the disruption when no amount of justification will satisfy everyone.

The Subtle Shift

The truth is—most change doesn’t start at the moment of undeniable impact. It starts with a whisper. A subtle discomfort. A quiet knowing. A feeling you can’t fully explain but also can’t shake. A moment where you realize: I could keep living like this, but I don’t think I’m meant to, and the more I keep forcing it, the worse it becomes. And that realization? It doesn’t come with applause. It comes with questions. With fear. With a slow unraveling of everything you thought you were supposed to want. With anger over wasted time. With denial that it needs to change. With grief and loss. With bargaining with a higher power to just give you a damn break. With the highs and lows of victimization and empowerment in contrast to each other causing conflict. With sobbing into your pillow at night because you just don’t have it together anymore, and you can’t perform your way through this one. This new chapter is on the other side of the Impact Zone, where the waves have finally broken, and before you lies a vast ocean full of mysteries and surprises.

The Courage to Step Forward

Most people don’t need a new life. They need the courage to tell the truth about the one they’re living so they can step authentically into it or shift out of narratives that no longer support the person within that they are coming home to. If that truth has been tapping you on the shoulder lately—softly, persistently, inconveniently—you’re not lost. You’re not broken. You’re not having a crisis. You’re just starting to listen, and there’s nothing braver than taking that first step.

I can help you through the journey if you’ll let me.

Book a Free Heart Alignment Strategy Session with me, and let me guide you through experience, empathy, understanding, and insight. We will take these steps together; you are not alone in your healing.