You were born with an inny. Your parents swaddled and adored you and gave you nicknames like “princess” and “honey love pot” and “sweetness.” They gave you girly toys and you liked them. Mostly. Your mom told you that the world was your playground and that you could be and do anything you imagined. You built sand castles and mud pies with daisy frosting, and you punched Joey for cutting in front of you in the lunch line on pizza day. You got straight As in math even thought you couldn’t imagine how it was relevant to, well, anything. 

And then you were eleven. E-leven. The boys were stronger, but you could still hold your own on the flag football team because you were a foot taller and ran like a cheetah. Boys were noisy and loud and gross, demanding the teacher’s attention and wiping their noses on the inside of their elbows, and life was way better when you circled up with the girls in solidarity and sniped out Ginzu barbs that could cleave a life in two.

And then you were 15. Nothing made sense. A yearning something yanked you into imperfect friendships and furtive carnal alliances. You excelled and failed in equal measure, wished people expected more of you and loathed yourself when they asked for more than you could give.

At 17 the yearning something transformed into direction, outlined by doubt and desire and stubborn abandon. You found your activism and your g-spot almost simultaneously, and for a moment, one excruciating moment, you considered raising chickens, throwing pottery, writing like Jane Austen and birthing babies like you might flip pancakes.

Somewhere in your late 20s, after the B.A. and the Master’s and the year in Costa Rica counting turtles and the job coup of a lifetime, you ran into yourself at an intersection.  You had your feet on the ladder, a ring of promise on your finger and endless eggs cueing up to nest in your belly. The light turned green and you gunned it. Pedal to the metal.

You knew you could do it all. You’d been doing it all since you learned to walk. Promotion lead to partnership, and partnership lead to authority and in between the meetings and the diapers and the arguments and the invitations and the accolades, you realized your weekends with loved ones were spent shopping for cake mixes and power tools and suddenly you’re 43 and just like 15, not one thing makes sense, and your Jane Austen self sits on the curb where you left her, waving at you.

Who are you? You’re Jane Doe, the CEO, and nothing’s wrong. You’re in the right place at the right time for the right reason. And babe, it’s time to get your balance back.

It’s no wonder we women find ourselves here. Even if we were blessed with parents and mentors who helped us discover and navigate the sweet waters of purpose-filled living, we have been aided and abetted by our culture. A culture that doesn’t much understand pause and reflection and stepping away from the madding crowd. A culture that still struggles to come to grips with equality and feminine leadership.

No matter if we’re household excecutives, freelancers or entrepreneurs, cubicle expats who chose to take a breather to raise children, or c-level jugglers, we all reach at least one pivot point in our lives in which we question who we are and what our lives are missing. How well we navigate this passage depends on our willingness to give ourselves what we need. To pause and reinvent.

A good place to start is to ask, “Who am I now?”