After 40 years of marriage, I was divorced.

And it wasn’t just my husband I lost.

I lost the version of myself I had been for four decades – the wife, the supporter.

Without that role… who was I?

So I did something wildly out of character.

I booked a ticket to Nepal.

Alone.

Even saying it now sounds impulsive. At the time, it felt necessary.

Kathmandu felt like spring after a long gray winter.

I was immediately surrounded by colors, sounds, and smell of incense.  

Everything felt alive.

And strangely, so did I.

In the foothills near the Himalayas, something inside me began to slow down. 

The mountains have a way of making your personal problems feel small.

One morning, I visited a small monastery tucked into the hills. 

I sat quietly during morning chants, not understanding the words but feeling their rhythm settle into my chest. 

Afterward, an older monk approached me. 

We spoke in simple English. 

I told him I felt like my life had ended.

He smiled – without pity. 

“Only your marriage ended,” he said. “Your story did not. You can continue to write it.”

Those words followed me everywhere.

Back in my guesthouse, I opened a notebook.

And stared at an empty page.

For weeks.

When I returned home after a month, the page was still blank. 

I didn’t know how to describe what was in my heart – or who I even was without the life I had built around someone else.

One evening, I was doing what I had gotten very good at – scrolling so I didn’t have to sit with my thoughts.

That’s when I saw an ad for something called Memowrite.

Normally I would have ignored it.

But one line caught me:

“Answer 50 questions about your life – we turn it into your book. No writing skills needed.”

I almost laughed. I had been staring at a blank notebook for months.

But this was different.

I was asked what I dreamed about when I was 18, risks I took, times when I was brave.

No one had asked me those things in decades.

As I started answering, something surprising happened.

I remembered her.

The young woman who went to culinary school.

The one who dreamed of owning a place filled with the scent of cardamom and warm bread.

Somewhere along the way, I hid her away.

But I felt her budding inside me again.

After a few weeks, I held a book with my name, with all of my big dreams inside of it.

I couldn’t keep it hidden – and just had to show my daughter a few pages.

Then she looked at me and said, “Mom… why not now?”

Why not now…

At 62, that question is both terrifying and electric.

So I took my savings.

And I opened a small neighborhood bakery.

Now, every morning when I unlock the doors and smell fresh bread rising, I understand something I couldn’t see back then.

Nepal reminded me that life moves in seasons.

Memowrite helped me remember who I’ve always been.

Divorce wasn’t the end of my story.

It was the white space before the next chapter – the one I finally had the courage to write.

And I know that you also have an entire life story inside you. So why not write it now?