There’s something about this season that pulls you backward and forward at the same time.

You remember the weight of them as babies, how you carried them through sleepless nights, pacing the hallway in the dark, whispering prayers you hoped would stick.

You remember the sticky fingers, the carpool lines, the endless snacks, the late-night projects spread across the kitchen table.

The years where your life felt full to the brim… loud, chaotic, sacred in its own ordinary way.

And now… It’s, well, just different.

We pour ourselves into these little souls, our time, our energy, our bodies, our very identity. Whether we worked outside the home, inside the home, or lived somewhere in the constant tension of both, we have carried so much.

The mental load and emotional labor. The invisible work no one applauds, but that holds everything together…

And this time of year is a swirl of it all. Banquets and ceremonies with pretty dresses and speeches. Group texts and deadlines….a calendar is so full you can barely breathe.

And underneath it… this steady hum of emotion that catches you off guard in the quiet moments Joy… but also grief. As well as a disorientation. A subtle, persistent question that lingers longer than you expected: Who am I now?

Because somewhere along the way, being “Mom” didn’t just become something we did… it became who we are.

And when the house grows quieter, when their lives stretch outward and away from yours, it can feel like a holy disruption. Not wrong. Not bad. But undeniably disorienting.

Maybe that’s why Scripture reminds us there is “a time for everything… a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to keep and a time to release.” Life moves in seasons, whether we are ready for them or not. Some are full and loud and consuming. Others are quieter, more spacious, and if we’re honest, a little unsettling. But none of them are outside the care of God.

This season holds both celebration and surrender, and if you’re feeling all of it at once, the joy, the loss, the gratitude, the ache, you’re not doing it wrong. You are simply holding the tension of very real emotions.

And then there’s the part we don’t say out loud.

Because not every story you’re scrolling past feels like your story.

You see the announcements, the glossy photos, the polished captions, the big-name schools with even bigger price tags, and for a moment, you feel the lift of it alongside them. And then, just as quickly, something in you settles differently. Maybe not bitter, or envious exactly, but keenly aware…a quiet recognition that your story doesn’t look like that.

Not everything is social media worthy, right? (Nor for the record, SHOULD it be… the algorithm is a bit of a lie, my friends, it is not reality, but that is another post).

Maybe your child didn’t get into that school… or maybe they did but then the numbers came. OUCH.

The reality of it. The kind of cost that sits heavy in your chest and doesn’t go away. The conversations around the kitchen table where you try to weigh dreams against debt, potential against pressure, wondering what is wise in a world that feels increasingly uncertain. The tears that come with those conversations.

The regret that maybe you should have planned better, but between the new roof, the meaningful family vacation, and every expense that felt necessary at the time, there just isn’t $300k sitting in a college fund…

And so you make the decision that doesn’t photograph as well. The one that won’t get the same response online. The one that requires maturity, restraint and a long view that no one applauds.

Or maybe your story has been harder than that.

Maybe this season isn’t marked by celebration as much as it is by relief. The kind that settles deep in your body after years of advocating, navigating learning differences, managing anxiety, sitting in meetings, asking questions, pushing for help, praying prayers no one else heard. Dark nights, wondering where your child will be in the future? What will life look like? You have carried something heavy for a long time, and most people have no idea what it took to get here.

And now it’s ending.

Not perfectly. Not neatly. But it’s ending.

And you find yourself weeping, not because everything turned out the way you once imagined, but because you made it through. Because they made it through. Because something that took everything out of you is finally loosening its grip.

And still… there’s more.

There’s the quiet you didn’t anticipate.

The way the house feels when no one is coming and going. The absence of noise that once defined your days. The way space opens up, and with it, things you’ve managed for years begin to surface. Conversations you’ve postponed. Tension you’ve learned to work around. A marriage that has revolved around raising kids, managing schedules, handling life, and now, suddenly, it’s just the two of you sitting across from each other without the buffer of busy.

It’s not that the love isn’t there…if you’re honest, maybe it’s a little fragile in places you haven’t wanted to look at too closely.

And layered into all of this, because of course it is, your body is changing too.

At the exact moment life is asking you to release, your body is asking you to pay attention in a way you never had to before. The hormonal shifts. The changes in sleep. The emotions that feel closer to the surface. The way your patience isn’t what it used to be (I mean, the rage is REAL). You find yourself in the same conversations, the same dynamics, and suddenly you don’t have the same capacity to absorb it all. At all.

Brené Brown calls midlife an “unraveling,” and that feels more accurate than anything else. Not a breakdown, but a loosening. A pulling apart of the things that held us together for years, so we can see what was actually holding us up… and what was quietly wearing us out.

And it’s not just relationships.

You start to feel it in your work too.

The career that once made sense, the role you stepped into because it fit your life, your family, your season, it doesn’t land the same way anymore. Something feels off in a way you can’t quite explain, just a quiet, persistent knowing that it no longer fits.

Tim Keller once wrote that if you build your identity on your work, success will go to your head and failure will go to your heart. Midlife has a way of exposing that. It reveals the places we’ve been asking our roles to tell us who we are… and gently, or not so gently, invites us to find our identity somewhere deeper.

Because it’s not about capability, it’s about alignment.

And that can feel just as disorienting as everything else.

Because now it’s not just your role as a mom that’s shifting. It’s not just your body or your marriage. It’s the place you’ve spent so much of your time, your energy, your identity. The question isn’t always, " What do I do next? It’s often, do I stay? Do I go? Do I pivot? And underneath that, the quieter question, what do I even want now?”

That question can feel overwhelming.

For years, you carried more than your share. You held things together, smoothed things over, made things work, even when it cost you. Maybe especially when it costs you.

And now, your body and your soul are no longer agreeing to that same arrangement. I have been there… the not-so-perfect storm of midlife.

It doesn’t always come out cleanly. Sometimes it looks like irritation or a shorter fuse. Sometimes it feels like you’ve lost a version of yourself you used to rely on. But underneath that is something more honest than anything you’ve had access to in a long time:

Clarity.

A growing awareness of what is yours to carry and what never was. A quieter, steadier sense of what works for you now and what doesn’t. Not because you’ve become harder, but because you’ve lived enough life to recognize the cost of continuing in ways that aren’t sustainable.

And all of this is happening at once.

Your kids are stepping into their lives in visible, meaningful ways. Your home is shifting in ways you feel more than you can explain. Your marriage is no longer cushioned by the constant motion of raising kids, and your body is asking for a different kind of attention. It’s not one change. It’s a convergence of them, and some days it feels like more than you expected to hold.

What I’m learning, slowly and sometimes reluctantly, is that this isn’t a call to go back and recover who I used to be. It feels much more like an unfolding, like living in the tension of not fully knowing and choosing to stay present anyway.

I am still becoming…and if you have air in your lungs - news flash - so are you.

Not in a rushed or performative way, but in a quieter, more honest way that requires us to pay attention to what is actually true right now. To our lives as they are, to our bodies as they are, to the relationships in front of us as they are. For me? It’s slower than I would like some days and far less tidy than I would prefer, but it is also more grounded than anything I’ve experienced in a long time.

I know this season because I’ve lived it. As a mom of two, a stepmom to two more, and a Nonna to three, with one graduating this year, I feel the pride and the ache right alongside each other.

I know the challenges of an empty nest, of recreating a career in my 50’s and figuring out my wellness and health.

Along the way, I didn’t just walk through it; I got equipped for it.

I became an ICF-certified coach, trained as a menopause coach, stepped into the Ready Network framework, and became a Working Genius facilitator. Not to add titles, but to understand what is happening in this season and how to walk through it with intention.

And if you’re reading this and quietly thinking, YES… this is exactly how it feels, you don’t have to navigate it alone.

If something in this felt a little too familiar, I’m exploring opening a small coaching circle called Still Becoming for women in this exact season.

I’m starting a waitlist. If you want to be included, send me a DM that simply says BECOMING, and I’ll make sure you’re the first to know when it goes live.

With you in it,

Dawn

Dawn Marraccino is an ICF-certified Life Coach, Ready Network Coach, Working Genius Facilitator, and Certified Menopause Coach who helps women rebuild their lives with grit, grace, and faith. After more than 20 years supporting senior leaders in ministry, she now works with women who feel stuck, unseen, or ready for something more. A high school dropout who later earned her degree from Liberty University, Dawn brings both lived experience and hard-won wisdom to her work. She lives in San Diego with her husband, Frank, and their Goldendoodle, Whitney, and spends part of the year living on their sailboat. She is happiest outside with her family - walking, traveling, or near the water.

Wowza. It has been a wild stretch. It feels like life is often this constant tension between the hard and the beautiful, both showing up at the same time, whether we’re ready or not.

You know, that analogy of two trains running side by side on parallel tracks…one train is headed towards this is amazing, and the other chugging away towards really hard and challenging? Both are full steam ahead at the same time. That has been the last few weeks.

I went to East Tennessee, and it was stunning. I had no idea how gorgeous it would be. I had the absolute privilege of spending the weekend with a small group of women, teaching on the Parable of the Debtors, and I watched God show up in unmistakable and humbling ways. The kind of moments you can’t manufacture, only witness. It was sacred, full and meaningful.

Then I headed to Florida for what was supposed to be a quick family visit.

It wasn’t…

It turned into an ER visit for my older brother, which turned into a hospital admission, which turned into words no one ever wants to hear again…possible recurrence/spreading of stage 3C melanoma. We are still waiting on answers, still sitting in that space that feels suspended between what we hope is not true and what we are quietly bracing for.

I left Florida without resolution, just the weight of it.

And then came the trip back to California…delays, no sleep, the kind of travel day and night that leaves you completely depleted. The kind where everything feels just a little harder than it should…. where you find yourself half sleeping in an airport in the middle of the night.

And yet… life keeps moving.

It is wild how the world keeps spinning on its axis while collectively “we” are still trying to process what just happened. There’s no pause button. No clean break where everything slows down long enough for us to catch up emotionally to what we’re carrying. That is where I am.

So, I’m back. Back to this. Back to writing.

Back to the final part of a three-part series I started a few weeks ago, and now I keep coming back to, “Why share this now? What is the point?” I am really in a good place.

I truly feel healed.

While I firmly believe we will never “arrive” and we must keep going, growing, and being sanctified… healing from circumstances is definitely possible and my life, my beautiful, messy, rather unconventional life (just living on a sailboat is pretty unconventional, as well as being a solopreuner - well it is not for the faint at heart)… but I truly feel healed in many ways.

In others? There is still a “pang” that can come up at times, and I know that there is still work to be done. Also, I am sure that there is more to uncover and process and proceed because, as Frank Sinatra says, “That’s Life” :)

So why am I writing this?

Because I do remember what it felt like to sit inside a story I didn’t have language for, carrying things I didn’t know how to name, and quietly wondering, sometimes in the middle of the night, sometimes in the middle of a room full of people…if somehow it was me?

If I had, in some way I couldn’t quite articulate, been the problem all along. (One of my favorite songs indeed is, “Hi It’s Me, I’m the problem, it’s Me.”)

And I’m not willing to leave other women there.

If you’ve read the first two parts, then you know this wasn’t one moment. (Part One, Part Two) It wasn’t one relationship or one decision I can reevaluate and explain in hindsight. It was something that formed slowly, over time, shaped by what I had lived through and what I had come to believe about myself because of it.

It is rather insidious what we can start to believe we are worth based on our lived experiences.

Patterns that don’t announce themselves as one, but are revealed in repetition… over time, as an adult, it was about the kinds of rooms I found myself in, the kinds of relationships I tolerated, and the kinds of questions I asked myself instead of asking or challenging others.

There was another habit that I learned along the way: “make your story easier for others to absorb.” I didn’t want to hurt people. I wanted to be loved and accepted.

I softened parts in ways that became instinctive. And to be clear here, I do not believe our stories are for everyone, nor do I believe we just go around trauma dumping. That is NOT what I am talking about here.

I found myself overexplaining before anyone could misunderstand it. People, it seems, have a hard time sitting with someone else’s pain.

So I curated my life. I became excellent at it.

Years later, I remember standing in the back of a room at a women’s retreat, my notes in my hand, going over what I was about to say. There had been a review beforehand, a male pastor told me that part of my story, what happened in Mexico, would make people in the room “uncomfortable.”

So I should leave it out.

And even now, I can still feel that moment. The way it lingered longer than I expected it to. The question that rose, not fully formed, but unmistakable all the same:

Which parts of my story are allowed to exist… and which ones need to disappear so everyone else can stay at ease? So I am acceptable? So they will like me?

For a long time, I answered that question by disappearing in small, socially acceptable ways… and over the years, I found ME disappearing more and more.

I told the version of my story that didn’t disrupt anything. I left out the parts that carried weight. I learned how to read a room and adjust accordingly…over and over again.

But when I strip it all the way down now, when I remove the layers I added to make it easier for other people to hear, it isn’t complicated.

What happened to me was abuse… didn’t happen once, and it didn’t stay contained to one event or one part of my life.

It showed up over and over again, in different forms, at different ages, with different people who should have known better and often did.

And it wasn’t just men. There were women, too.

Women who minimized what I was trying to understand.

Women who looked the other way.

Women who asked questions that didn’t sound harsh on the surface, but carried an implication underneath them that quietly shifted the weight back onto me. They were said calmly, reasonably, sometimes even kindly, and they landed just the same.

So yes, leaving did change my circumstances. But it didn’t immediately change what lived underneath them. That part came slower…there is a lot of work.

Back to what it took to rebuild this life… I met Frank, now fondly known in social circles as “The Captain,” in November of 1994. I was 26, about to turn 27. Still so so young. Still in it.

We spent nearly two years together before we got married, and the truth is, the healing wasn’t behind me. It was unfolding in real time.

We’re coming up on thirty years of marriage. Thirty years of choosing each other.

Thirty years of a blended family, of bringing our full stories into the same space and figuring out, sometimes awkwardly and imperfectly, how to build something steady with all of it.

And it has not always been a breeze. There is no way that it could have been. Even now, I have to watch my tendencies to pull back and want to retreat.

But Frank? He runs toward the storm. Like a buffalo. When a storm approaches, buffalo don’t run away from it. They charge straight into it…getting through it faster. That’s him. He runs toward the hard things. He runs toward me.

I have been a storm at times.

Not just in how I relate to Frank…but in how I understand God. There is a difference between believing Jesus is who He says He is…and surrendering your life. For some people, those happen at the same time.

That wasn’t my story.

But in my early thirties…something shifted. A real surrender. And life has never looked the same.

I realized that God doesn’t call what was done to me good. He doesn’t ask me to rename it. Or curate it.

And because I really think that God has a sense of humor, in a funny twist, God led me into vocational ministry. I tried to run from that, too…of course I did. That tracks.

But God doesn’t operate from the same assumptions I do.

He isn’t looking at my life and seeing disqualification. He sees something I couldn’t see.

And what a beautiful part of my redemption, the rooms I’ve now been privileged to be in, the stories I’ve heard from women who make assumptions about my life and how perfect it must have been for me to be in the roles I’ve been in, the rooms I’ve been in…And to quietly look into their eyes and say, “Me too… me too.”

And to watch the astonishment and relief wash over their faces, that they, too, might have a chance. A lifeline.

And that matters. Because we are still living in a world where powerful people are protected. Where narratives get shaped. Where harm gets questioned before it gets named. I’ve watched it myself over and over…and I am not interested in protecting that.

It is okay if telling the truth makes people uncomfortable. Not everywhere. Not without wisdom. Again, I’m not talking about trauma dumping.

But real change rarely happens inside comfort.

It happens when someone is willing to tell the truth anyway.

That’s how silence breaks. That’s how things begin to change.

Because the truth is… sadly, my story isn’t rare…

For a long time, I thought it was.

I thought what I had experienced said something about me. But it doesn’t.

One in three women will experience physical or sexual violence in her lifetime.

Nearly one in five will experience rape or attempted rape.

And so many more will live through moments they don’t even have language for yet…moments that get minimized, explained away, or quietly carried for years.

Those numbers aren’t abstract. They are women sitting in rooms like the one I stood in. They are women reading this. They are women who have learned it might be easier to stay quiet. They are your sister, your mother, your daughter, your co-worker, your aunt… your wife… You get the idea.

I was just one of them. And silence did not heal what was done. It only protected it. So if something in you is stirring as you read this, if there is a part of your story you have kept quiet because it felt easier or safer or more acceptable, I understand that instinct. I lived there for a long time.

You were never meant to carry that alone.

If you need support, there are people who will listen without asking you to edit your story. You can call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 or visit thehotline.org. RAINN also offers support at 800-656-HOPE or rainn.org.

And if something in you is ready, even in small, quiet ways, to begin telling the truth…that’s where it begins.

Real change doesn’t happen when we stay comfortable.

It happens when someone is brave enough to tell the truth…even when it costs them something.

If you’re reading this and recognizing pieces of your own story…I’m here.

I’m an ICF-certified life coach with a background in religion and Christian counseling, and I’m here to listen and help you take your next step. And if that next step is with someone else, I’ll help you find that too.

Just hit reply.

In this with you,

Dawn

Dawn Marraccino is an ICF-certified Life Coach, Ready Network Coach, Working Genius Facilitator, and Certified Menopause Coach who helps women rebuild their lives with grit, grace, and faith. After more than 20 years supporting senior leaders in ministry, she now works with women who feel stuck, unseen, or ready for something more. A high school dropout who later earned her degree from Liberty University, Dawn brings both lived experience and hard-won wisdom to her work. She lives in San Diego with her husband, Frank, and their Goldendoodle, Whitney, and spends part of the year living on their sailboat. She is happiest outside—walking, traveling, or near the water.

But if you know, you already know… of course it didn’t.

The truth is, leaving wasn’t the end of the hard part. I ended one nightmare only to step into others. It felt like one of those dreams you can’t wake up from—the kind where the setting changes but the fear follows you anyway. In a lot of ways, leaving wasn’t the resolution.

It was just the beginning.

If this were a rom-com, the movie would have ended with my triumphant move into my own apartment.

A tiny little place in Ocean Beach, with salt air drifting through the windows and the sound of the ocean just close enough to feel like hope. Except the heat didn’t work, so on chilly winter mornings I would open the oven and stand there, letting it warm the room while my son played nearby. I can still picture it—the hum of the oven, the cold tile under my feet, the quiet determination that somehow this was going to be better.

Roll credits.

But my story didn’t end there. Because while I had left the abuse, I hadn’t healed what made me choose it in the first place, and that mattered more than I understood at the time.

I was a mess - a hot mess.

Not just internally, although that was certainly true, but in ways you could see. I was constantly scrambling, trying to hold things together, trying to look like I had some control when I absolutely did not. Instability followed me like a shadow, and there was a quiet desperation that sat just beneath the surface, no matter how hard I tried to contain it.

I had no financial support, no child support, and no safety net—just bills that didn’t care about my circumstances and a little boy who depended on me. There wasn’t space to fall apart, even though I already had.

And even in leaving, the abuse didn’t just disappear.

I remember someone saying to me, “Why are you expecting a peaceful divorce when you didn’t have a peaceful marriage?” I can still feel how that landed, the kind of truth that stings because it’s undeniable. Of course, it wasn’t going to be clean. Of course, it wasn’t going to be easy.

There was no neat ending, no clean break—just a different kind of pressure, a different kind of fear. I was still being stalked, still being harassed. There were restraining orders, police involvement, moments where I was trying to call 911 and the phone was ripped out of the wall before I could finish.

It didn’t end.

It just changed the scenery.

I didn’t have money for an attorney. I didn’t have the means to enforce anything. The lies, the manipulation, the fear—they kept going, like a loop I couldn’t quite step out of. Everything felt complicated, like I was constantly ten steps behind my own life, trying to catch up to something that refused to slow down.

I had spent so much time surviving that I didn’t actually know how to live, and that showed up in my choices.

I made decisions I’m not proud of—not because I didn’t know better, but because I didn’t yet know how to choose differently. Survival does something to you. The bills don’t wait for you to get your life together. They keep coming whether you’re ready or not.

So I did what I thought I had to do.

I bounced between jobs, trying to piece together something that would work—something that would cover rent, food, childcare… life. And in one of those jobs, a man in a position of power saw exactly how vulnerable I was. He made promises about my future—opportunities, promotions, a way forward—and crossed lines that should have never been crossed.

At the time, I didn’t have the language for what was happening.

I do now.

And if you ever wonder why I care so deeply about vulnerable women and children—why I feel such a pull to advocate and protect and speak up—you don’t have to look very far into my past to understand it. I know what it feels like to be that woman, and I carry a lot of grace for her.

I also found myself in relationships I never should have been in. Not because I was intentionally seeking chaos, but because chaos still felt familiar. Something is unsettling about how quickly you can fall back into patterns you thought you had left behind, just with a different person standing in front of you. Control can look like care if you don’t know the difference. Confusion can feel like chemistry. Imbalance can feel normal when it’s all you’ve known.

I didn’t trust myself—not my instincts, not my judgment, not even my sense of worth. Looking at the choices I was making, it’s not surprising. I didn’t yet have the internal stability to choose anything different.

I had left the abuse, but I hadn’t healed what made me stay.

Somewhere in the middle of all of it, I walked away from church.

From God.

I had started going before I left my marriage, quietly and on my own, slipping into the back row and trying to piece together something that felt like hope. After my son was born, I would bring him with me, holding him close, doing my best to build something different than what I had experienced growing up.

But I didn’t have roots. I didn’t have a real foundation or a deep understanding of what I was hearing, and I didn’t have people walking alongside me to help me make sense of it all. What I had were Sunday mornings and fragments—pieces of truth, half-understood, loosely held together.

And somewhere along the way, one of those fragments stuck: God hates divorce.

I didn’t hear context or compassion or anything about abuse or the heart of God toward the broken. I just heard the words, and I let them define me.

So what did that make me?

It made me feel disqualified, ashamed, like I had stepped outside of anything God would want for me—not just once, but over and over again with every decision I was making in that season.

So instead of running toward Him, I ran away.

And without that anchor, everything else in my life felt even more unsteady.

Looking back now, I wish I had known Him differently. I wish I had read the Gospels for myself instead of building my understanding on fragments and fear. I wish I had seen Jesus the way He actually is—how He moves toward people like me, not away from them.

I wish I had known the story in Luke 7—the woman who walked into a room she didn’t belong in, carrying her shame in plain sight, and instead of being turned away, found herself at the feet of a Savior who didn’t flinch, who didn’t condemn, who didn’t recoil.

He received her. He honored her. He forgave her.

But Jesus said to the woman, Your faith has saved you; go in peace

I didn’t know that version of Jesus then. The version I had in my head was harsh, distant, quick to judge—a God I half-jokingly, half-seriously thought of as “Jesus Daddy,” watching from a distance, disappointed and ready to strike people down for getting it wrong.

So I stayed away.

But here’s what I know now: when you’ve lived in darkness—when you’ve stood in places you never thought you’d be, made choices you never thought you’d make, and felt the weight of it all pressing in on you—the grace of Jesus doesn’t just feel nice.

It feels like oxygen.

I’m not thankful for the abuse, and I’m not thankful for the choices I made in that season. But I understand now what Paul meant when he said he could give thanks in all things. Because when you’ve seen how dark it can get, grace tastes different—sweeter, deeper, more real than anything you could have understood from a distance.

That is something I know in my bones now.

But knowing that now doesn’t change how I was living then.

There was a moment that shook me in a way I couldn’t ignore.

I was in Mexico, on a date with someone I should not have been with. But if I’m honest, that wasn’t really the issue. The issue was what led me there in the first place. I had become so uncomfortable in my own skin that being alone felt unbearable. Silence felt loud. Stillness felt exposing. So I filled the space the only way I knew how—with people, with attention, with anything that would quiet the ache I didn’t yet know how to name.

I was constantly reaching for affirmation, constantly overriding my own instincts, crossing lines I had once said I would never cross, and then finding ways to explain it to myself so I didn’t have to sit with what I already knew.

Somewhere deep down, there was a voice—quiet, steady, persistent.

And I kept ignoring it.

Until I couldn’t.

Something happened that forced me to see just how vulnerable I had become—how unprotected I really was, how the choices I was making weren’t just unhealthy anymore, they were dangerous.

That moment didn’t fix everything, but it broke through something. For the first time in a long time, I paid attention.

I could see clearly that this was not the life I wanted—not just the life I had left, but the life I was still choosing, and certainly not the life I wanted for my son.

I started to imagine something different. Not something big or impressive—just something steady. I wanted a home. I wanted peace. I wanted mornings that didn’t feel chaotic and evenings that didn’t feel heavy. I wanted to make breakfast without rushing, to have a clean house, to spend weekends at the park or the beach, and feel, even for a moment, like we were okay.

But even that felt distant, like it belonged to someone else’s life.

I saw it from the outside. There was a “them,” and then there was “me”. I saw it at my son’s preschool, in the families who seemed settled, in the moms who looked rested, in the quiet rhythm of lives that felt so foreign to me. As he got older and moved into kindergarten, I saw it again in soccer games, in weekend routines, in back-to-school nights where people seemed to know where they belonged.

I always felt just outside of it, like they were inside something I couldn’t quite reach.

I could feel the distance, even when no one said a word. And sometimes, I heard the whispers.

I showed up in my bartending uniform to pick him up, doing my best to look put together when I was anything but. I missed conferences because I had worked until one in the morning and couldn’t keep my eyes open the next day. I was exhausted, stretched thin, and constantly aware that I didn’t look like the other moms.

I didn’t feel like them either.

And what hurt the most wasn’t just what I saw or what I imagined they were thinking. It was the quiet fear that this might become his story too—his normal, his legacy.

I didn’t want that for him.

So somewhere in the middle of all of that—through the exhaustion, the missteps, and the longing for something I didn’t yet know how to build—something began to shift.

Not overnight, not cleanly, not in a way that would make for a pretty, inspiring story.

But it was real.

And that’s what I’ve come to understand about change. It’s rarely one moment that fixes everything. It’s a series of small, often quiet choices, made over time, that begin to move you in a different direction—even when you’re not entirely sure where that direction will lead.

If you find yourself anywhere in this story—whether you’re still in it, or you’ve already left and everything still feels messy—I want you to hear me: you are not alone.

If you are being hurt—physically, emotionally, or controlled in ways that make you feel small, afraid, or trapped—that is not love, and you are not meant to stay there. I know what it feels like to believe you have no options. I know what it feels like to feel stuck. But there are options, even if you can’t see them yet.

If you are in immediate danger, call 911. You can also reach out to the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 or visit thehotline.org. It’s confidential, and they are available 24/7.

There is life on the other side of this.

I am living proof.

This is Part 2 of a short series. In Part 3, I’ll share how I began to rebuild—slowly, imperfectly, and with a faith I had to rediscover from the ground up.

Coach Dawn Noel

Dawn Marraccino is an ICF-certified Life Coach, Ready Network Coach, Working Genius Facilitator, and Certified Menopause Coach who helps women rebuild their lives with grit, grace, and faith. After more than 20 years supporting senior leaders in ministry, she now works with women who feel stuck, unseen, or ready for something more. A high school dropout who later earned her degree from Liberty University, Dawn brings both lived experience and hard-won wisdom to her work. She lives in San Diego with her husband, Frank, and their Goldendoodle, Whitney, and spends part of the year living on their sailboat. She is happiest outside—walking, traveling, or near the water.

This piece includes descriptions of domestic violence. If that’s close to your story, please take care of yourself as you read.

We moved back to San Diego last June… And I have loved so much about being here. But what I didn’t fully anticipate… were the memories.

Some of them are beautiful. Some of them still live in my body.

I love this city with every fiber of my being. Whoever said a place cannot make you happy has not been to San Diego. As much as I hate going to LA… (IYKYK) is how much I love San Diego.

The air, the light, the way the ocean shows off at Sunset Cliffs.

The farmers’ market in Little Italy on Saturday mornings…

Dog Beach in Coronado or the iconic Hotel Del…

Sitting on the rooftop at George’s in La Jolla overlooking what could be the coast of Italy and eating sublime food and taking it all in…

Walking the streets of La Jolla at night, the salt in the air, the sound of the waves, and all those seals just close enough to hear.

And the memories…some are warm… so warm, it just feels like home.

I met my husband, Frank—aka the Captain—here.

I had both of my children here, Ryan and Tessa. And I can feel it even now… the hope I carried back then, the kind that believed life could be… you know… different. The experience of Ryan and unconditional love… the joy of bringing Tessa into the world.

It comes rushing back.

Just a few weeks ago, I was walking through La Jolla with a dear friend, and she mentioned a place she used to go with her dad—The Spot (and somehow… it’s still there).

And instantly I was back there… Ryan, as a toddler, sun-kissed and sandy, devouring what felt like an entire roasted chicken after a full day at the Children’s Pool…

Or La Jolla Shores—taking the city bus there in 6th grade with a few friends, the smell of sunscreen and saltwater, the freedom of being just old enough to feel independent and just young enough to have no idea what we were doing.

Or UTC mall, (still going strong), standing at the edge of the ice rink in junior high, laughing too loud, and seeing Halloween for the first time—Michael Myers permanently lodged somewhere in my nervous system (Gen X girls know).

And then there are the other memories.

The ones that don’t feel warm… feel like a real nightmare I once lived. Almost surreal—in the worst way.

While I am not haunted by them anymore… I can, at times, feel my body remember.

Like going past this ONE spot, while going south on the 163 freeway, my chest tightens. My throat closes.

Because I always remember: The day my ex-husband tried to run me off that same freeway in that same spot.

Our son was in the backseat. Asleep. This was before cell phones. No quick call for help. No safety net in my pocket. Just me… and him… and the terror.

I can still feel the panic rising in my chest as he followed me—getting closer, more aggressive in his truck, coming close to ramming me… until I finally pulled over because I didn’t know what else to do.

He jumped out of his truck and started banging his fists over and over on my window. And I just sat there. Frozen. Shaking. Screaming and sobbing… my baby—our child—in the backseat.

And then—out of nowhere—someone pulled over. To this day, I think of that person as sent by God. Because the second someone else showed up… he backed off. Ran away like the coward he was.

And there I was—still shaking, still trying to catch my breath, still pretending I was okay when everything in my body said I wasn’t.

That should have been enough. I should have left. It wasn’t. And I didn’t.

And that’s the part people don’t understand.

I’ve found myself reflecting lately—not getting stuck there, I’ve done too much work for that—but asking honest questions as these memories come up:

How did I get there?
Why did I stay as long as I did?

The truth is…

When you move more than 12 times across three different states between 5th grade and dropping out of high school, stability doesn’t exactly become your middle name.

So it probably isn’t much of a surprise I married the first person who asked when I was 19… as the saying goes, that tracks.

I was a kid, and I didn’t feel like I had a lot going for me—or maybe more honestly… I honestly didn’t have a lot going for me. He had a good job, and I remember literally thinking, sure, why not?

Then my son was born. And something in me cracked wide open in the best possible way.

I felt unconditional love wash over me in a way I had never experienced before—a deep, fierce, holy kind of love. I fell head over heels for that sweet baby boy and started dreaming of a life that looked nothing like the one I had grown up in.

I wanted joy.
Stability.
Safety.
Friends over for dinner.
A home that felt warm and safe… laughter… peace…

That, unfortunately, did not turn out to be my reality.

My reality was control. Fear. Sleepless nights wondering where my husband was and who he was with.

He had a thing for strippers, paired with a full-blown addiction to crystal meth. Which meant anger, volatility, explosive behavior, lying, hiding, and controlling all of the finances… lest I see where it was actually going—straight up his nose… or into the thong of a woman giving a lap dance.

And over time, most of his anger landed squarely on me.

Unfortunately, as the adult child of an alcoholic, chaos felt normal to me. Abuse wasn’t foreign. I had seen it. I had experienced it.

So my nervous system knew exactly what to do in instability. It knew how to minimize, adapt, explain things away, and keep going.

What should have felt alarming… felt familiar.

People told me to leave. More than one person. Different people, in different moments, seeing what I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see.

I was working nights as a cocktail waitress (cue the 1981 hit “Don’t You Want Me” by The Human League), and I remember showing up with ever so slight bruises on my neck from being strangled. True story.

And I have this very distinct memory of the bartender—of course, his name was Dan (why are so many bartenders named Dan?)—looking at me and telling me to get out. That it wasn’t complicated. He actually got angry with me as I made excuse after excuse.

I didn’t understand his anger then.
I do now.

He wasn’t confused.
I was.

There were other moments too.

Being pushed down the stairs while I was pregnant.
Being choked until I saw spots.
Having my head slammed into a wall while I was holding my baby.

After one particularly violent night, there was so much blood on my face from my mouth - my teeth had gone through my tongue - I think it scared him. He agreed to counseling. We went together once. I thank God for that—the abuse was documented. He always denied it.

He never went back to that counselor. But I did.

(I stayed with that same counselor from when she was getting her hours all the way through earning her PhD… that’s a LOT of counseling.)

I am thankful for her to this day.

And still… I didn’t leave.

I think about that counselor sometimes and wonder how frustrated she must have been. She gave me resources. I read what was, at the time, a fairly new book—Codependent No More by Melody Beattie. I started attending CODA meetings.

On paper, I was doing the work.

But I still made excuses.

I had no place to go.
No real skills.
And I had a toddler.

Every decision carried more weight. Every fear was louder. Every unknown felt bigger.

I also had no access to money.

No checking account.
No credit in my own name.
Nothing that resembled independence.

Just a quiet, constant awareness that I was stuck. And ashamed….so ashamed.

So what finally happened?

The moment I finally left wasn’t the worst of it.

Not the freeway. Not the control, the violence that should have been enough, not the strippers, or finding drugs over and over… nope.

It was something smaller.

Quieter.
Almost ordinary.

I was at a friend’s house—the same friend who would later help me with the deposit and first month’s rent.

Our little boy, my sweet Ryan, a toddler, had lost my car keys… that was it. Lost somewhere in her house. I searched and searched until I had no choice but to call my then-husband and ask him to bring the extra set.

It was a 30-minute drive.

And he was so mean about it… cursing at me. He loved to curse and yell at me. Horrible words slurred at me.

All because he was hungover. Sleeping off a bender. He had been out all night the night before—that’s why I had gone to my friend’s house with my son.

I was so frustrated. So scared. So trapped.

And something in me just… snapped.

Not the cute “bend and snap” kind…the iconic Legally Blonde scene…Sorry, I have to:

Nope, not that kind… it was the kind of snap that says: I am not doing this anymore.

You see, I have a way of taking and taking… until one day, I’m just done. I give, and I give, and I give until there is literally nothing left.

And at that point? I don’t look back.

It was the undeniable realization: I will not keep living like this.

That was it. Just clarity… and thank God for the kind young woman whose house I was at. I had known her since junior high, and she gave me the money to move.

And the next day… I got an apartment. Just like that.

No savings.
No real plan.
No idea how I was going to make it work.

Just a decision I couldn’t unsee.

Here’s the thing—when I finally left, I didn’t feel brave.

There was no parade. No moment where everything suddenly made sense.

I had little to no furniture. No real job. (How I got approved is another story for another day, and not one I’m proud of. That’s the thing… sometimes we do what we need to do to survive.)

I felt alone.
Very alone.

But that moment—that quiet, ordinary, almost forgettable moment—became the first step out of a life I didn’t yet know how to rebuild.

I wish I could tell you that leaving fixed everything.

It didn’t.

So, as I have reflected on how I got there:

I got there out of my own unhealth.
Out of patterns that felt familiar.
Out of a version of me that didn’t yet know her worth.

And I know why I stayed:

Because, in my head, I had no options.

That belief kept me there longer than anything else.

Not because I wanted that life.

But because I didn’t yet know how to choose something different.

This is Part 1 of a short series. In Part 2, I’ll share what happened after I left—and how messy rebuilding really was.

Remember, if this feels close to home:
You are not alone. If you are in immediate danger, call 911. You can also reach out to the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 or visit thehotline.org for confidential support 24/7. There is life on the other side. I am living proof.

About Dawn
Dawn Marraccino is a Life Coach and Working Genius Facilitator who helps women rebuild their lives with grit, grace, and faith. After 20+ years supporting senior ministry leaders, she now works with women who feel stuck, unseen, or ready for more. Dawn lives a bit of a nomadic life with her husband, Frank, and their Goldendoodle, Whitney, part-time on their sailboat in San Diego or traveling, and is happiest with her family, outside, walking, or near the water.

I left a 20+ year career as an Executive Assistant at 54… almost 55, with no plan.

I had about six months of cushion and this deep, unsettling sense that I needed to be obedient… even though I couldn’t see what was on the other side. And if I’m really honest? I had come to the end of myself. The dark night of my soul.

I had spent years… years… taking care of everyone and everything. Or at least that’s how it felt in that season. When you’re deep in it, it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s just the weight of carrying too much for too long. Distinguishing fact from fiction had become difficult for me. My internal narrative was not positive, and I was unsure of myself and, honestly, unsure of almost everything and, frankly, everyone.

But I knew this:

I couldn’t keep going like that.

Until we name the truth, it controls us. — John Mark Comer

The final conversation still gets me.

My boss was so kind and thoughtful. He offered options. Tried to make it make sense for me to stay. And somewhere in that conversation, I said, “We’re done.”

Not, I’m done.
We’re done.

I didn’t mean it the way it landed. The truth is, I don’t even remember saying it, which tells you everything about where I was internally. When you wait too long, things come out sideways.

If I could go back, I would change that sentence. I do regret how I said it.

But here’s the thing: I don’t regret leaving.

Because that decision didn’t start in that conversation. It had been building for over two years. That quiet, persistent nudge …this chapter is over.

I had no idea what was on the other side. No clear direction. No sense of where I would be or what I would be doing. There was no next role. Honestly? I had no strategy. No “here’s what God is doing.”

Just… silence.

And I know God works differently in different seasons, even in my own life; it hasn’t always looked like this. But in that season, I was at the end of myself, desperate to know what was next… and still not getting the clarity I wanted.

I was petrified.

Would I need to color my hair? Who would hire a gray-haired, “middle-aged” woman? Would they assume I couldn’t do technology? That I wouldn’t fit in?

I was beloved in my role, and it had become so much of my community, which can happen quickly when you work at your church.

That was three and a half years ago.

And let me tell you… this has not been some clean, upward trajectory. It would be so cool to give you some glamorous story right now, of all my success and how easy it has been…

I went into a deep season of confusion, of fear, of healing the bitterness that I had allowed to take root in my heart. It was not overnight by any stretch of the imagination. I stumbled through a couple of roles that weren’t it (which is humbling after you’ve had a solid track record; I was in my last role for almost 8 years). But I will not waste time any longer…if you know, you know.

I went into a winter mode… a bit of hibernation… almost dormant. I rested. I got coaching. I sat in therapy and told the truth to myself.

I got Whitney (10/10, highly recommend, pets are the best therapy). I walk like it IS my job.

I moved onto a sailboat…which still feels a little questionable and unhinged some days.

For example, like this morning… the electricity tripped. Again. (which means I had no electricity - no power - not even a cup of coffee yet) The Captain, AKA Frank, is in Nepal, fresh off Everest Base Camp, and I’m on the boat pushing buttons like I know what I’m doing, trying not to spiral. Outside in the rain (since when does it rain in April in San Diego??), fighting with long yellow cords, with Whitney observing me… trying to figure it out and praying that I can get it back on or remember how to use the generator… yes, this is a real story from 8 a.m. this morning. This is real life, not an Instagram reel.

I’ve traveled… and loved it. More time with family.

I’ve dealt with my health…weight (-42 pounds at the time of this typing!), hormones, all of it. (I am here, my ladies, for that conversation - HRT + GLP1 + Peptides = game changer!!)

I’ve also cried out to God that He doesn’t see me. Where are You in all of this? Where IS El Roi?? The God who sees me???

I’ve gone on an apology tour and cleaned up some relationships, because some things are seasonal. Friendships included.

And slowly… (I am indeed a very thorough processor) I have realized that I am not supposed to go back to the work I had done, the work I had known for all those years. It doesn’t fit me anymore.

I am supposed to build something of my own.

I have not done this perfectly.

There are still days I wake up and think, What the actual heck am I doing?

There are days when a steady job sounds amazing. A paycheck. A routine. The same people. One lane. Community. A large portfolio of work can be tough.

If you’re what is called a solopreneur, building something on your own, you already know how tempting that can feel during certain seasons. You chase the money because, well, there are bills to pay.

But I also know this now:

That voice I kept pushing down? It was never going away.

“Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me?” — Psalm 42:5

Sometimes your soul knows before your schedule does.

And ignoring it doesn’t make it disappear… it just makes you more tired… more exhausted and frustrated.

So I’m not writing this as someone who figured it all out.

I’m writing this as someone who finally listened.

Because I think there are women reading this right now who know exactly what I’m talking about. You feel it. You’ve been feeling it.

And you keep talking yourself out of it because it doesn’t make sense, or it’s inconvenient, or it might cost you something.

It will cost you something.

It always does.

But here’s what I can tell you from the other side: There is life here. Not a perfect life. Not an easy life.

But honest life. Aligned life. The kind where your soul isn’t quietly dying while everything on the outside looks fine.

“Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls.” — Jeremiah 6:16

That verse used to feel poetic to me.

Now it feels personal.

Some days this life feels like flourishing…Some days it still feels scary.

But I am deeply, undeniably grateful… that I listened. If you know… you know.

And if you’ve been trying to outrun that voice… how’s that working?

Hit reply. I’ll meet you there.

In this with you,
Dawn

CoachDawnnoel.com

If this space has encouraged you or reminded you that you’re not alone in this season, I’d love for you to consider becoming a paid subscriber.

It’s less than one Starbucks, but it helps me continue to show up, write honestly, and create a space where women can feel seen, known, and anchored in truth.

Truly… thank you for being here.

The day everything looked lost.
The day silence felt heavy.
The day hope looked buried.

And yet… it wasn’t the end.

I’ve been praying this week—especially for those of you serving behind the scenes in ministry. The Executive Assistants holding it all together, carrying details no one sees, making space for others to encounter Jesus. What you do matters more than you know.

I’ve been praying for the pastors preparing messages—asking God to meet you in your words, to give you clarity, courage, and a deep sense of His presence as you lead people through the weight of the cross and into the hope of Sunday.

And I’ve been praying for the ones who might walk into a church this weekend for the first time in a long time… maybe unsure, maybe skeptical, maybe just tired. That they would feel seen. That they would encounter not performance, but presence.

Good Friday reminds us that God is not afraid of our darkest moments.
Easter reminds us that He doesn’t leave us there.

Death never gets the final word.
Jesus does.

Happy Easter.
He is risen.

He has risen indeed!

Holding all of you in prayer this weekend—

Grit and grace, always,

Dawn

CoachDawnnoel.com

I wanted to send you something… just because.

And truly—thank you. The fact that you’re here as part of this paid community means so much to me. You are choosing to invest your time, your attention, and yes, your money here… I don’t take that lightly.

So this is a gift.

I created this Grit + Grace Reset Guide for women who are holding a lot, feeling a little off, and quietly wondering if there’s more. It’s simple, but intentional—a place to pause, reflect, and pay attention to what’s really going on beneath the surface.

Read more

I read something recently about longevity that has stayed with me longer than I expected.

And it wasn’t about hormones, supplements, my red light mask, or the vibration plate I want. Not about the latest thing we’re all supposed to be doing to “optimize” our lives. And trust me…I’m here for peptides, lifting heavy, my weighted vest, vitamin D, and walking like it’s paying me millions.

Nope. This one was about friendship.

Women and friendship, to be exact.

Upfront, if you know me, you know: I lean more introvert. I’ve never wanted or needed a huge circle of women. We could deep dive into that another day, but for now, let’s just say I’ve never had much tolerance for surface-level conversation. Hard pass. My eyes glaze over, and my annoyance rises fast.

But this study caught my attention because it followed women for decades and found that one of the strongest predictors of living longer and living well wasn’t some protocol.

It was connection.

And I thought… well, that’s beautiful. And also… a little uncomfortable.

Because if I’m honest, friendship in midlife has not been simple. I’ve felt that shift personally, and I hear it all the time from other women.

It’s a “girl, me too” every time the topic comes up.

Something changes in midlife, in this third act. And I don’t think we talk about this shift enough. We’re finally talking about hormones (thank the Lord). We talk about empty nests, purpose, and calling. But we don’t talk enough about how friendship changes, ends… and how to build it again.

Because the ending isn’t always dramatic, it’s not always a falling out.

More often, it looks like this:

You wake up one day and realize you don’t talk as often.
The conversations feel a little more surface.
Or you’re not quite sure where you fit anymore.

I’ve had moments where I’ve thought, Wait… what happened here?

No big conflict. No clear ending.

Just… distance.
The kind you can’t quite explain, but you feel it.

There isn’t always a conversation. No moment where someone sits across from you and says, “This is over.” No real language for it, honestly.

Which is part of why it can feel so disorienting.

Because you’re left trying to make sense of something that didn’t have a clear ending.

If I’m honest, I’ve had moments where I’ve wondered…
Did I miss something?
Did I not show up the way I should have?

And maybe sometimes there are things to own.

But I’m also learning not to turn every shift into a story about something being wrong. Sometimes it’s not failure. We don’t have to demonize endings.

It’s just change.

And just because a friendship doesn’t last forever in the same way…
doesn’t mean it wasn’t real, or beautiful in the season that it was thriving.

Now… there was a time when friendship felt easier, less complicated.

When my kids were little, community was everywhere—school, sports, activites, park days, all of it. You’d sit next to another mom on a worn park bench, kids yelling in the background, the smell of sunscreen and goldfish snacks, and within minutes it was, “me too… me too…”

And suddenly you had a playdate, a coffee date, maybe even a spin class buddy.

It was gold. Easy, unforced, and right in front of you.

Church was like that, too. Shared faith and shared purpose created connection almost effortlessly. I loved my women’s Bible study—the depth, the conviction, sitting in a circle with coffee in hand, learning about Scripture, and ourselves at the same time. I found some of my people there. And serving alongside others who cared about the same things I cared about? It just worked.

It felt… easy

And work? Such a gift. Being in the trenches with people you respect—laughing in between meetings, side-eyeing each other across the room, decompressing after long days—you can’t fake that kind of bond. There is nothing like a good work bestie. Your version of Meredith and Christina or Rachel and Monica. The one who can give you a look across the room and you both know exactly what’s happening. And I’m so grateful for them.

But somewhere along the way… it stopped being that easy.

Because life shifted.

We became empty nesters. The kids are grown and fully adulting, which still feels a little surreal.

My work changed, too. I stepped away from a role I thought I would retire in—a role I loved, with people I loved.

And then we sold everything and moved onto a sailboat. Yes, really. And yes, we’re doing this by choice. I actually love it. Not every second, but most of the time. We’re docked at a resort with ocean air, palm trees, and fire pits at night—it’s beautiful, honestly. A little surreal in the best way.

But it also adds complexity. Hosting isn’t as simple. Community isn’t as built-in.

And the reality is, since moving to San Diego, we’ve actually spent more time off the boat than on it. I recently counted (yes, I do like data!) and I’ve spent over 64% of time OFF the boat since we moved to San Diego… that is a lot of traveling and I’ve loved every minute. But when you’re living like that? It’s hard to put real roots down and nurture friendships.

And then there’s the part that’s on me.

I’ve changed. I’m not who I was. And honestly… thank God for that. But that also means my relationships have changed. It would be easy to say people drifted, life got busy, and everyone went their separate ways. And yes—some of that is true.

Some relationships are built on proximity. And when proximity changes, so do the relationships.

But the truth is, I can also feel how short time is in a way I never did before, and I don’t want to waste it… with a sense of urgency, I simply don’t have the capacity for one-sided relationships, and I’m not willing to stay small just to keep things comfortable.

And I’ll just say it…I don’t have much tolerance for judgmental environments anymore, either. I don’t want to spend my night biting my tongue.

What matters to me now is being around people who are still growing. People who are open, curious, and not attached to always being right or staying stuck.

Not perfect—that would be boring. Not exactly like me—also boring. But willing to grow.

As Frank says, “Not done yet.” And I love that.

We’re still becoming.

Still learning.

Still stretching.

Still allowing God to shape us.

That’s the kind of energy I want in my life. And maybe that’s part of what shifts in midlife friendships. It’s not just about history anymore. It’s about alignment.

Who’s willing to grow with you and who’s not.

Because history alone isn’t enough to sustain a relationship. But shared growth just might be.

And yet… even with all of these shifts—changing seasons, evolving relationships, and the pull toward independence—we still need each other.

The study was clear. Connection is an indicator of thriving longevity.

While part of midlife is simplifying and letting go, we can’t isolate. I have to be careful here, because I can lean that way. It’s easier than navigating surface-level conversations or forcing depth where it’s not.

But easier is not the same as better.

Isolation isn’t strength.

It’s self-protection that can quietly turn into disconnection. And I’ve felt that pull. Less complicated. Less disappointing. Less messy.

But not better.

So I’ve had to examine in this third act - what am I doing to build and grow my relationships? And no surprise when I thought about it and contemplated friendship - the word, just like my word for 2026, is intentional.

So what does intentional friendship actually look like?

For me, it looks like this:

1. I’m inviting more.

Example - I have two tickets to a comedy show and almost didn’t invite a friend from Orange County—thinking it was too far, too much, too inconvenient. Even though she is someone that I want to invest my time and life with. Guess what? I threw it out there and she is coming! Happily.

That was a wake-up call for me.

Stop deciding for other people what they’re willing to do.

Just invite.

2. I’m reaching out more.

I’m a work in progress here (anyone else just DONE with the phone? I am, man, I am). But if I’m praying for you, I try to tell you. A quick text. A voice memo. If I hear a great podcast that reminds me of you, I send it. Easy.

It doesn’t have to be long or complicated. It just has to be real.

3. I’m FaceTiming more.

Seeing someone’s face, hearing their voice in real time—it matters more than I realized. I am close with my cousin, and now we FaceTime more and more - just because we don’t get to see each other in person doesn’t mean we are not connected.

4. And I’m making the effort now.

I drive to Orange County. I plan around people. I invite someone to dinner before an event. I say yes to showing up. I am going to the same pilates classes - I am open to making friendships in ways that have a common denominator - so love pilates - what else might we have in common?

Because connection doesn’t just happen anymore—we have to create it.

Maybe you are like me and at the end of the day, don’t want a big circle.

But want depth - fewer people—but deeper connection.

So maybe like me, try texting someone saying, “Hey, I’ve been thinking about you. Can we actually catch up?”

I have a dear friend in Dallas, and we text weekly our prayer requests - it is the sweetest text I get every week. “How can I be praying for you?”

I am willing to sit across from someone and not pretend everything’s fine. Are you?

It’s being known again… even when that feels a little risky.

Maybe like me, you are looking for women who tell the truth. Women who love Jesus and live it out. Women who can hold both joy and hard things. Women who aren’t competing, performing, pretending, or complaining all day.

The kind of friendships where you can exhale. Where you don’t have to perform or explain.

Where you are seen… and you know it.

So yes—friendship in this season looks different.

The question I’m sitting with isn’t, How many friends do I have?

It’s this:

Do I have a few women in my life who really know me?

And am I willing to show up and know them, too?

If you’re feeling this shift in your friendships, you’re not alone.

This isn’t you failing at friendship.

This is you stepping into a different kind of it.

And yes—it takes intention.

But I have a feeling it’s going to be deeper, richer, and more life-giving than anything we’ve had before.

Grit and grace, always,

Dawn

Coach Dawn Noel

Dawn@coachDawnnoel.com

P.S. If you’re craving deeper friendship and real connection in this season, I’d love to talk.

The Grit + Grace Circle is a cohort for women who want more—more depth, more clarity, more meaningful relationships. I’m building the waitlist for the next round now.

And… I didn’t think I was going to say this, but I’m also opening a waitlist for the next EA Mastery Cohort. I’ve been feeling a strong nudge to bring this back.

If either one is on your heart, just reach out. I’d love to connect.

Great. I love that for you. (Sarcasm is my love language.)

But after years of conversations, reading, learning, and walking alongside women in this season of life, I’m convinced of something:

Underneath that competent exterior, women in midlife are coming apart.

Not always dramatically.
Not always publicly.
But almost always internally.

If you peel back the layers for most women in what I call this “third act,” something has started to shift.

And here’s the uncomfortable truth: Most women feel it… But many stuff it down and refuse to do the work that real growth and change require.

When the kids have left the house (or maybe left and come back a few times), the career you poured yourself into for years starts to feel strangely empty, and your marriage has settled into something that feels more… stale than alive.

You know you’re longing for something. You just can’t quite name what it is.

At first, you brush it off. You tell yourself you’re just tired.
Or busy.
Or having a weird week.

But the whisper keeps getting louder… sometimes it starts to shout… and other times?

It detonates.

For me, that is exactly what it did….

It started with the slow unraveling of a season that had defined much of my life. I was in a ministry role that I loved — but it no longer fit. And I kept trying to make it fit. Like my jeans from my 20s that I kept in the back of my closet, convinced I might finally lose the weight and wear them again. I kept holding onto the role, telling myself it was just a phase I’d snap out of.

My nervous system was constantly on high alert. I was running on fumes from a season in the pandemic, while most of you were home baking banana bread and cleaning out your closets, I was going into work every day in an environment that looked like the rapture had happened and left the church workers behind… (I was one of a few folks going into the office daily during the first phase of the shutdown in California)

I looked in the mirror and didn’t even recognize myself. My face felt like it belonged to someone else. Lines that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Gray hair, I decided to “embrace”… but if I’m honest, there were moments I’d do a double take at the “old woman” staring back at me. And the puffiness (weight) in my body made me physically uncomfortable. So I started avoiding photos. Avoiding mirrors.

Avoiding myself, if we’re being honest.

And then there were my emotions…if you’ve never had a true panic attack, consider yourself fortunate. Because my goodness… they are something else. Wowza.

My daughter told me later that during that season, I was basically “unhinged.”

She recently shared a story I only vaguely remember… and oh my word. She asked if I remembered the day I threw wet toilet paper across the bathroom after she clogged the toilet… again… with personal hygiene products.

Wow. Mother of the Year moment for sure.

And as ridiculous as that sounds… it was also a clue.

Because that level of reaction doesn’t come out of nowhere.

It comes from something deeper that’s been building for a long time.

I can feel some of you judging me already. But the truth is, my emotions were all over the place.

Maybe your story looks different.

No flying toilet paper, so you think you’re winning?

Okay.

But what about the betrayal?

I have watched more than a few friends see marriages implode after twenty-five years + together.

Or maybe it’s the grief.

In recent years, I’ve lost dear friends, and it has changed me in ways I never expected.

Maybe it’s the career.

I know many women in this third chapter who suddenly find themselves looking for work and running straight into the brick wall of ageism. Or maybe you’ve realized the role you’ve been in no longer fits you, and the thought of doing it one more day makes you want to scream.

And none of this even touches what is happening in our bodies.

Hormones shifting. Weight gain that seems to appear out of nowhere.
Symptoms no one ever warned us about (see video for one of my more strange symptoms)

We are a generation of women who were scared of hormone therapy because of a flawed study in the early 2000s that slapped a black box warning on HRT and convinced millions of us that hormones meant breast cancer.

Newsflash — it didn’t, and it doesn’t.

And decades later, many women are only now learning how wrong that narrative was.

So sometimes the explosion is external, and sometimes it’s internal.

Either way, midlife has a way of bringing things to the surface we can no longer ignore.

Cue Talking Heads:

“And you may ask yourself… well, how did I get here?”

That question hit me harder than I expected….

“And you may ask yourself… well, how did I get here?”

Honestly… I wasn’t entirely sure.

But I did know this: I could not keep going on the path I was on. So after a few years of struggling, I did what seemed logical.

I made a big, bold move.

I left my job.

Yep.

The one I thought I would retire from.

I adored my boss. I loved his family. The work had meaning and I am not someone who can just sell widgets. I have to believe in what I’m doing. It must have greater purpose.

And I was loved there.

(According to my daughter at my going-away party: “These people are obsessed with you.” She’s… a little spicy.)

I thought that if I changed this, got a new job… everything would be better.

My boss even said to me,

“I think you’re going to regret this.”

I thought, well, I might, but I had to be done… I was so fried that the idea of continuing was frightening.

So I left and got a new job… and well, well, well… you guessed it - it didn’t work. Because honestly, leaving rarely does because, well, the problem of “me” was still there.

You know the saying:

It’s true.

Eventually, it all caught up with me.

I am firmly convinced you can only outrun yourself — and your pain — for so long. Eventually, the pain runs faster than you do, especially once you start dragging and limping…and I was crawling…

And mine did… it caught up to me in one loud, almost laughable crescendo…

The panic attacks kept coming. The anxiety only got worse.

I took a role that was supposed to be less stressful. Fully remote. In theory, it should have been easier.

But I couldn’t find my footing.

Now, I will say this: I was bored out of my mind.

I didn’t need less of a role. I needed… well… a lot more than a job change.

So in retrospect, I’m not surprised by what happened. But still a little embarrassed.

But what I share with you here are simply the facts:

I mailed two boxes to the wrong addresses. Switched them.

That mistake sent me into a full panic attack.

Like… I actually said out loud, “Am I going to get fired?” and started crying. A lot. Ouch.

After the most embarrassing Zoom call ended, I remember dropping to the floor. Curled up in the fetal position. Rocking back and forth, sobbing out of control, saying out loud over and over:

What is wrong with me?
What is wrong with me?
What is wrong with me?

At one point, I told Frank I thought he might need to take me somewhere and “check me in.”

I didn’t recognize myself anymore.

The anger.
The exhaustion.
The dark spiral of thoughts that seemed to come out of nowhere and would not stop.

Thoughts about my life.
About what it meant.
About what a complete F*&@ up I was.

That I was a fraud.
That everything I touched turned to crap.

Not only did I not like myself…

I abhorred myself.

My nervous system had been running on adrenaline for years.
My hormones were a mess.
My roles no longer fit.

I was questioning everything — every decision, every path, every version of my life.

And instead of listening to any of those signals, I pushed harder.

And harder.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

And there I was… in all my glory — on the floor.

I had reached the end of myself.

Rock bottom. Finally.

That moment started some of the deepest work of my life:

Therapy. Two different therapists at one point — sometimes twice a week.

Coaching. For me. Personal. Challenging.

Rest… and more rest… and more rest.

Hormone education. Honestly, it saved my life.

Learning to listen to my body. (See above.)

Walking like I was made for it. Miles and miles. Moving my body again. Lifting weights. Getting stronger.

Stopping the victim story I had been telling myself — the one where life just kept happening to me.

Knowing my worth — and investing in myself without apologizing for it to anyone.

Boundaries. Yes… boundaries. Turns out they’re not selfish — they’re oxygen.

Letting some relationships go. Painful but necessary.

And examining my life — all of it — with brutal honesty.

Changing your life takes time. There is no overnight fix — so please don’t add that next supplement to your cart thinking this one will solve everything.

It won’t.

But that moment forced me to start telling the truth. Not the polished version I had become very good at presenting.

The honest one.

And slowly something new started to form.

A realignment.
A reinvention.
A reckoning.

A return to myself.

Or maybe, more honestly?

Finding her for the first time.

I’m still not entirely sure. But I’ve become comfortable in the uncomfortable now.

It’s okay to sit in the tension.

And the deeper I went into that work, the more I realized something else.

I was not the only woman asking these questions — suffering in silence or seething in rage at the toilet paper… or the sound of my husband breathing.

In fact, I started seeing the same pattern everywhere.

Smart women.
Faithful women.
Capable women.

Women who had spent decades holding everything together…

…and suddenly found themselves asking,

“What now?”

And after walking through that season — and now coaching other women through theirs — I realized something:

Most of us don’t need more advice.

We’re smart. We’re capable.

What we need is space to tell the truth and figure out what comes next.

That’s where Grit + Grace was born.

Not as a theory.

But as a place where women can tell the truth about their lives, stop performing, ask better questions, and figure out what this next chapter is actually meant to look like.

Because midlife is not the end of our usefulness.

In many ways…

it’s the beginning of our most honest life.

The Grit + Grace Circle

I’m forming the next Grit + Grace Circle right now.

This is an 8-week coaching circle for women navigating midlife who want clarity, courage, and community for this next chapter.

Inside the Circle, you’ll receive:

• 8 weeks of guided group coaching conversations
• The Working Genius Assessment so you understand how you’re wired and where you thrive
• A private 45-minute 1:1 coaching session with me using the READY Framework
• Practical tools to help you move from confusion to clarity

If you added up the normal cost of those things individually, it would easily run several thousand dollars.

But for this group, I’m offering a price of $197 for the full 8 weeks.

I’m doing that intentionally. I don’t want price to be a barrier. You can pay that overtime as well. I want to provide HOPE and Help One Person Everyday because I wish I had help back when I came to the end of myself.

I want this circle to be women who are ready to show up honestly, do the work, and walk through this season together.

I’m keeping it intentionally small.

Most women join because they want the Working Genius assessment and private coaching…

…and then discover the real gift is the circle of women walking through the same season.

If This Felt Like It Was Written For You

It probably was.

Just hit reply and type “Grit + Grace.”

I’ll personally add you to the interest list and send the details before registration opens publicly.

And if my writing encourages you, consider becoming a paid subscriber.

It’s less than the cost of a Starbucks coffee each month and helps me know that something I’m doing is making a difference.

In this with you,

Dawn

The Why:

This work didn’t come from theory.

It came from walking through my own midlife reckoning and doing the hard work required to come out the other side with honesty, faith, and a renewed sense of purpose.

Along the way, I invested deeply in tools that help women navigate real transformation.

I am an ICF-certified life coach, a Working Genius facilitator, and a certified menopause coaching specialist. I’m also trained in the READY Framework, which helps women move from overwhelm into clarity and aligned action.

But credentials are only part of the story.

I’ve also lived this.

And it’s one of the greatest privileges of my life to now walk alongside other women doing the same.

But I just learned that Beth Moore’s Living Proof Live will come to an end in 2027.

And when I heard her announcement, something in my chest tightened.

For many women my age, Beth Moore isn’t just another Bible teacher.

She is the Bible teacher.

Her studies were everywhere…church classrooms, living rooms, spiral-bound workbooks filled with underlines, notes, and the occasional tear stain. Women gathering with coffee and Bibles, trying to understand Scripture and their own stories a little better.

I was one of them.

But before I say anything else, I want to tell you something about my life that I rarely say out loud.

Over the last twenty-plus years serving in ministry, I’ve been in a lot of rooms with a lot of “names.” The kinds of names people sometimes get starstruck over.

And honestly?

I usually don’t.

I like to think it’s not because I’m cynical. It’s just that when you work behind the scenes long enough, you realize something quickly: famous pastors and leaders are just… well, people.

Some wonderful.

Some complicated.

Most a mix of both.

(Some horrific…sorry, but it is true.)

I also think Jesus wired me in a way that lets me sit in those spaces without losing my footing. I can handle myself. I don’t fan-girl. I do the work in front of me.

Most of the time, it’s just another evening, another hosting responsibility, another phone call, another meeting… another event.

But in July of 2025, something happened that stopped me in my tracks.

At the time, I was contracted to work with Talbot School of Theology, helping support an event in Houston called Lead the Way, led by Ed Stetzer and David Kinnaman. It was an incredible opportunity, and I’m deeply grateful for the experience. But it also wasn’t anything I hadn’t done before.

Frankly? I’m very good at what I do. (Is that bragging? I don’t know. I see it as factual.)

The event was held at the Lanier Theological Library, a breathtaking historic library in Houston built by Mark Lanier, the attorney known for taking on major pharmaceutical companies in landmark cases.

The library itself feels like something transported straight out of Oxford—towering shelves, rare manuscripts, ancient Bibles, letters from C. S. Lewis, even fragments of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

“Super cool” doesn’t even begin to cover it.

If you’re a Harry Potter fan, it felt like walking into Hogwarts.

It’s the kind of place that makes you whisper when you walk in.

And the guest list that evening?

Let’s just say it was the “who’s who of Houston”—the fancy, the well-known, the movers and shakers.

And… as the great theologian Shania Twain once said…

That don’t impress me much.

Not in a disrespectful way.

Just more of an “okay, cool” way.

I was doing what I always do before events—making sure everything was ready for dinner and looking over the name tags a staff member had printed.

Just another event.

Until I saw a name that made me stop cold.

Beth Moore.

I actually said out loud, “What the actual what?”

I texted Ed and said, “You might have given me a heads-up, dude.”

I think he was surprised by my reaction because, as I shared earlier, I just don’t fan-girl.

But suddenly it wasn’t just another name tag.

It was her.

I should mention—I had actually met Beth briefly before. She was a dear friend of my former boss, Eric Geiger, and had spoken at Mariners while I was on staff there.

But this felt different.

This was dinner. Conversation. A moment to simply say thank you.

The woman whose teaching had shaped my life as a believer.

I remember the first Living Proof event I attended years ago at Saddleback Church. I remember working through Breaking Free. I remember studying Isaiah with her and discovering something that changed my life forever:

That Jesus actually sets people free.

Not just theoretically.
Not just in heaven someday.

But here.
Now.
In real lives with real pasts.

Beth Moore helped me understand something my heart desperately needed to hear as a younger woman who carried a lot of pain.

My past did not define my future. Jesus did.

The abuse I had experienced did not have the final word over my life.

Jesus did.

My origin story did not.

Jesus did.

And somehow, years later, I was about to sit down at a dinner table with her.

I shared … I don’t fan-girl.

But that night?

I did a little.

Not fangirling over a celebrity.

But out of deep respect for a woman who helped me find freedom in Christ.

Because when you’re a woman who has walked through some dark valleys, and you meet someone who helped you find the light again through Scripture… it hits differently.

And there I was, standing in a buffet line with a woman who, for decades, has faithfully opened the Word of God for millions of women.

A woman who has also endured more criticism than most people realize.

Which brings me to the moment that made my admiration for her grow even more.

The “go home” moment. (This is N. T. Wright’s thoughts on it. I won’t link to the actual MacArthur - just won’t)

When John MacArthur was asked about Beth Moore onstage and responded with two dismissive words:

“Go home.”

Those words echoed far beyond that room.

Because many women heard something deeper in them.

We heard the old message:

• Be smaller.

• Be quieter.

• Stay in your place.

But what struck me about Beth Moore in the years that followed was this:

She didn’t disappear.

She didn’t become bitter.

She didn’t start swinging punches on the internet.

She kept loving Jesus.
She kept opening the Scriptures.
She kept telling the truth as she understood it.

That kind of courage costs something.

And I think many women noticed.

Beth Moore has spent decades teaching the Bible, filling arenas with women hungry for God’s Word, and pointing people toward Jesus with both fire and tenderness.

But if I’m honest, some of the most powerful leadership she has shown came in the years when the criticism was loudest.

When she was told, essentially, to go home.

And she didn’t.

Now she’s entering a new season, with Living Proof Live coming to an end in 2027.

And what I feel most is gratitude.

So…

Dear Beth,

If this somehow ever reached you, I would want you to know this:

You helped change my life.

Through your teaching, I discovered a freedom in Christ that reshaped my story.

You helped me believe that Jesus was not ashamed of my past.

You helped me believe that God could redeem things I once thought were beyond redemption.

I have sat in many rooms over the years with many influential leaders.

But there are only a handful who shaped my faith.

You are one of them.

And I find myself thinking about the women coming behind us now.

The next generation of women who will open their Bibles, wrestle with their calling, and sometimes wonder if they belong in the rooms God places them in.

Whether they realize it or not, the trail has been blazed.

Women like you carved a path that many of us now walk more freely because of your courage.

Your faithfulness didn’t just impact the women sitting in those arenas.

It shaped women who are now helping the next generation love Jesus and trust His Word.

So from one woman about ten years behind you on the road—

Thank you.

Thank you for your grit.
Thank you for your faithfulness.
Thank you for loving Scripture.
Thank you for staying tender when the world tried to make you hard.

Because of your faithfulness, women like me learned something life-changing.

Our past does not get the final word.

Jesus does.

With deep gratitude,

Dawn

“You’re a little intimidating.”

I laughed at first because I genuinely didn’t know what she meant. I thought I had simply been… myself ? But she continued explaining. She said I seemed clear about what I wanted (okay), that I was direct (I like direct, specific communication), and that I didn’t apologize for it (didn’t think I had done anything that needed an apology?).

Then she added something that made me laugh out loud.

She said I reminded her a little of … Miranda Priestly.

I admit, I was a tiny bit aghast.

She had zero idea that for most of my adult career, I was an Executive Assistant at a high level.

Miranda Priestly …from The Devil Wears Prada?

Yikes.

I asked her if that was who she was referring to.

She nodded.

So naturally I quoted the line:

She looked completely startled.

I slowly smiled and said, “It’s a quote from the movie.”

Apparently, she hadn’t memorized the film the way some of us have.

But her comment stuck with me the rest of the day. Because what she meant by “Miranda Priestly” wasn’t arrogance or cruelty.

The more I pressed, she meant that I seemed comfortable with myself.

Clear.

Direct.

Not overly concerned with how it all landed.

Okay.

Then she said something else that caught me off guard.

She mentioned my gray hair.

She said it didn’t look like someone who had “given up.”

In fact, she said the opposite. I clearly take care of myself, my skin, how I dress, and how I carry myself.

But the gray hair communicated something different. It communicated that I wasn’t asking the world for permission.

The conversation stayed with me.

Yesterday was International Women’s Day. That timing has me reflecting even more on the strange and beautiful freedom that seems to arrive in what I’ve started calling the third chapter of life.

I’ve been reading David Benner’s book The Gift of Being Yourself, and it may be one of my favorite books in a long time.

It’s thoughtful but simple, the kind of book where you underline something every few pages.

The foreword states, “This is a very challenging book. If we do listen to it fully and seek to implement it in our lives, it will lead to a transformation. That will mean the death of our carefully cultivated false self.” Ouch.

The identity I’ve spent years constructing so that I will be accepted, admired, liked, safe, or successful? Another ouch.

Like most of us, I began building that version of myself very early. I learned how to read the room, how to perform, how to keep people happy, and how to become the version of myself that received approval. And for a long time, that system worked… or at least I thought it did. It certainly worked for those around me.

But somewhere along the way…often in what has been coined as “midlife” - that version of myself exhausted me… it led to a shadow side that wasn’t dark or ominous in the way it can be for some.… frankly, for me?

It was just the disjointed parts, the lack of being true to who I was meant to be, rather it was so much performing what everyone around me expected me to be, my work, my family, my “friends”, my Christianity, all of it.

The sentence stopped me the first time I read it. My years had truly been spent managing impressions…trying to be the right version of myself in the right room, trying to be liked, trying not to be “too much”, trying not to disappoint anyone.

But something has shifted as the years have passed. Maybe it’s wisdom. Maybe it’s simply the quiet work of God peeling away the layers I’ve built to protect myself. Or maybe it’s the realization that I no longer have the energy to keep performing for rooms I no longer belong in.

Benner writes, “The journey toward our true self is the journey of allowing the false self to die.”

When I was younger, the idea of that kind of death sounded terrifying. Now it feels more like relief.

I find myself trusting the still small voice more… I say what I mean. I’ve stopped negotiating with every expectation around me.

Apparently, that can look intimidating? Ha.

But the more I reflected on what that young woman said, the more I realized intimidation probably wasn’t the right word. What she was sensing was clarity. And clarity can feel confronting if you’re still in the season of trying to figure out who you’re supposed to be.

I remember that season well, when you’re still measuring yourself against everyone else, still wondering if you’re too much or not enough, still trying to get it right.

But the older I get, the more I realize something surprising: freedom often looks like confidence from the outside, but from the inside it feels much more like surrender.

Surrendering the pressure to impress.

Surrendering the need to explain yourself.

Surrendering the exhausting work of maintaining a version of myself that was never fully true.

Benner writes, “Knowing God and knowing ourselves are deeply intertwined.”

Which means the spiritual journey is not just about believing the right things; it’s about becoming the person God actually created me to be, not the polished version or the curated version, but the real one.

And maybe that’s one of the hidden gifts of getting older.

The slow, sometimes messy death of the false self I spent years constructing, and the quiet emergence of the woman who is finally comfortable in her own skin.

Gray hair and all.

So I say to you… If you’ve made it this far - If you’re somewhere in this third chapter too, here are a few questions I’ve been sitting with lately:

And my Lord, my Lord… if you are younger - I challenge you to get it right now… don’t continue to curate to the expectations of anyone outside of Jesus … and well, I’ve found that at the core of it His expectations, while they seem outrageous, actually are not: Love Him, Love Others.

So the questions I ask myself, and perhaps you might consider:

Where in your life might you still be performing instead of simply showing up as yourself?

What rooms do you no longer belong in?

What expectations have you been carrying that God may be inviting you to release?

Where might the false self still be quietly running the show?

And what would it look like to live with a little more clarity and a little less apology?

Because the gift of this season isn’t perfection.

It’s freedom.

And sometimes that freedom looks a lot like a woman who finally knows who she is… even if that feels a little intimidating,

Dawn

I launched it under the name Confessions of a Megachurch EA… and since then?

A lot has changed.

The blog’s name has shifted a few times, yes. But what’s changed in me goes far beyond a title. The transformation runs much deeper. Over the last three years, I am sure that for many of us a lot has changed… for me, without question.

I’ve often referred to this season as “midlife.” But if I’m honest, as a woman now in my late 50s, this is the final stage. Not in a dramatic way, just in a clarifying one. It sobers you. Refines you. Forces you to decide what actually matters… if you let it.

I think that’s what this season has really been about—genuine self-acceptance. Not defiant. Not indulgent. Just a gentle, honest way of seeing your whole story and no longer flinching from it.

Here are a few facts from the last three years. Not feelings, facts. (One thing I’ve had to learn, and relearn, is that feelings are not always facts. Learning to distinguish between the two leads to steadiness. Emotional health. Growth. Actual maturity.)

I’ve coached Executive Assistants and women. Led cohorts. Planned and spoken at retreats. I’ve become a bit of a nomad. Frank, aka the Captain, and I sold almost everything and now live on Bella Mia Dawn, our 47-foot sailboat, with our sweet pup, Whitney. Or we’re traveling. Or with family. Or exploring somewhere new.

There’s a small storage unit in Orange County holding seasonal clothes, a few cherished keepsakes, and, if I’m honest, some things we’re just not quite ready to release.

I’ve gone from what I would call severe burnout and hormonal chaos to a much clearer understanding of who I am, who I was, and who I’m becoming.

I hold things differently now. I’m more relaxed. More thoughtful in my approach, to work, to people, to my theology… to life. I manage tension differently.

And as my daughter-in-law once said, I’ve developed a bit of that midlife “I don’t care” energy I wasn’t even sure was real. Oh, let me assure you. It is. Not careless. Not disengaged. Just less driven by the need to prove, perform, or polish everything to perfection.

It’s painfully accurate.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I went on what I half-jokingly call an “apology tour.” For a lot of different things. Maybe for ignoring our friendship when I was barely keeping my head above water. Maybe for spilling my mess onto you when I was overflowing with the exhaustion of a soul that felt bone-weary and wondered if it would ever feel light again. Or maybe for not believing the best about you because I couldn’t see past my own pain and confusion. (If I owe you one, it may still be coming. Or maybe we remember things differently.)

I’ve learned to live in the tension between being a perfectionist, hello, Enneagram Ones, who genuinely craves excellence… and being a perfectionist who has finally admitted that not much in this world is actually perfect.

And maybe that’s okay. Maybe what feels perfect has changed?

Now I know… It’s the arms of my husband, the Captain.

Jesus.

The laughter of my family.

My daughter’s smile after a long day.

The twinkle in my grandkids’ eyes and the innocence of their youth.

Drinking coffee with my sweet parents because I don’t know how much longer I’ll get to do that.

My son’s brilliance, which was always there, just showed up differently than his second-grade teacher expected.

My sweet doodle, Whitney.

A sunset that paints the sky so beautifully it steadies my faith when the hurt and disappointment of this world trys to erode it.

Salt water on sun-kissed skin.

Belly laughing at the silliest things.

And yes… maybe even a few worship songs. (That note you hit, Mr. Dante Bowe. Or you, Jenn Johnson.)

Oh… so much is, in fact, perfect.

I could keep going…

But you’ll notice what’s not on that list: the font on a slide deck. The order of service on a Sunday. The perfectly executed event. You get the idea. It’s not work. It’s not things.

It’s people.

It’s presence.

It’s experience.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love to work. That hasn’t changed. But it no longer feels like striving. And if I’m honest, I’m not even sure I realized how much striving was quietly driving me before.

Over the last three years, I’ve let some people down. I’m not as fast as I once was (read: compulsive). I don’t jump the second something pings. I don’t contort myself to make everything seamless and impressive. I just don’t care as much.

Sorry. Not sorry.

But I think that’s abiding. I think that’s what it looks like to live in real dependence on Jesus instead of subtle dependence on my own competence.

My relationships have shifted, too. Some have deepened. Some have quietly fallen away. Some were stripped back in ways I didn’t see coming and yes, that hurt. I’ve had to learn how to be comfortable in the uncomfortable. Less needed. Less impressive. Less in control.

There are parts of what was that I still mourn. I’ve made peace with that. But staying in the past is not where Jesus does His best work in me. Scripture is clear…we don’t live facing backward. So I lean on Him differently now. Not to recreate what was, but to walk faithfully in what is.

I’ve had to let my carefully curated life die. There has indeed been a death of my false self. Has it hurt? Yes. It has.

I’ve lost a lot. But perhaps for the first time in my Christian walk, I’m truly beginning to understand Galatians 2:20:

I’ve failed, and failed and failed and gotten back up and moved on… the rumination has quieted - sometimes it is still there, but it doesn’t haunt the way it once did.

And so here we are.

Almost three years after I hit “publish” on a little corner of the internet called Confessions of a Megachurch EA. I thought I was starting a writing project to coach EAs in ministry. What I was actually doing was documenting a transformation I didn’t yet have language for.

What began as processing church life and leadership has slowly become something deeper, a place where I’ve wrestled with burnout, identity, disappointment, joy, faith, hormones, ego, freedom, grief, and growth. A place where I’ve written through the unraveling of one season and the quiet forming of another.

If you’ve been here since the beginning, thank you. You’ve watched it unfold in real time. Not polished. Not strategic. Just honest.

And maybe that’s the point.

This space has been a witness. To the dying of a false self. To the surrender of striving. To the slow, steady work of Christ, reshaping a woman in her late 50s who finally stopped performing long enough to listen.

I don’t know exactly what the next three years will hold for this space. I’m not mapping it out the way I once would have. But I do know this: I will keep writing as I am being formed, because it brings me joy. Because it keeps me honest. Because it reminds me who I am and whose I am.

And if you find yourself somewhere in your own unraveling or rebuilding or redefining, welcome. I’m genuinely glad you’re here.

So as you step into this week, take a breath with me. Let’s be present in our own stories. Let Jesus meet us in the real version of our lives…not the curated one. Remember, there IS Honey in the Rock, only He can satisfy.

And if you need a quiet corner of the internet to process it all, I’m still here. “Here” may shift — geographically and emotionally — but here I am… as the saying goes -

Writing.
Learning.
Surrendering daily.
Dying to myself and discovering myself at the same time.

With you,
Dawn

If you’re new here, welcome.

I write about faith, formation, leadership, midlife, surrender, burnout, and the very human process of becoming. For more than two decades, I worked behind the scenes in church leadership. Today, I coach women and Executive Assistants who want to lead well without losing themselves in the process.

Writing is part of my calling. Speaking is too. Coaching, even more so.

If this space resonates with you, you can support my work by subscribing (paid subscriptions allow me to keep writing consistently and thoughtfully). If you’re looking for a speaker for your church, retreat, or team, I’d love to have that conversation. And if you’re in a season where you need clarity, direction, or someone to walk alongside you, coaching is available.

No pressure. Just invitation.

I’m building this slowly and intentionally.

And I’m grateful you’re here.

Over the past few years — yes, years — I’ve been writing a devotional about shame: where it hides, how it matures with us, and how the Gospel gently but firmly dismantles it.

The reason it’s taken so long is, well, layered as they say… But one truth keeps surfacing: so many of us, especially women, quietly carry shame.

And Scripture is clear — shame does not come from the heart of God.

Jesus tells us in John 10:10 that “the thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.” Shame does exactly that. It steals confidence, destroys peace, and slowly erodes courage.

And in Revelation 12:10, Satan is called “the accuser.” Shame is accusation on repeat — an old verdict rehearsed until it feels true.

The enemy would love to keep us there.

• Stuck.

• Silent.

• Small.

Not because shame is always loud — but man, because it is convincing. It keeps us replaying old failures, questioning our belonging, and shrinking back when grace has already called us forward.

That’s why I keep writing.

Midlife has a way of surfacing old narratives. Not always the loud, chaotic ones from our twenties — the quieter ones. The ones we’ve learned to function with. The ones that only show up in certain rooms.

Shame also doesn’t usually shout in midlife.
It whispers.

It shows up at dinner tables.
In ministry spaces.
In conversations about careers, education, or success.

And it asks, almost casually, “Do you really belong here?”

This excerpt is about one of those moments — a holiday dinner, a simple question, and an old wound that found its voice again.

The Question I Didn’t Have an Answer For

For years, I carried a quiet belief that I wasn’t intelligent enough. That I had missed my opportunity and that other people were more legitimate, more prepared, more qualified than I was.

I attended twelve different schools before dropping out during my senior year. When you move that much, there are gaps — real gaps in math, history, and in the fundamentals most people assume everyone learned. I learned to hide that part of my story. For a long time, I even lied about it. I said I had my GED long before I did and filled out applications that way because it felt easier. By the time I was in my thirties and forties, no one was checking high school transcripts. It was simply assumed. Shame can do that. It nudges you toward dishonesty just to avoid exposure..and then you are MORE ashamed because now you are a liar.

That part of my story didn’t disappear when I got older. It followed me into marriage, into success, into rooms I never imagined sitting in.

Frank and I have been married for nearly 30 years. He knew my story and loved me anyway. By any standard, he is brilliant… I mean, the guy co-founded a company that was eventually acquired by Capital One — yes, that Capital One. He rubbed shoulders with the kinds of people that are well, “fancy”.

Which meant I often found myself in rooms where my old insecurities felt very awake.

One December, we were invited to a holiday dinner with one of his colleagues. Around that table were Ivy League educations — Harvard, Yale — the kind of résumés that make you sit up straighter. I can adapt in most rooms. Thank God for my love of reading; it has helped me hold my own in conversation. When they brought out a custom “table topics” game, I was actually excited for my turn.

Until I read my card: “Share your best college memory.”

For everyone else, it was harmless. For me, the air shifted. My throat tightened. My face flushed. That familiar internal heat rushed in — the kind that has lived in your body for years.

I dropped out of high school. I never went to college.

There was nothing wrong with the question. It simply assumed a story I didn’t have. And in that moment, shame quietly pulled up a chair beside me. The internal dialogue was immediate and sharp: You don’t belong here. They don’t know the real you. You’re going to embarrass your husband. You’re an idiot.

I wanted the floor to open and swallow me whole.

What struck me later was not just the embarrassment but how quickly shame arrived. How practiced it was. How ready. This is how adult shame works. It doesn’t always come from chaos; often, it comes from comparison. Midlife puts us in rooms we never imagined we would enter, and instead of celebrating how far we’ve come, shame tries to reintroduce an old story.

This is where Jesus — the One who redeemed me and redeems all who are His — steps in. Galatians 5:13 says we were called to be free — not just free from sin in the abstract, but free from the narratives that try to define us and from measuring our worth by credentials, achievements, or missed opportunities. Freedom in Christ is not only forgiveness; it is belonging.

The Gospel does not say, “You belong if your résumé is impressive.” It says, “You belong because you are mine.” Psalm 34 reminds us that the Lord is near to the brokenhearted — not the polished or the credentialed, but the brokenhearted.

In that dining room, nothing external exposed me. An old wound did. And Jesus was not disappointed in me at that table. He was near — near to the part of me that still believed I was less than.

And here’s the rest of the story:

I eventually earned my GED.
I also completed my bachelor’s degree in Religion and Christian Counseling. Take that, Shame.

But the truth is, yes, those achievements helped — they did not silence shame.

Jesus did.

Education was part of my growth.
Grace was part of my freedom.

At 58, when Frank asks me about cooking measurements, and I laugh and say, “Never learned it,” there’s no heat in my cheeks anymore.

Because my identity is no longer anchored to what I missed.

The cross settled that question.

You are not behind.
You are not less.
You are not disqualified.

In Christ, you are already seated.

Sit With This

1. What room — past or present — has made you quietly question whether you belong?

2. What old narrative about yourself tends to resurface when you feel exposed or compared?

3. When shame speaks, what exact words does it use? Write them down honestly.

4. Have you ever tried to “fix” or hide part of your story to avoid feeling less than? What was underneath that impulse?

5. What would it look like to receive your belonging from Christ instead of earning it through achievement, education, or approval?

This devotional is coming together one honest page at a time.

If this felt uncomfortably familiar, you’re probably who I’m writing it for.

When it’s ready, I’ll open a launch list for early access and a few behind-the-scenes reflections I won’t share publicly.

If you want in, just reply with “add me.”

In this with you,

Dawn

P.S. If you’re tired of carrying this quietly, the Grit + Grace Collective is where we do this work in real time. Honest conversations. Gospel truth. Women who get it. You’re invited.

If you’ve been more “irritated” than you’d like to admit… this is for you.

There’s a kind of resentment that doesn’t scream.

It doesn’t slam doors.
It doesn’t threaten to leave.

It just settles… in your chest… your shoulders… your attitude… your relationships that often don’t even fit who you are any longer.

It shows up when you are still the dependable one —
at home,
at church,
at work —

even after everything you’ve walked through.

• The divorce you didn’t plan.

• The marriage that survived but feels thin.

• The adult child who won’t answer your calls.

• The prodigal.

• The addiction.

• The infertility.

• The betrayal.

• The diagnosis.

• The grief

• The loss

• The career that plateaued after you gave it everything.

• The layoff that quietly shook your confidence.

• The ministry season that burned you out but you never said it out loud…

You carried it.

With faith.
With composure.
With resilience.

You adjusted.
You showed up.
You prayed.
You kept serving.
You kept mentoring.
You kept smoothing conflict.
You kept being the strong one.

And somewhere along the way…

You disappeared.

Midlife doesn’t always unravel loudly.

Sometimes it reveals how much you’ve been absorbing for years.

And what you feel now isn’t rage.

It’s grief.

Grief that you were strong for everyone else.
Grief that competence became expectation.
Grief that resilience became your identity.
Grief that no one quite held you the way you held them.

And here’s the part we don’t say out loud:

You are tired of being the infrastructure.

Tired of being mature.
Tired of being spiritually responsible.
Tired of being “so strong.”

I know this because I’ve lived it.

Not from a stage.
Not from a podcast.
Not from a distance.

I have been the dependable one.
The ministry one.
The high-capacity one.
The “she’s fine” one.

And there were seasons when I could not tell the difference between faithfulness and self-erasure.

You love Jesus.

You know the verses.

Lay your life down.
Forgive seventy times seven.
Be humble.
Serve.

But somewhere along the way, dying to self became disappearing.

And now your body is changing.
Your tolerance is changing.
Your capacity is changing.

Yes, hormones play a role. Estrogen drops. Sleep shifts. Cortisol rises. Your nervous system has less margin than it used to.

But biology doesn’t create resentment.

It reveals where you’ve been overextended for years.

That doesn’t make you ungrateful.

It makes you human.

Scripture We Rarely Apply to Ourselves

Paul writes:

“Each of you should test your own actions… for each one should carry their own load.”
— Galatians 6:4–5

Notice what it doesn’t say.

It doesn’t say carry everyone’s emotional weight.
It doesn’t say absorb everyone’s dysfunction.
It doesn’t say over-function, so others can under-function.

And Jesus Himself withdrew.

“Very early in the morning… Jesus went off to a solitary place, where he prayed.”
— Mark 1:35

He stepped away.
From demand.
From expectation.
From urgency.

Not because He failed.

Because He was grounded.

Midlife may be the first time you realize you haven’t withdrawn in years.

You’ve been indispensable.

But indispensable women often become invisible women.

And invisibility ferments into resentment.

This Is Why The Grit + Grace Identity Rebuild™ Exists

Not to make you nicer.
Not to help you cope better.
Not to give you another productivity system.

But to ask the question midlife forces:

• Who are you now — after the divorce?

• After the betrayal?

• After the prodigal?

• After the burnout?

• After the career shift?

• After the disappointment?

Who are you in this season — apart from who you have been for everyone else?

Because midlife doesn’t just change your hormones.

It exposes your identity.

The Grit + Grace Identity Rebuild™ is eight weeks of structured, faith-rooted rebuilding.

We rebuild:

Identity — beyond roles and survival.
Boundaries — at home and at work.
Rhythm — that honors your body.
Faith — grounded instead of performed.

Resentment isn’t a character flaw.

It’s often grief mixed with depletion.

And depletion doesn’t resolve with more striving.

It resolves with rebuilding.

If this stirred something in you…

Don’t spiritualize it away.
Don’t minimize it.
Don’t label it as “just a phase.”

Stop disappearing.

Enrollment for The Grit + Grace Identity Rebuild™ is open.

If you’ve built a life that looks strong on the outside
but inside feels heavy —

This is your season to rebuild.

Begin Your Rebuild

If group work isn’t the right fit, 1:1 coaching is available.

But don’t ignore what this stirred.

Midlife isn’t your unraveling.

It’s your invitation.

Stop disappearing,

Dawn

CoachDawnnoel.com

Fun fact: I worked at Hooters. Now I won’t win in two truths and a lie with you ;-).

Yes. That Hooters. I know. SHOCKING for the church lady. 😉
But let’s be honest… it tracks. I’ve always had a little edge.

Shorts. Tank top. The whole thing.

My body was the job description.

I taught group exercise.
I lifted.
I moved constantly.
I was even in a Billy Blanks Tae Bo video (yes, that Billy Blanks — double time, my dude).

Being fit wasn’t something I chased.

It was just… normal.

Until it wasn’t.

The Day “Tears” Became a Diagnosis

I had a hysterectomy at 36.

Leading up to that, I had been put on medications for endometriosis that caused weight gain. My body didn’t feel like mine. I felt inflamed, swollen, and uncomfortable in my own skin.

Four kids — 6 to 15.
A husband traveling constantly.
A house that didn’t run itself.
A body that had just undergone major surgery.

The doctor asked how I was doing.

I said, “It’s been hard.”

My eyes filled with tears.

Not sobbing. Not spiraling. Just tired.

Her response?

An SSRI.

Not:
“You’ve had a massive hormonal shift.”
Not:
“Your estrogen just fell off a cliff.”
Not:
“You need support.”

Nope.

Here. Take this.

We are very quick to medicate women’s emotions.

We are far slower to investigate their hormones.

I didn’t need an antidepressant.

• I needed sleep.

• I needed help.

• I needed a housekeeper.

• I needed time.

Instead, I walked out with a prescription.

The 20 Pounds That Didn’t Leave

SSRIs are associated with weight gain — often 10–15 pounds, sometimes more. (Oh, hey…lucky me!) They can alter appetite signaling, increase cravings, and change metabolic function.

Within months, I gained 20 pounds.

After six months, I stopped. Cold turkey (do not recommend).

And the weight did not come off.

Because when you disrupt hormones, alter insulin signaling, and layer stress on top of surgical menopause… the body adapts.

Not in your favor.

That was the beginning of a body that no longer responded the way it once had.

Then Came the “Midlife Math”

Perimenopause.
Estrogen decline.
Muscle loss.
Visceral fat redistribution.

Research shows women gain about 1–1.5 pounds per year during perimenopause — even if diet and exercise stay the same. Over a decade? That’s an easy 15 pounds.

Hormones affect:

• Insulin sensitivity

• Fat storage

• Muscle preservation

• Metabolic rate

• Appetite regulation

Menopause is a metabolic shift.

Not a moral failure. (Say it louder for people in the back)

But culturally?

We still get:
“Eat less.”
“Move more.”
“Calories in, calories out.”

As if women in midlife just forgot how food works.

It’s lazy advice.

And it’s outdated.

The Grit Season

From Sept - Jan:

No alcohol.
Dialed-in nutrition.
Strength training.
Pilates.
Long walks.
Protein forward.
Sleep guarded.

Twenty pounds down.

I worked for it.

Then my body stalled.

Same effort.
No movement.

The math stopped mathing.

And I was done blaming myself.

The Line in the Sand

For years, I told myself:

“Just be more disciplined.”

But this quote kept rising:

We remain the same until the pain of remaining the same is greater than the pain of change.

At some point, staying stuck costs more than the fear of someone judging my choices.

So I chose differently.

On January 2, after real research and real conversations with my physician, I started a GLP-1.

Six weeks later:
10 pounds down.
About 1.6 pounds per week.
Medically appropriate.

GLP-1 medications mimic a hormone your body already produces. They regulate blood sugar, improve insulin signaling, and restore satiety cues.

They do not lift weights for me.
They do not build muscle.
They do not cancel out discipline.

They help my body respond.

Grit built the first 20 pounds.

Biology helped unlock the next 10.

Let’s Be Clear

While I am thirty pounds down.

I’m still about 20 pounds from what I think my goal is.

I haven’t weighed that number since my early 30s.

So I’m not even convinced it’s relevant.

Midlife bodies are not 32-year-old bodies.

The goal is not nostalgia.

The goal is strength.

• Muscle mass.

• Insulin stability.

• Lower cardiovascular risk.

• Protect bone density.

• Energy.

Being strong at 60. — Traveling, hiking, playing, sailing, freedom
Mobile at 70. — Repeat ^
Independent at 80. Repeat ^

If I land short of some arbitrary number, but I’m strong and metabolically healthy?

That’s success.

The scale is data.

It is not identity.

My goal weight may shift.

My commitment to strength will not.

Why I’m Saying This Without Whispering

Because women are whispering.

Hiding prescriptions.
Bracing for judgment.
Explaining themselves before anyone even asks.

• We medicate tears.

• We shame weight.

• We moralize metabolism.

And then we act surprised when women feel confused about their bodies.

You are not weak because you use medical tools.

You are not lazy because your hormones changed.

You are not less disciplined because your biology shifted.

And you are not required to suffer publicly to prove virtue.

Thirty Pounds Down

Twenty through discipline.

Ten when discipline met biology.

Twenty more to go — maybe.

But here’s the real win:

I’m not hiding.

Not from the mirror.
Not from the data.
Not from the conversation.

If what used to work suddenly stopped working…

You are not broken.

You might be in midlife.

And midlife deserves science — not shame.

Why Grit + Grace Collective Exists

This is why I created Grit + Grace Collective.

Not to obsess over weight.

But to give women a space where:

Hormones are discussed intelligently.
Metabolism isn’t moralized.
Strength matters.
Faith and biology can coexist.

Midlife isn’t decline.

It’s recalibration.

And rebuilding with clarity is powerful.

Join me.

CLICK HERE for more information and register today!

USE CODE: EARLYBIRD for $50 off!

In this with you,

Dawn

CoachDawnnoel.com

P.S. If group coaching isn’t your thing, I also offer 1:1 coaching.

But here’s what I want you to know:

Inside Grit + Grace Collective, you get a 45-minute private 1:1 session with me, a full life framework (READY Framework™), and a Working Genius Assessment — tools I use with private clients that would normally total well over $1,000 on their own.

And in the Collective? You get all of it.
Plus the power of community.

This isn’t surface-level encouragement.
It’s structure. Strategy. Support. And women who get it.

So what say you?

Join me.

This season of life is proving to be rich and full, and I am thriving and want you to be as well!

Let’s walk it with grit and grace.

P.S.S.

Here are the podcasts that helped me make my decision to use a GLP1:

GLP-1s and Midlife Metabolism: Dr. Rocio Salas-Whalen Breaks Down the Science of Weight Loss and Menopause: Part 1

GLP-1s and Midlife Metabolism Part 2: Dr. Rocio Salas Whalen Breaks Down the Science of Weight Loss and Menopause

Here is where I am currently getting my GLP-1 - RO

Where I am moving my GLP-1 to after my RX - EllieMD

What I use for my protein/supplments:

Core Power Elite High Protein Shake, Vanilla, 42g Bottle, 14oz, 12 Pack

THE PAUSE LIFE by Dr. Mary Claire Haver

Please note: I’m sharing my personal experience and educational insights. This is not medical, mental health, or therapeutic advice. Always consult a licensed healthcare provider for individualized care.

Some links may be affiliate links, meaning I may receive a commission if you choose to purchase — at no extra cost to you. I only recommend what I genuinely believe in.

“Midlife is not a crisis. Midlife is an unraveling.”
— Brené Brown

I got an email this morning that felt more like a note from a friend than a sales pitch. Just someone sharing what they were into lately.
(Yes, of course, there was an offer. DUH. And yes, Jenna Kutcher is very good at what she does. Credit where credit is due.)

But it reminded me how much I miss that kind of writing and how much I need it in this season of life…” Midlife”.

Here’s the thing: technically, I’m not in “midlife.” I know.

CRAZY.

At 58, and with women’s life expectancy hovering around 81, even my math-avoidant brain can tell the midpoint is behind me. So maybe we need a new word for this chapter?

Whatever we call it, this part of life has brought exactly what Brené describes—an unraveling.

And if you know my story… yes.

Your girl U-N-R-A-V-E-L-E-D.

Brené puts it plainly:

“By definition, you can’t control or manage an unraveling.”

And then she describes midlife like this:

“Midlife is when the universe gently places her hands upon your shoulders, pulls you close, and whispers…
All of this pretending and performing—these coping mechanisms you’ve developed to protect yourself—has to go.
Your armor is preventing you from growing into your gifts…
You were born worthy of love and belonging…
You were made to live and love with your whole heart.
It’s time to show up and be seen.”

That line stops me every time:

“You were made to live and love with your whole heart. It’s time to show up and be seen.”

Oof.

Are you ready to show up and be seen?

For a long time, I was not.

But then—much like Amy Porterfield wrote when she walked away from a part of her business—

“Sometimes there’s something greater inside you that has to come out. And you can’t fully step into it while you’re still holding onto everything else.”

Over the last four years, I’ve had to let go of a lot.

• My career as I knew it.
  I had outgrown it long before I left. I stayed for many reasons—most of them good, responsible, even faithful. And still… it was a past due departure.

• Much of my community.
  Many friendships were built around work. Others faded as alignment changed or proximity disappeared. Some endings were quiet. Some were painful. All were real.

• Versions of myself that were built for survival, not calling.
  The armor. The performing. The over-functioning. The need to be needed.

Yes, it was an unraveling.

But the other side? Honestly, so good I feel like pinching myself.

My life is nothing I could have dreamed, asked, or imagined (Ephesians 3:20).

I see with different clarity now, and I’m deeply grateful for that gift.

There’s a self-awareness and presence in my own life that I didn’t have before.

It’s as if I spent years banging up against walls and now, more often than not, I think, oh… I’m doing what I was created to do.

So consider this my “Jenna-style” check-in.

A little glimpse of what’s been filling my days lately, from my corner of the world.

And honestly? I’d love to hear the same from you.

CURRENTLY READING ☕

Nothing outside of my Bible.

I know. CRAZY.

I’m technically “between” books, though I’ve been re-reading The New Menopause —which has become a bit of my other Bible in this season. I love how clear, practical, and validating it is. No fear-mongering, no fluff—just solid information that helps you understand what’s actually happening in your body and why you’re not imagining things.

I’m also really looking forward to The New Perimenopause coming out soon (yes, I’m that excited). Resources like these feel grounding and empowering in a season where so many women are left confused or dismissed.

After living in menopause land for a bit, I recently read The Big Leap, which was both wild and stretching in a totally different way. It’s one of those books that shines a light on how we limit ourselves right as things start to expand—uncomfortable, clarifying, and oddly freeing.

If you’re reading something you’re loving right now, I’d honestly love to hear about it. Hit reply or email me your recommendations—I’m always adding to the list.

CURRENTLY NOTICING 🧠

I’m noticing that my nervous system matters more than my to-do list.

Yesterday I was tired. Not “grab another coffee and power through” tired—actually tired. So instead of performing, people-pleasing, or rearranging my entire day to meet everyone else’s needs, I rested. I made myself a priority.

And GUESS WHAT.

Everyone survived.
No one imploded.
The world kept spinning.
And here we are today.

Turns out rest isn’t laziness—it’s wisdom. And in this season, listening to my body feels a lot more faithful than ignoring it.

CURRENTLY LEARNING ✍️

I’m learning how much mindset and gratitude shape the way we experience our lives—not in a “manifest it into existence” way, but in a very real, biblical way.

What we dwell on, what we rehearse in our minds, and what we choose to notice forms us. Scripture calls this “the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2), and I’m realizing how ongoing that work really is—especially in a season that’s been more unraveling than rebuilding.

Gratitude, for me, has become less about positive thinking and more about attentiveness—learning to see what God is already doing even when things feel unclear or undone. I keep coming back to Paul’s reminder to focus on what is true, noble, and good (Philippians 4:8), not as denial, but as direction.

I’ve been working on this for years—and I’ll likely be learning it for the rest of my life. In the unraveling, I’m discovering that clarity doesn’t come from control; it comes from obedience, presence, and trust—one small step at a time.
(My brain would still prefer a spreadsheet and a five-year plan, but okay, God.)

CURRENTLY LOVING 😍

My Pause Life supplements - specifically the protein, creatine, sleep support, fiber, and collagen.

I’ve been intentional about supporting my body in this season, and these have become part of my regular rhythm. Nothing dramatic, nothing magic—just steady support that helps me feel more grounded, more rested, and a little more like myself.

The protein and creatine have been great for strength and energy (especially as I’m lifting more + on week 4 of my GLP-1), the fiber has helped with digestion (midlife🙃 + GLP1 help!), the collagen supports skin and joints, and the sleep support… well, sleep matters. A lot.

I like that Pause is from Dr. Haver - I trust her with my life - as she sort of saved it. And I only share what I actually use and trust.

If you’re curious, you can use code COACHDAWN for 10% off (on supplements, not weighted vest sadly).

As always, supplements are just part of the picture—along with rest, movement, sunlight, prayer, and boundaries, and my HRT—but these have been a helpful piece for me.

CURRENTLY AVOIDING 🙈

A few tough conversations.

I have one tomorrow, and confrontation still doesn’t come easily for me. Letting people down stings. I know the conversation will be hard, and I’m not exactly looking forward to it.

If you have any wisdom, scripts, or gentle reminders that help you navigate hard conversations, I’d genuinely love to hear them.

CURRENTLY EXCITED ABOUT 🎉

Grit + Grace Collective

I’ve been building this space for midlife women navigating menopause, changing energy, and quieter questions about faith and purpose…without pushing through or pretending everything is fine.

Inside Grit + Grace, we slow the pace and get honest about what midlife is actually asking of you - physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

We talk about hormones, nervous system overload, and faith that still holds when the old ways of pushing through no longer work - in community - with real women - experiencing real life.

If this slower, truer way of moving through midlife resonates, you can learn more about Grit + Grace Collective by hitting reply and typing Waitlist, or by emailing me here → Dawn@coachdawnnoel.com.

I’d love to walk this season with you…I’ve been there.

That’s the check-in for today…a small pause in the middle of real life.

Midlife has been teaching me that noticing matters: paying attention to what our bodies are telling us, what our souls are longing for, and where God might be inviting us to loosen our grip or lean in.

This work often begins quietly, one honest moment at a time.

Helping midlife women get unstuck…Mind, Body, and Soul.

With grace,

Dawn

CoachDawnnoel.com

Not dramatic.
Not panicked.
Just… honest.

It usually starts like this:

“I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something feels off.”

Not a crisis.
Not a meltdown.
No scorched-earth energy.

Just a quiet, persistent sense that this season is asking for something different.

More honesty.
More alignment.
More care than we’ve been giving ourselves.

And before your brain jumps to, “Cool. What did I do wrong?” — let me stop you right there.

Midlife is not a failure of discipline, faith, or character.
It’s not because you didn’t pray hard enough, organize better, or try one more supplement.

Midlife is a reorientation.

For many of us, this is the first time life slows us down enough to notice things we’ve been outrunning for years:

• our bodies don’t respond the way they used to - HELLO?? Does anyone else feel this to their core or is it just me??

• our energy has shifted

• roles that once fit now feel… tight…and it is not just the expanding waist.

• faith questions sound quieter, but deeper

• and the old strategy of “push through and be grateful” just doesn’t work anymore

That doesn’t mean something has gone wrong.

It may mean something is being revealed.

And honestly?
That can feel unsettling… holy… annoying… and overdue … all at the same time.

And Here’s the Part We Don’t Always Say Out Loud

Midlife rarely shows up neatly.

It usually shows up layered. It sure did for me.

• The kids leave or are halfway gone and suddenly the house feels different.

• Careers shift, stall, or end… or just stop making sense.

• Some marriages deepen. Some strain. Some quietly unravel. (Yes, “gray divorce” is a real thing.)

• Caregiving for our parents and the conversations surrounding that… or the grief of the loss.

• Disappointment sneaks in.

• Bitterness can creep up if we don’t pay attention.

And then — just to keep things interesting — your body joins the conversation.

• Low libido.

• Shorter fuse.

• Emotions that arrive uninvited and loud.
  Menopausal irritability that makes you think, “Who is this woman and why is she so spicy?”

It’s a collision of life transitions and biology and most women were never given the language, tools, or permission to talk about it honestly. Our generation, in particular, was shaped by the WHI study, FDA black box warnings, and decades of fear-based messaging around hormone replacement therapy and yes, that did real damage.

So we normalize it.
We joke about it.
We minimize it.
We spiritualize it.

Until we can’t.

For me, “can’t” looked like sitting on the floor over a mistake that shouldn’t have undone me — except it did. That was the moment I knew something deeper was going on.

And that’s usually when women start whispering, “I don’t want to feel like this forever,” or “I cannot feel this way forever - it’s unbearable.”

Why I Created the Grit + Grace Collective

The Grit + Grace Collective was created for this exact moment.

Not to fix you.
Not to rush you.
Not to hand you a tidy five-step plan.

But to create a faith-based, honest, grounded space where women can slow down, tell the truth, and figure out how to live this season well.

This is a Christian space.
Prayer is part of every week.
Faith is woven throughout — not performative, not preachy, not avoidant.

And here’s something that matters deeply to me:

We honor our stories without living in victimhood.
We take responsibility without self-blame.
We tell the truth without letting it run the show.

Because naming what’s happening is not weakness — it’s wisdom. But we do it in a way to reclaim ourselves…maybe for the first time.

What the Grit + Grace Collective Is

The Grit + Grace Collective is an 8-week, small-group, faith-based coaching experience for women in midlife.

Each week includes:

• thoughtful teaching

• guided group conversation

• small-group breakout sessions

• prayer at the beginning and end

• reflection and integration

This is not therapy.
It’s not surface-level encouragement.
It’s not a “white-knuckle your way through midlife” plan.

It’s a steady, supportive container to help you understand what’s happening — in your body, your faith, your work, and your relationships — and discern what comes next with clarity and grace.

How We Personalize the Experience

When you register, you’ll complete the Working Genius® Assessment, so you understand how you’re wired and where your energy naturally flows.

You’ll also receive one private 45-minute 1:1 coaching session with me during the 8 weeks.

In that session, we:

• walk through your Working Genius results

• talk honestly about alignment and burnout

• introduce the READY Framework™ — a simple, repeatable way to make decisions in this season

READY helps you:

• name your Reality

• Evaluate what’s working and what’s not

• discern wise Action

• clarify what to Delegate or release

• strengthen your Yes — what you’re saying yes to now

This isn’t about doing more.

It’s about doing what fits this season of your life.

Why I’m Leading This

I don’t coach midlife from theory.

I coach from lived experience, professional training, and decades of walking alongside women in high-responsibility, faith-based leadership roles — while doing this work myself.

In midlife, I walked through burnout, hormonal upheaval, identity shifts, and faith questions that didn’t come with easy answers.

That experience led me to pursue proper training, including:

• ICF-Accredited Life Coaching

• Certified Menopause Coaching Specialist (Girls Gone Strong)

• Certified Working Genius® Facilitator

• READY Network training

• Over 20 years of leadership and executive support experience

• Extensive work in faith-based group facilitation

I don’t diagnose or prescribe.
But I do help women understand what’s happening, ask better questions, and make wise decisions alongside their healthcare providers.

I don’t rush women to answers.
I don’t minimize symptoms.
I don’t separate faith from real life.

The Practical Details

• Start date: Wednesday, February 25

• Time: Wednesdays, 6:00–7:30 PM PT

• Format: Live on Zoom

• Replays: Yes

• Group size: Limited to 20 women

Investment: $397
Waitlist bonus: $50 off

Reply “I’m in” and I’ll personally send you the code once registration opens next week.

The 8-Week Journey (At a Glance)

Week 1: Why you’re here, what brought you here, prayer, orientation
Week 2: Hormones in midlife — what’s actually happening
Week 3: Stress, nervous system, and body stewardship
Week 4: Identity, worth, and self-leadership
Week 5: Working Genius® and energy alignment
Week 6: Transitions — career, empty nest, reinvention
Week 7: Faith, calling, and dreaming again
Week 8: Integration, READY, and next right steps

Final Invitation

If you’ve been sensing a quiet nudge —
Pay attention. Something is shifting.

This may be your next faithful step.

You don’t need to have it all figured out.
You just need to be willing to show up honestly.

👉 Reply “I’m in” to join the waitlist and receive $50 off.

With you,

Dawn Noel

My values haven’t changed, my clarity has.

Over the past month, I’ve been watching women I deeply respect make bold, public shifts in their work. Amy Porterfield. Jenna Kutcher. (You should check them out.)

It stirred something in me - sharpened discernment on the next steps. Made me want more clarity. So thank you to those trailblazers who have been paving the way for women entrepreneurs for a long time. I appreciate you!

I’m writing this to clear up a few things.

And honestly?

I can understand why some people might feel confused about who I am and what I do. I’ve been working that out myself for a while. And now, I have clarity.

To say this gently and clearly: If this no longer resonates, once you understand the direction, unfollow and unsubscribe might be the answer.

I bless you as you go…

I feel grateful.

Thrilled.

Nervous.

Grounded.

All the feels.

Clarity is a gift, but sometimes there is a cost involved - and mine has indeed come at a cost, but I am grateful for it.

And as Brené Brown says, clarity is kindness.

Before we get to the change going on now, let’s go back to when I first knew one was coming…four years ago, as I was leaving my stable and loved career of over 20+ years.

I knew I needed to make a change.

And for any of you who have been feeling that and are of a “certain” age, you know that making changes in your 50’s (and +) is a unique mix of challenging and freeing.

Challenging because ageism is real. There’s a quiet and sometimes not-so-quiet narrative that women become invisible in midlife. Doors aren’t held the same way. Rooms feel different.

I once sat in a meeting where there was noise outside the door. A woman - yes, a female colleague - went to check. She came back and said, “Oh, it’s just a bunch of old blue hairs.”

Ouch.
(Also… see my hair… “old blue hair”? )

But also freeing… You don’t care quite as much what others think in the next breath once you are well, a bit older.

I digress… back to the news:

Four years ago, I knew I needed to make a change.

When I resigned, it wasn’t fast.

Or easy.

Or light.

I stayed longer than I should have…out of loyalty, conviction, love… and yes, fear.

When I finally stepped away, I didn’t have a tidy “next chapter.”

At all.

I knew what I was doing wasn’t working, and I wasn’t done working. I wasn’t retiring. (And honestly, I don’t think the retirement idea holds up - biblically or practically.)

• Shifting? Yes.

• Repurposing? Absolutely.

• Changing form? For sure.

But disappearing into pickleball, Lululemon, and early dinners at the club?
No. Sorry. Hard pass.

So, as I stumbled around a bit, it was suggested to me - have you considered coaching EA’s? Yes… I actually had been stirring and dreaming about doing just that.

I was an excellent EA, and over the years, I’d been coaching along the way.

People reached out asking me to coach their Executive Assistants.

I coached the EA’s on our own team.

I have my ICF life coaching certification.

(We are often being prepared for our next season long before we realize it.)

I was (and am) passionate about EA’s and their relationship with leadership.

Building an EA coaching practice made sense. It was who I was and what I did.

So I did it! And am very proud of that.

Over the last few years, I’ve had the privilege of walking alongside phenomenal women in meaningful ministry contexts, from influential platforms to small, faithful churches doing quiet, holy work.

I built an online group coaching cohort that sold out.

I formed relationships that I hope endure for years.

I also kept doing some EA work and donor relationships/event work.

Why?

Because I’m really great at it (it comes easily), I enjoy aspects of it, and I think that being a practitioner in what you are coaching is critical. You know the concept of “sharpening the saw” - I wanted to stay sharp in my lane.

Until, well… here is the truth. I have not enjoyed it for some time. The joy is gone.

The gig life has become heavy in many ways.

Too large portfolio.

High responsibility - leadership teams.

Yes, very meaningful work with deeply respected leaders that I am so grateful for.

Working with people I admire has been, and continues to be, a privilege.

And still, I know I want something different… that this doesn’t fit or fill me any longer.

One clear way I have realized this is that in my coaching of EA’s, I keep moving to deeper conversations.

Toward how their soul is doing… not their work.

Their health… are they caring for themselves?

Their desires… is this where they are passionate about for the future?

Their development… what is next?

Their capacity to live with strength, clarity, and peace.

I am far more interested in that than in refining the perfect email template for a senior leader’s inbox.

What I knew, before I had the language for it, was this: I am being invited into something more aligned. Something truer. Something that can hold both my experience and the woman I am now.

And that’s where this story really begins.

Somewhere along the way last year, things clicked.

I am changing my coaching: Moving fully to midlife women, and I backed that decision with real investment: time, money, and training, including my menopause coaching certification. I’m choosing to be educated, not just my lived experience. And oh … trust me, I have that! Helpful, not loud. Steady, not trendy.

I am working with women who feel stuck - mentally, physically, spiritually- and who know there is more, even if they can’t yet name it.

I am coaching mind, body, and soul.

I am leading retreats. I am building them. I am speaking at them.

I am Christ-centered - I love Jesus. That has not changed. It won’t.

I believe in informed care for women in midlife - including HRT.

We have been dismissed, minimized, and gaslit for decades, and I’m not interested in pretending otherwise.

I wish I’d had a coach like me, frankly, in my own midlife season.

A steady, grounded voice asking the questions we often carry quietly:

• Are your hormones actually regulated?

• Are you white-knuckling your way through exhaustion?

• Are you resting - real rest, the holy kind, not performative?

• Are you burned out, or depleted in ways no productivity hack will fix?

• Is this a calling issue… or a capacity issue?

I will always be an advocate for Executive Assistants.

I see you.

I was you.

I see the whole picture clearly.

However, I am no longer that coach.

And there will not be more EA cohorts -at least for now.

Like any fabulous woman and certainly any midlife woman, I fully reserve the right to change my mind.

This is the work I’m doing now.
This is the direction I’m walking in.

And if this resonates - stay.
If it doesn’t, I bless you as you go.

And if you’re wondering what this looks like in real life…

Grit + Grace Collective registration opening next week.

An 8-week group coaching experience for midlife women who are high-capacity, tired of white-knuckling life, and ready for real change.

90 minutes a week. Online. 20 women max.
Hormones. Faith. Health. Transition. Truth. All on the table.

We’ll use Working Genius and Ready Network frameworks to move you forward - because awareness without action is just journaling…at best.

If you felt called out (in a good way), this is for you.
Details coming next week!

With you,

Dawn

Crushed it.
Best year ever.
Biggest wins yet.

I don’t begrudge those stories. Truly.

But I also know there’s another story many midlife women are carrying quietly into January, the one where the calendar flips and nothing in your body feels like celebration.

Where you’re not energized by a “fresh start” because you’re still tending to what last year left behind.

If that’s you, let me say this clearly from the start:

It doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful.
It doesn’t mean you’re lazy.
It doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.

It may simply mean you’re paying attention.

I chose the word Flourish

I didn’t get the year I imagined…dreamed, prayed for - at ALL.

I went back and read my journal recently.

My word for last year was Flourish.

On January 5, I wrote:
“The best year in 9–10 years is coming.”

I wrote it with that particular kind of hope you have when you’ve survived a long, hard stretch and you’re finally ready to believe relief is possible.

I meant it.

And then the year didn’t just disappoint me…it humbled me… I feel like I limped out of it.

It reminded me that we don’t get to vision-board our way around grief.
We don’t get to schedule the story.
We don’t get to declare ease and bypass formation.

By the end of January, we were grieving.
Frank lost his precious stepmom, Joy.
I got hit hard with Covid.

By spring, our bucket-list plans were gone too.
The Camino de Santiago.
A month around Sicily.
That long-imagined “finally” season.

Canceled - because Frank tore his knee.

Later, we had to move our sailboat - our home - because of cost - gotta love Newport.

And while those events are easy to list- and you know that those are what I can share…there is always more. As well as what mattered more was what they did inside me.

Because midlife loss doesn’t just take the thing.
It takes the version of you that was going to live inside the thing.

The grief we don’t name: losing the future you pictured

I don’t think we talk enough about how grief shows up in midlife.

It’s not always dramatic or obvious.
Sometimes it’s quiet.
A cancellation.
A door that closes without ceremony.

You don’t just lose the experience.
You lose the self you were going to be there.

The exhale.
The lightness.
The moment you thought would mark your arrival into something easier.

So when I say I didn’t flourish, I don’t mean I didn’t achieve enough.

I mean I lost things I was holding with open hands and I still needed time to feel the weight of that.

And I didn’t always give myself that time.

Overcommitment: one of my favorite ways to outrun pain

If I’m honest, last year exposed something I already knew about myself.

When life gets painful or uncertain, my instinct is to get busy.

To overcommit.
To be useful.
To prove I’m okay by producing something.

It looks responsible.
It often isn’t.

For me, it’s a disguised form of control.

So there were cancellations.
Dropped balls.
That awful feeling of letting people down.

And the loudest disappointment wasn’t external.

It was that familiar inner voice:

You should be handling this better.
You’re too old to still be learning this.
You should be stronger by now.

Midlife has a way of turning that voice up …until you finally have to face it.

San Diego: beautiful… and tender

Then we moved to San Diego.

I love it here.
And I miss what we left behind - our church, our community, our daughters.

This is one of the defining tensions of midlife:
You can be grateful and grieving at the same time.

You can choose a new chapter and still ache over the old one.
You can see God’s hand and still feel disoriented.

I used to think faith meant choosing one emotion and committing to it.

Now I’m learning that faith often looks like holding both:

good and hard
joy and ache
gratitude and grief

It seems to be “both and.”

Always.

Maybe January isn’t meant to be loud

Someone recently said something that stopped me in my tracks:

Maybe January isn’t supposed to feel like momentum.
Maybe it’s supposed to feel like winter.

A time for hibernation.
Quiet repair.
God doing work we can’t see yet.

That didn’t land as a poetic metaphor.
It landed because it matched my actual life.

And it made me wonder how many midlife women are walking around feeling behind when what they’re actually experiencing is wisdom.

Because midlife slows you down - not to punish you, but to show you what matters.

In your body.
In your relationships.
In your calling.
In your soul.

The kind of flourishing no one posts

I’m starting to believe this:

Maybe I didn’t flourish the way I defined it.

Maybe I didn’t flourish in the highlight-reel way…the “everything went right” way.

But maybe another kind of flourishing was happening underneath.

A quieter kind.

The kind where God loosens your grip on control.
The kind where you stop performing strength and start telling the truth.
The kind where your life becomes smaller on the outside for a season because something sturdier is being built on the inside.

Roots before fruit.

That’s not a slogan.
That’s a season.

And it doesn’t photograph well.

“Every branch that bears fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.” John 15:2 - OUCH (the ouch is mine ;-))

Why I’m building something different

This is one of the reasons I’m building something different this year.

A space for midlife women where we don’t have to pretend we’re fine.
Where we don’t rush what needs time.
Where we don’t turn pain into a tidy lesson so everyone feels comfortable.

A place where faith, fatigue, grief, hope, and real questions are all welcome.

No hype.
No pressure to catch up.
Just honest conversations, coaching, and community.

Midlife isn’t a crisis.
It’s an invitation. to live truer, slower, and more rooted than we ever have before.

If you feel behind

If you’re reading this and thinking, I’m not excited about the new year. I’m just tired. I want you to hear me:

You’re not behind.

You might be in winter.
You might be healing.
You might be grieving a future you thought you’d have by now.
You might be learning to trust God without rushing Him.

That is not failure.

That is formation.

And whether you’re already inside this community or standing at the edge, wondering if there’s a place for you, know this:

You don’t have to do this alone. You can reply to this, and I will put you on the list to receive the information when the community opens!

With grit and grace,

Dawn

CoachDawnnoel.com

A note for those already walking with me

If you’re already part of my paid community, I want you to hear this clearly:

You’re already in this.

This space I’m describing, the honesty, the slower pace, the permission to be real, the conversations about faith and midlife and becoming, this is exactly what we’re continuing to build together.

You’ll be given access to what’s coming next.

“I will restore to you the years that the locust has eaten.”
— Joel 2:25

“2025 basically said, DID YOU DIE? STAY ALIVE”

I was texting with a friend last night… she lost both her parents last year in a very short amount of time. Incredibly sad. Heartbreaking really. She shared that she joked with her husband that their only job in 2025 was to “remain alive.”

I’m not sure she was entirely joking…

And if I’m honest, social media, at least my algorithm (yeah… that might say something), has a bit of that thread running through my feed.

A quiet… at times not so quiet, collective exhaustion.

So here we are.
New Year’s Day, 2026.

How many of us are looking at today, not full of encouragement and hope, but tangled up in discouragement instead?

For many, 2025 wasn’t a love story.

It was a hard year.

And if social media and the conversations I’ve been having are any kind of pulse-check, it wasn’t just a few…it was a lot of us:

Economics
Relationships
Death
Disappointment

Honestly, a kind of general malaise, almost… a feeling of overall disconnection and discontent.

So I wonder how many people woke up this morning not bouncing out of bed with a “YAY, IT’S a NEW YEAR”, but instead with a quieter, more cautious thought:

“Okay… It’s a new year. But has anything REALLY changed? And can I actually make anything change?”

When the calendar turns, often there’s a sense of freshness…newness.

We reset.

We make plans.

We clean things up.

We go back to the gym… or maybe we start for the first time.

However, by the second Friday, there is something called Quitter’s Day (who knew?), and only 8–9% of people actually achieve the goals they set by the end of the year.

I’ve been wondering though…

What if, outside of looking at my goals, my vision/action board, and my intentions, I looked at God as the true Restorer of lost years? Believing that He truly does what He says: “I will restore to you the years that the locust has eaten.”

I’ll be the first to admit that historically, I’ve struggled to believe this promise for me.

I’ve always believed it for others. I’ve seen God do it in their lives.

But for myself? That’s been harder.

I learned fairly early on that life disappoints.

People let you down.

That loss is real.

Things don’t turn out the way you hope.

But what if I believed that God can restore…not just things, but years? Even for me? What if YOU did too?

The years marked by loss?
The seasons shaped by disappointment?
The dreams buried so deep it hurts to let us breathe again?
The hope we quietly shut down just to survive?

I have a friend… she recently posted a photo on social media. It was of her and her husband, their baby, and two girls - a sweet family on vacation in a store.

No big deal, right?

Except exactly two years ago, she posted in the same spot with her boyfriend.

That husband? He was her NEW boyfriend two years ago.

Yup. A boyfriend that she had dreamed of after a very public divorce and devastation, hurt, and humiliation.

Now? They have a newborn. And his precious two girls are now her two daughters as well.

God has indeed restored what the locust ate.

I believed that was possible for her.

I don’t know if she believed it two and a half years ago… but I did… I mean, I didn’t KNOW that story, but I believed that God had something bigger and more beautiful than we could ask or imagine for her life. Ephesians 3:20

It takes faith and action.

That friend took a lot of risks to make that happen - it’s her story, but she did bold things in order to be where she is today….

It made me reflect again on Joel 2:25 and what a “New Year, New You” really looks like.

Because yes, intentionality matters.

Action matters.

We are not meant to be passive participants in our lives.

We don’t get to sit on the couch and be armchair observers of our big, beautiful life. Of that, I’m certain.

It takes faith and action.

Like the walls of Jericho - they didn’t just fall… they marched around them.

God gave the Israelites specific instructions - march, day after day, even when it made no sense.

Often, what we feel in our souls will make no sense to those around us. There might be questions, we might look silly, or we might feel cringe…(HELLO)…

For those Israelis? There was no shouting.

No shortcuts.

Just obedience.

They walked around those walls once a day for six days.

And on the seventh day, they walked seven times.

Only then, after faith was paired with action, did God tell them to shout.

And that’s when the walls fell.

Not because marching is powerful.
Not because shouting is powerful.
But because obedience is.

It was faith and action working together.

Maybe this year isn’t about trying harder or fixing ourselves.

Maybe it’s about faithfully taking the next step God asks of us, trusting Him with the walls, and believing He is still in the business of restoring years.

That’s often where restoration begins.

You can read that story in Joshua 6

Reflection - Entering 2026

As 2026 begins, we stand between two promises.

Jericho reminds us that walls don’t fall through effort or strategy, but through obedience and trust.

Joel reminds us that God doesn’t just restore moments - He restores years.

So as you + I step into 2026, let’s pause for a moment and notice where we are standing.

Between the walls that still feel intact…and the years God promises to restore.

Asking honestly:

• As I enter 2026, what walls feel most present in my life right now?

• Where have I been trying to tear something down in my own strength?

• What losses from previous years have I quietly accepted as permanent?

• If God truly restores years, what hope might I be invited to carry into 2026?

We don’t need answers yet.
We don’t need a detailed plan.

Just pay attention to where you are beginning this year - between Jericho and Joel.

That’s often where restoration starts.

Prayer for 2026

God,

As I step into 2026, I bring You the walls in my life…the ones I built to survive and the ones I don’t know how to move past.

Like Jericho, they feel solid and unmoving. And I confess how often I try to change things through effort alone.

This year, teach me how to walk in obedience instead of striving for control. Help me trust You even when I don’t see progress yet.

I believe You are the God who brings walls down. Not by my strength, but by Yours.

And I believe You are the God who restores years - the years marked by loss, disappointment, and deferred hope.

As 2026 begins, restore what was lost.
Restore what was taken.
Restore the years the locust has eaten,

Amen.

Upcoming in 2026

As I step into 2026, I’m holding a lot of hope for what’s ahead….especially for my Midlife gals who are navigating this season with grit, faith, questions, and a deep desire for something more grounded and life-giving.

I’ll be opening something new I’ve been quietly building for women in midlife - space for honest conversations, faith, reflection, and forward movement without hustle or pressure.

More on that soon.

Unbreakable Connections Retreat

If you’re longing for in-person space to breathe, reflect, and be surrounded by wise, faith-filled women, I’m honored to be speaking HERE in Tennessee this April.

There are only three spots left - I’d LOVE for you to join me.

Maybe this year, we don’t rush the restoration.
We walk toward it…together,

Love,

Dawn

CoachDawnnoel.com