How My Real Life Became My Writing Life

As I sat at the conference table, staring at the deck while the chief of staff walked us through the year’s financial projections and strategy, I found myself distant. Removed.

I was hearing the words, the same words I’d heard time and time again. Do more with less. Cut costs. Think outside the box. We don’t need more people; we have the bandwidth. Create synergy. Inspire them. Find the low-hanging fruit. It started to feel pointless. Like an endless loop of corporate jargon playing in my head. On the surface, it looked like I had it all together. Inside, I was exhausted. Disconnected.

I stepped onto this ladder over twenty years ago, and in the beginning, I loved the chase, the thrill of what’s next, the climb. I would have done anything to be in that role. I remember thinking in my twenties that my goal was to be a VP by the time I was thirty. And there I was. But sitting there, hearing words without absorbing them, I noticed something quietly unsettling: the fire was gone. I didn’t feel hungry anymore. I didn’t even understand my purpose.

This was no longer for me. Not because I failed, but because I outgrew it. I had chased the high, the money, the momentum for a long time. I was ready for the next chapter. A quieter one. One where my presence was felt, not just seen. One where the impact I made lasted.

Becoming a mother changed something in me. It reshaped the way I thought about purpose and legacy. I wanted more, but not more titles or accolades. I wanted my work to mean something beyond consumption and profit. I wanted a different kind of impact.

My gut had been whispering that something needed to change for years. I kept pushing it down. The hardest decisions whisper long before they shout. I resigned after two decades in the corporate fashion world. The decision felt empowering, and also like a loss. I grieved that version of myself, realizing that relief and loss can exist at the same time.

I remember talking to my dad during that time. He said, “Renee, just be. Don’t go chase the next job or the next big thing. Take this time to just be.” It was the best advice I could have received and some of the hardest to follow. I had never allowed myself that kind of space. No projects. No proving. No new titles or ambitious goals. Just being. And in that stillness, I found room to imagine a new version of myself.

I didn’t leap into self-publishing with a finished manuscript or a business plan. I started with stillness. With letting myself feel. And from that quiet space, ideas began to surface. Creativity doesn’t come from force. It comes from listening. My daughters became my muses. I found myself dreaming up stories rooted in our everyday lives, the moments that had always been there, waiting to be noticed. And before I realized it, the next chapter of my life was unfolding. I just had to be brave enough to step into it.

Life isn’t linear. Adulthood isn’t static. This is what I wanted my daughters to see. That growth doesn’t stop once you “make it.” That you’re allowed to change your mind. That choosing differently isn’t failure, it’s awareness. I wanted them to see me model courage. To understand that it’s okay to take stock in your life, to listen when something no longer fits, and to trust yourself enough to choose a new direction.

Do I still grieve the older version of myself sometimes? Of course. I’m human. I invested twenty years in that life. But now, five years into this new version of myself, I feel proud. Proud of who I was. Proud of who I’m becoming. Proud of the little people I’m raising along the way.

This is the work I’m doing now, with words, with stories, with my kids watching. I’ll be sharing more from that space here.

It’s only the beginning.