I recently read a newsletter that really resonated with me. Truthfully, a lot of newsletters land in my inbox, and very few ever earn the distinction of being opened—so the fact that I not only opened this one but read every word says a lot. The subject line stopped me in my tracks because it hit close to home, and the writer’s words nudged me to reflect—and act—in my own life.
If you’re not following Paula Sanders on Instagram, you’re missing out. She’s a sassy breath of fresh air in a world that feels increasingly heavy. I met her at an event she hosted in the Hamptons last summer, and she’s just as fabulous in person as she is online. But what struck me recently was her latest World’s Your Oysta newsletter. Just a few sentences in, and I felt like I had written it myself—only, she had found the exact words I hadn’t been able to locate.
Rather than attempt to summarize her beautifully written thoughts (because I’d surely fall short), I want to share why her email gave me pause.
For a while now—say, the last five years—I’ve been feeling this…thing. It ebbs and flows, but rarely leaves for long. And the strange part is, I can’t quite name it. Not because I don’t want to, but because I genuinely don’t know what it is.
In 2018, I moved back to my hometown on Long Island. It was everything I needed. I reconnected with friends, started a job I loved, and, for the first time, felt like I had a real community. My commute was short, my days ended with beach walks or dinners with friends, and for a solid stretch of time, life felt…full. Settled. Exactly what I’d hoped for.
But that feeling didn’t last. There was the disruption of the pandemic, my grandmother’s move to long-term care, a carousel of job changes, and eventually, her passing. The past few years have been wrapped in grief and transition. And somehow, despite all the change happening around me, I’ve felt like I’ve been standing still.
I’m still in the same apartment I intended to stay in for just two years. I walk the same route, see the same people on my morning coffee run. What once felt vibrant now feels…dull?
Though maybe dull isn’t quite the right word. But Paula’s newsletter gave me permission to finally say aloud what I’ve been quietly carrying for years—something I’ve often felt guilty about.
By most measures, I have a great life. And according to Instagram, it probably looks anything but boring. I get to go riding, spend weekends in the Hamptons, work with wonderful clients, sail…all of it. I like my life. But I don’t love any one part of it—not the way I think I should.
The other day, while out on my usual sanity stroll, a woman in a car pulled up beside me. She asked if I’d seen the ice cream truck. Her kids were in the backseat, eagerly waiting for their nightly sugar fix. I hadn’t noticed, I said. She drove off, chasing that bit of childhood magic, the kids’ voices lighting up at the mere possibility of finding this truck en route.
And that’s when it hit me—somewhere along the way, I lost that kind of child-like excitement. Maybe it naturally faded after a cancer diagnosis, years of caregiving, and all the emotional weight that comes with those roles. But reading Paula’s words made me feel seen. And for the first time in a while, I asked myself out loud: What does it really mean to build a life you love?
If I had to sum it up, I think the feeling I’m sitting with is this: I’ve outgrown my life. It’s comfortable because it’s familiar. I know this version of life—I’ve lived it before. But can you truly grow if you never step outside what you know?
Right now, I don’t have the answers. Just the questions. But if any of this resonates with you, I’d love to know what you’re sitting with, too.
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