In the Space Between Seasons: A quiet reflection on turning 50, Ikigai, and learning to breathe with change

There is something about turning 50 that feels less like a birthday and more like a threshold.

This January 2026, I will cross into that new decade, and instead of feeling celebratory or afraid, I feel… quiet.
Not empty, just still.
Like the pause between one breath and the next.

This last year has invited a lot of reflection.
Questions about work, purpose, and how to keep walking a meaningful path when life feels uncertain or tired.
There have been moments of doubt and moments of deep listening.

And yet, something gentle has been unfolding at the same time.

A soft untangling.
A release of old expectations.
A remembering of what it feels like to live from the inside rather than from performance.

In Japanese culture, there is a word for this kind of moment: wabi-sabi (侘び寂び), the beauty of what is imperfect, impermanent, and still becoming.
A leaf falling.
A crack in a tea bowl.
A forest breathing out as one season gives way to another.

Nothing is broken.
Everything is simply changing.

There is also a quieter way of understanding purpose in Japanese culture, known as ikigai (生き甲斐), not something to chase or achieve, but something that can appear even in the middle of difficulty.

Last year, after one of my Ikigai retreats, I wrote a small piece of poetry that has stayed with me:

Ikigai is not something we achieve.
It is something we live with, every day.
Not a destination, not a title,
but a quiet companion,
like breath.

It felt true then.
It feels even more true now.

Years ago, I was deeply moved by stories of people living with great physical hardship who still found small reasons to wake up each day, to look out a window, to sing, to write a poem, to notice a patch of sky.
Their lives were not easy, but something within them kept whispering, “This moment still matters.”

That understanding feels close to me now.

There has been tiredness, and also gratitude.
A sense of how much has been given over these years, and how much is quietly being learned.

There is another Japanese phrase that holds this tenderness: ichigo ichie (一期一会) “this moment, once in a lifetime.”
Every breath.
Every season.
Every turning of our lives will never come in the same way again.

So instead of asking, “What should I do next?”
I am learning to ask, “How can I meet this moment with kindness?”

Turning fifty feels like stepping into a second life, one shaped less by striving and more by presence.

If you are standing in a similar place, holding both weariness and hope, you are not alone.
You are not behind.
You are simply living a very human turning.

And sometimes, that quiet, imperfect, honest living is exactly where our ikigai reveals itself.

This way of listening, to the body, to the seasons, and to the deeper questions of midlife, is at the heart of the work I offer through naturopathy, Ikigai, and women’s health. If this reflection resonates with you, you are warmly welcome to explore my work or stay connected through my writing