I Said “I Do” (But I Meant “I Don’t Know Myself Yet”)

The summer after graduating from college in 1983, I moved into a mid-century house in Seattle’s hip Green Lake neighborhood with a couple of long-time girlfriends. Life was full of bliss and delicious irresponsibility. Our Saturday morning ritual included coffee from a secondhand electric percolator (Folgers in a can, naturally), couch time glued to MTV, and a couple of laps around Green Lake to work off the fries and hangover-inducing beverages from the night before.

We were all working but still broke—and high on the magic of that sweet spot in life where everything felt possible. Laughter was constant. Shenanigans were expected. We dubbed our little haven the “Canfield Country Club.” Big hair, stirrup pants, and far too much makeup were just part of the uniform.

Once, on a whim, we pooled twenty bucks and traded a beat-up old Hoover vacuum for a pink 1961 Plymouth Savoy Slant Six with push-button gears. We named her Alex and hung her keys by the front door. She became our communal beach car—sometimes hauling eight (or more) of us at once. Seatbelts? Who knows. We were 22 and invincible.

Of course, life doesn’t stay paused in those moments forever. Eventually, we scattered.
Different cities. Different dreams. Different timelines.

I was one of the first in my group to sip the “marriage Kool-Aid.” At 25, I felt the pressure: the engagement ring, the bridal magazine on a co-worker’s desk, the looming 10-year high school reunion. I thought, I should be married by now. So when I met Mr. Seemed-To-Check-All-The-Boxes (charming, handsome, Catholic—a non-negotiable at the time—and allegedly employed), I said yes. Even though, the night before our wedding, I discovered he’d quit his job.

Red flag? Oh, there were dozens.
I walked right past them all, straight down the aisle.

Mic (aka Dad) walked me down the aisle of St. James Cathedral with 350 guests watching me pretend everything was perfect. It was a spectacle! My heart was already breaking.

Why did I ignore that inner wisdom trying to warn me?
Was it my fear of being judged? My need to fit into some societal or patriarchal expectation?

Or maybe it was the guilt over the thousand pearls Doreen (aka Mom) had carefully hand-sewn into the lace bodice of the wedding gown I had personally designed for myself.

Whatever it was, I traded a life of wild potential for a silent unraveling.
And oddly enough—that unraveling would lead to the self-discovery I cherish today.

I now see parts of my story in nearly every woman I work with.
Whether it’s a marriage to a spouse, a career, or a long-held idea of who they’re supposed to be…

Each one has slowly allowed the tarnish to dim their brilliance over time, becoming unrecognizable to themselves—or to anyone else. Until one day, the discomfort becomes too loud to ignore, and they choose something different. 

They choose themselves.

I now see my unraveling as the most essential part of my rebuilding. It wasn’t always pleasant, but it’s given me so much wisdom and the ability to bring hope to others through compassion and love.  

From those carefree days riding around in the pink car, to the quiet moment I realized I had walked myself into a cage—every chapter belongs. It’s all part of the tapestry of my life. And if there’s one thread running through it all, it’s me.

And maybe… it’s you too.

If you’ve been feeling like a stranger to yourself, consider this your pink car moment.

Let’s take a little ride together. You bring your story; I’ll bring the map—and maybe a Cyndi Lauper mixed tape for good measure!

Book your free discovery session Today because something beautiful happens when you decide to stop pretending and start becoming.

Love and Light, Michele