When I was young, I didn't dream of being a businesswoman. I didn't dream of writing books, creating brands or starting projects. I wanted to be a homemaker.

I wanted to get married, have children and live in a huge house that looked like a castle. I pictured kids running around, dogs, flowers, friends coming and going, long lunches and a table that was always full. Me cooking, taking care of everyone and making everything feel beautiful. That was my dream.

But before I got to the life I imagined, there was a stage that marked me deeply. My adolescence was hard. I went through depression very young and, even though I couldn't understand it then, today I know that experience shaped me.

It taught me that a person can have so much, seem to want for nothing and, even so, feel a deep sadness and be fighting a battle on the inside. It taught me to look at others with more compassion, not to judge so quickly and, above all, not to take happiness for granted.

I think that's why I've always treasured certain things that might seem small: a full table, cooking for someone, hearing my daughters laugh, having my parents close, a long conversation, a house with people coming and going. Maybe because I learned so young what it was like not to feel well, I also learned to recognize how extraordinary it is to simply feel well.

And then life happened. I got married. I became a mom. I built a family. I made homes I loved. I cooked thousands of meals, set tables, cared for everyone, figured things out, and for many years a big part of my world was right there. Until my daughters started to grow up.

You spend years preparing your kids to fly and, when they start to, you want to tell them: “wait, just a little longer.” I'm learning that my job was never to write their story. It was to give them enough love and security to write their own, even when it isn't the story I would have written for them.

At the same time, I started seeing my parents differently. Understanding that a story I've heard twenty times deserves to be heard one more time. That an ordinary meal

isn't always an ordinary meal. That being there matters. Because one day you realize that the important part of life is often happening while we think nothing is happening at all.

And in the middle of all that, someone else showed up who wasn't in my plans either: me. A version of myself I didn't know. The woman who never dreamed of working ended up writing books, creating brands, starting businesses, making mistakes and starting over.

If someone had shown me, at twenty, a photograph of my life at 46, I probably would have said: That's not me. And I would have been right. I wasn't her yet. Life had to introduce me to that woman.

I thought that by now everything would be decided. And it turns out I still really want to begin: to create, travel, learn, meet people, change my mind, discover things, have ideas, get excited.

The Ėditure comes, in part, from there. From realizing that I'm not entering a stage of closing. I'm entering a stage of editing: keeping what I love, letting go of some things, changing others and leaving room for everything I don't know yet.

Today I look at the life I imagined and the life I have, and I no longer feel such a need to compare them. Some things happened exactly the way I wanted. Others didn't. And some of the best ones I never would have thought to ask for.

At 46 I don't have it all figured out. My daughters are starting their own lives. My parents are getting older. I'm still discovering who I am. And maybe that's the most beautiful part of all: I haven't met every version of myself I still have left to live. And instead of scaring me, that makes me so excited.

And by the way… that little girl who wanted to be a homemaker and live in a house that looked like a castle hasn't disappeared either. That dream is still very much alive. Maybe one day I'll show you that castle I dreamed about for so long.

— Corde