You Can Trust Yourself to Change
10|2|2026 Allison Santana
I’m 37, with four kids, sleep apnea, and a 9-to-5 I don’t exactly love.
But none of those things define me. And they certainly don’t get to define my future.
After years of wishing, waiting, hoping, and praying for a different life, I finally realized something that was both incredibly obvious and incredibly difficult to accept:
At some point, the responsibility to change my life became mine.
Unfortunately, this was not one of those lessons I learned once and gracefully carried with me forever. I’ve had to relearn it. Over and over and over again.
Through failed relationships. Career pursuits that didn’t turn into what I hoped they would. Dissatisfaction with my health, finances, mental health, and a laundry list of other things I could probably turn into an entire blog of its own.
Now, as I creep closer to 40, I’m realizing just how much of my life I’ve spent in some version of fight or flight.
The path forward has rarely looked like a clear road. Most of the time, it’s looked more like muddy water.
And there has always been a perfectly reasonable explanation for why I should stay exactly where I am.
I have four kids.
I can’t.
I don’t have enough time.
I don’t have enough money.
This is just how I am.
I’m too old.
I don’t deserve that.
Blah, blah, fucking blah.
Maybe you have your own list.
I know there are people reading this who can recognize themselves somewhere in these words. Because the days are long, but the years are painfully short. And somehow we keep putting one reluctant foot in front of the other, trying to get through our lives the best way we know how.
Then one day you look around and wonder: Wait. Is this really it?
I don’t think it has to be.
If you’ve ever quietly wondered whether the life that feels impossible to you could actually be possible, I’m glad you’re here.
Because despite everything I’ve put myself through, everything life has put me through, and every questionable decision that has gotten me here, I still believe we are capable of building lives that are decent and happy and healthy and ours.
But I’m learning that it requires getting out of our own way.
And I think it can start much smaller than we make it.
First: Write. It. Down.
Name the life you actually want.
Not the respectable version. Not the practical version. Not the version you think you’re supposed to want.
Be wildly specific.
Write down the real, ridiculous, audacious shit you’re almost embarrassed to admit you want.
How much money do you want to make?
Where do you want to live?
What do you want an ordinary Tuesday morning to feel like?
What do you want to wear?
Who do you want around you?
What kind of work do you want to do?
What do you want your body to feel like?
Where do you want to travel?
What would you do if you weren't worried about explaining yourself to anybody?
Write it all down.
Nobody has to know.
Then pick one thing.
And make the first step toward it so fucking easy that you almost have no excuse not to do it.
You decided you want to get healthier?
Drink more water today.
That’s it.
You don't need to wake up tomorrow at 5 a.m., throw away everything in your refrigerator, order $300 worth of supplements, join a gym, and become a completely different human being by Monday.
Drink the damn water.
We're turning the wheel. That's all.
Second: Be radically compassionate with yourself.
Compassion means acknowledging what was and what isn’t without deciding either one represents the end of the world or the sum total of your story.
After everything you’ve been through, everything you’ve done, everything you wish you had done differently, and everything you’re still trying to figure out:
Can you just be nice to yourself?
Seriously.
Hasn’t life been kicking our asses enough on its own?
And compassion isn't the same thing as making excuses. It doesn't mean ignoring your own bad behavior, pretending you didn't make mistakes, or refusing to take responsibility for yourself.
Sometimes compassion actually makes responsibility easier.
Because once you stop beating the shit out of yourself long enough to look around, you might realize that a significant portion of the ass-kicking you're experiencing is coming from the stories you've been telling yourself about who you are.
I always quit.
I'm terrible with money.
I'm lazy.
I could never do that.
People like me don't get to have that kind of life.
Maybe those aren't facts.
Maybe they're stories you've repeated so many times that they started sounding like facts.
You are allowed to write new ones.
And finally: Accept the truth fast.
This might be the hardest one for me.
Wherever you are, however complicated the circumstances are, learn to accept the truth as quickly as you can.
If your gut keeps telling you something isn't right, listen.
If something clearly isn't working, stop spending six more months trying to negotiate with reality.
If it's not a hell yes, pay attention to that.
Stop dragging things out.
Stop twisting yourself into a pretzel trying to turn something into what you desperately wish it were.
Sometimes the kindest thing you can do for yourself is metaphorically slap yourself across the face with the truth and say:
Okay. This is what it is. Now what am I going to do about it?
Because the faster you accept what is true, the faster you can handle what needs to be handled.
And every time you do that, you teach yourself something incredibly important:
I can trust myself.
I can trust myself to hear the truth.
I can trust myself to make the hard decision.
I can trust myself to survive disappointment.
I can trust myself to change direction.
I can trust myself to take care of me.
Maybe that's how confidence is actually built.
Not by finally becoming fearless or completely sure of yourself, but by collecting evidence that when life changes, something ends, you fuck up, or the road ahead gets muddy, you won't abandon yourself.
You'll figure out the next move.
And then the next one.
And maybe that's how we eventually find ourselves living that seemingly impossible life we once wrote down when nobody was looking.
One small nudge at a time.