The Year Your Body Changed the Tune: A Midlife Year-End Review

The other morning, I was sitting outside at sunrise with my coffee and journal—my favorite spot where the world is still quiet—and I realized something: I've been trying to play this year's song with last year's sheet music.

And I'm guessing you have too.

There's this moment that happens in midlife, often without announcement, where your body changes the key. The rhythm shifts. The tempo you could maintain at 35 or 42 suddenly feels impossible, and you're standing there holding the same instrument wondering why it sounds so different.

It's not you. It's the song that changed.

And before you rush into 2026 with a list of resolutions written in someone else's handwriting, I want to invite you to do something radical: listen.

When the Melody Shifts

I remember the exact moment I realized my body had changed composers on me. I was teaching a morning training session—something I'd done hundreds of times—and by 2 PM I was so exhausted I could barely string a sentence together. Not tired. Depleted. Like someone had unplugged my battery mid-song.

The old me would have pushed through. Would have blamed myself for not being "disciplined enough." Would have added more coffee, more hustle, more force.

But somewhere in my late 40s, I'd started learning a different language. The language of listening instead of forcing. Of curiosity instead of judgment.

So I asked myself: What changed?

Not in a punishing way. In a genuinely curious way. Like a musician trying to figure out why a familiar chord suddenly sounds dissonant.

What had I eaten that morning? How had I slept? What was I saying yes to that my nervous system was screaming no about?

The answers weren't what I expected.

The Fog Lifts When You Stop Fighting the Weather

Here's what I know after more than 30 years in this industry and watching thousands of women navigate these transitions: your brain fog isn't a moral failing. Your exhaustion isn't a character flaw. Your changing body isn't broken.

You're not out of tune. The whole orchestra is playing a different arrangement.

And the year-end reviews we're taught to do—the ones that measure productivity and achievement and how many items we checked off a list—miss the most important questions entirely.

The real questions sound more like this:

When did your brain feel clearest this year?

I started tracking this for myself and discovered something startling. My clearest thinking happened on mornings when I'd had protein and healthy fat within an hour of waking, slept at least 7 hours, and moved my body before sitting down to work. Not groundbreaking science. But I'd been ignoring what my body had been trying to tell me for months because I was too busy pushing through.

The days I skipped breakfast and powered through on coffee? By noon, I couldn't remember why I'd walked into a room. The fog wasn't random. It was my body playing a very clear note that I'd been too busy to hear.

What kept draining your energy that you kept saying yes to anyway?

This one hit me hard. I was saying yes to commitments out of momentum, not intention. Past-me had made promises that present-me—with her different hormones, different energy, different brain chemistry—simply couldn't keep without sacrificing her health.

Two board positions I'd said yes to in 2023 suddenly needed an re-evaluation of whether the added load was working for me.And every time I honored those old commitments over my current capacity, I was essentially telling my body: "I don't trust your signals."

The Loudest Notes Are Often the Ones We've Been Ignoring

My son is a classical pianist—one of those musicians who can make a Chopin nocturne sound like a conversation with your own soul. I was listening to him practice recently, and I noticed something: before he plays a piece, there's this moment of absolute stillness. His hands hover over the keys. He breathes. He listens to what the music needs before he begins.

It struck me that this is exactly what we stop doing in midlife.

We rush to the keys. We start playing before we've listened. We try to force our bodies to perform a piece we haven't actually learned yet.

You can't adjust your playing if you're not willing to hear what you're actually producing.

But what if those uncomfortable notes aren't the problem? What if they're the signal? The wisdom you're looking for is already playing. You just have to get quiet enough to hear it.

For me, that meant asking questions I'd been avoiding:

Is past-me still making decisions for present-me?

Yes. A thousand times yes. I was still structuring my days like I had the energy of my 30s. Still eating foods that had worked for my younger metabolism. Still saying yes to relationships that required me to perform a version of myself I no longer was.

Which movement made me feel alive versus what made me feel depleted?

The HIIT workouts I'd loved in my 40s? Now they left me exhausted for days and triggered hot flashes that made me want to stand in a freezer.

But long walks with hills? Strength training with actual recovery between sessions?

Dancing in my kitchen? Those lit me up.

I wasn't becoming weaker. I was becoming different. And the moment I stopped trying to force my body to play yesterday's song and started listening to what it was asking for today, everything shifted.

Choose the Notes That Call You Loudest

When my son performs, he doesn't play every piece at the same volume or intensity. There's dynamics. Crescendos and diminuendos. Moments of quiet that make the loud parts even more powerful.

Your life needs the same kind of dynamics.

What genuinely brings you joy—not obligation-joy, not performing-for-others joy, but the kind of joy that fills your tank instead of draining it?

Here's where most year-end reviews get it wrong: they assume you should do more, be more, optimize more.

But what if the question isn't "What should I add?" but rather: "What calls to me loudest right now?"

When a conductor listens to an orchestra, they're not trying to make every instrument play the same volume. They're listening for balance.

For the melody that needs to rise. For the harmonies that support without overwhelming.

Your life needs the same kind of listening.

What genuinely brings you joy—not obligation-joy, not performing-for-others joy, but the kind of joy that fills your tank instead of draining it?

For me, it's been those sunrise mornings with my journal. The conversations with women who get it—who understand what it's like when your body stops cooperating with plans past-you made. Video calls with my grandkids that rejuvenate me. The work I do helping women understand their changing brain chemistry.

These aren't the loudest demands on my time. But they're the loudest calls from my soul.

And I've learned—slowly, reluctantly, and only after ignoring these calls for far too long—that when you honor what calls you loudest, you actually have MORE energy for everything else. Not because you're doing more, but because you're finally in tune with your own rhythm.

The Questions That Matter More Than Resolutions

So before you write your 2026 goals, I want you to try something different.

Instead of making resolutions, start with curiosity. Instead of forcing, try listening.

Ask yourself:

What does my body keep asking for that I keep ignoring?

Who makes me feel seen versus who requires me to perform?

What foods genuinely fuel my brain versus what I eat on autopilot?

When do I feel energized instead of depleted?

What would change if I treated my energy like the finite, precious resource it actually is?

These aren't comfortable questions. They require you to admit that maybe—just maybe—the way you've been operating isn't sustainable anymore. That your changing body isn't a problem to fix but a wise teacher you've been ignoring.

Rest Is Part of the Music

Here's something else I've learned from watching my son at the piano: the rests matter as much as the notes.

There's a moment in one of his pieces—a Debussy—where the music just... stops. Complete silence. The first time I heard it, I thought he'd made a mistake. But no. The silence is written into the score. It's essential. Without it, the next phrase has no impact.

We treat rest like it's a failure to produce sound. But rest is part of the music.

When was the last time you treated your sleep like it mattered?

Not like something to sacrifice first when you're busy, but like the essential pause that makes everything else possible?

When did you last honor your body's request for stillness without guilt?

What if your exhaustion isn't a sign that you're doing something wrong, but a signal that you've been playing fortissimo without any rests written in?

Play Your Own Song

I asked my son recently how he decides which pieces to learn next. He said something that stopped me in my tracks:

"I listen to what's calling me. Not what I think I should play, or what would be most impressive, or what I played well five years ago. I listen for what wants to be played through me right now."

What wants to be played through you right now?

Not what you think you should be doing. Not what worked five years ago. Not what looks impressive to others.

What is your body—your wise, changing, complex body—asking to play?

And the goal isn't to fight your way back to that old song. The goal is to learn to play the one you're being given now—with all its new complexity, all its unexpected harmonies, all its hard-won wisdom.

This year, I'm not making resolutions. I'm making commitments—but only to things that honor the woman I'm becoming, not the woman I was.

I'm committing to treating my brain health like it matters. To eating foods that actually fuel my clarity instead of fogging it. To moving in ways that make me feel strong instead of depleted. To saying no to energy drains without guilt. To surrounding myself with people who don't need me to pretend I'm fine when I'm not.

I'm committing to listening to the loudest call—not the loudest demand, but the deepest wisdom that's been trying to get my attention all year.

Because here's what I know for sure: You're not broken. You're not failing. You're in transformation.

And transformation doesn't happen by forcing your way back to who you were. It happens by being brave enough to become who you're meant to be next.

There's a moment before every performance where my son sits at the piano bench, hands resting on his lap, and just breathes. He's centering himself. Finding his own internal rhythm before he begins.

That's where we are right now. At the end of one year, the threshold of another.

Before you rush to the keys and start playing furiously, take that breath.

Listen to what your body is telling you. Feel your own rhythm. Notice what calls to you loudest. And then—only then—begin to play.

Your body knows the song it needs to sing.

The question is: Are you willing to learn the new melody?

What's calling to you loudest right now? I'd love to hear what you're discovering in your own year-end reflection. Leave a comment below or reach out—because this conversation matters, and you don't have to figure it out alone. 1:1 Coaching

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