I Let Go of the Timeline I Built My Whole Life Around. It Felt Like Losing Myself—and Maybe That’s How I Found Me

I didn’t “gently release” the timeline.

I ripped it out of my hands with my teeth clenched and my chest caving in.

I was 30.

Still in a job I hated.

Every morning I’d sit in the parking lot, holding the steering wheel like a lifeline, bargaining with myself to just walk in.

Still unsure if I even liked myself.

Watching people around me buy homes, post ultrasound pics, and talk about “the next chapter.”

That week, three people I knew got engaged.

I sent the emojis. I meant none of them.

And I remember thinking,

“What chapter am I even in? Did I skip the part where I become someone?”

Nobody ever told me this, but I figured it out the hard way:

The timeline wasn’t a dream.

It was a survival tactic.

It kept the panic at arm’s length.

It let me believe I was safe—or at least “on my way.”

If I could hit X by 25, I’d be okay.

If I had a partner by 28, I’d finally be chosen.

If I nailed my career by 30, I’d finally be real.

I had the date circled in my mind like a launch day.

No launch ever came—just the same small apartment and a fridge full of half-eaten takeout.

The timeline was the deal I made with my fear:

If I keep up, you won’t eat me alive.

Spoiler: fear doesn’t care about your checklists.

No one prepares you for the silence.

For the moment you realize the things you were supposed to have by now?

They’re not coming.

You keep refreshing your inbox as if an invitation might have been lost in transit.

And worse—no one’s coming to explain why.

There’s no memo.

No divine apology.

Just… space. And shame.

The voice in your head says:

You must have done something wrong.

As a coach, I help people hear that voice without obeying it.

But at 30, mine was so loud it swallowed me.

No one prepares you for the silence.

For the moment you realize the things you were supposed to have by now?

They’re not coming.

You keep refreshing your inbox as if an invitation might have been lost in transit.

And worse—no one’s coming to explain why.

There’s no memo.

No divine apology.

Just… space. And shame.

The voice in your head says:

You must have done something wrong.

As a coach, I help people hear that voice without obeying it.

But at 30, mine was so loud it swallowed me.

What happens when your life doesn’t match the story you sold yourself?

You implode. Quietly.

You smile when someone says “you’ve got so much time.

”But you go home and cry in the shower because you don’t want time—you want arrival.

You want the stamp in your passport that says

“You made it.”

Instead, you’re stuck in layover purgatory.

You delete social media for “mental clarity,” but it’s really because watching people “move forward” makes your nervous system feel like it’s short-circuiting.

Even the algorithm seemed to mock me—serving endless reels of wedding dresses, nurseries, and couples holding keys in front of new front doors.

You start bargaining with life:

Okay, maybe I won’t have love, just give me purpose.

Okay, maybe no purpose, but can I at least be proud of something?

And then the darker bargains:

If I can’t have any of it, can you at least make me not care?

You can’t out-coach grief.

And that’s what this is—grieving a life that didn’t happen.

It’s the kind of grief that doesn’t get flowers or casseroles.

No one says “I’m sorry for your loss,” because technically, nothing happened.

But it happened to you.

The kid who thought being “good” guaranteed a prize.

The teenager who thought 30 was a finish line.

The twenty-something who kept chasing gold stars until she collapsed—hands empty.

Letting go of the timeline wasn’t “healing.”

It was loss.

Raw, unfixable loss. And yeah—it was inevitable.

I didn’t wake up one morning at peace.

I just got too tired to keep forcing life into a shape it clearly didn’t want to be in.

I stopped chasing not because I was wise—because I was done.

It felt less like letting go and more like setting something down because it was burning my hands.

And then, in the quiet, I started to hear myself again.

Not the polished, presentable version.

The one who’s scared. Scrappy. Uncertain.

The one who says:

“I don’t know what’s coming.

But I know I can’t keep doing this.”

If you’re still clinging to a timeline, I see you.

I know what it’s like to feel like you’re falling behind a life you once believed in.

And I’m not here to tell you it all works out.

I’m here to tell you:

Letting go will hurt like hell.

It will feel like giving up.

It might wreck the version of you that thought she knew how the story would go.

But maybe—if you can stand in the wreckage long enough—you’ll find something worth building on.

It might not look like a fresh start. It might just look like you, making coffee in a quiet kitchen,

breathing a little easier for the first time in months.

It won’t make sense yet.

But at least it’ll be yours.

About Me:

My name is Anjla , and I’m a life transition coach.

I’m not here to fix you. I’m here to help you see what’s been draining you, gaslighting you, and keeping your nervous system in overdrive. I work with sensitive, smart, soulful people who are tired of spiritual bypassing and want grounded transformation. If this hit home — you’re not alone, and you don’t have to keep white-knuckling through it.

📬 Want support?

Let’s talk. (514) 970-7077 or Sidhu.anjla@gmail.com