Starting Over in Your 40s

What Moving To A New Town Has Taught Me About Belonging, Identity, and Rebuilding Life on My Own Terms

A few months ago, I found myself walking my dog, flashlight-less and in my gray bathrobe, the ocean air thick against my skin, the streets hushed except for the rush of waves against the bluffs below. No sirens, no headlights pinning me in place. And for the first time, I wasn’t gripping my keys like a weapon.

I’ve lived in cities my entire life—New York, Los Angeles, Singapore—places where you train your body to remain braced against the unknown. Moving to Encinitas was supposed to be a temporary experiment, little more than a detour. But I never expected how this unassuming town would start to rearrange me—my sense of identity, my definition of home, and the way I move through the world when no one recognizes my face.

Moving in Your 40s is Different

When you move in your 20s or early 30s, there’s a built-in openness—everyone’s in flux, friendships form easily, and there’s a natural magnetism to shared experiences. I used to thrive in that energy. I moved to Singapore at 32, when I was starting a company that was all about adventure and getting out of your comfort zone. Buzzy on ex-pat energy, I’d happily meet a friend’s cousin’s ex-husband’s sister for a coffee just because we were both living in a tiny city-state 9,500 miles from home. In LA, my social life practically built itself around that start up, Serenflipity, and I became known as "Serenflipity Cara."

But now, social circles are more defined, people are settled, and building a life takes more intention. I don’t have kids, which means I don’t have an automatic parent community. I work for myself, so I don’t have colleagues to bond with in a shared office space. And we’re all still emerging from the pandemic, more guarded about our personal time, and more protective of the pods that kept us afloat in isolation.

So, building a life in your 40s becomes an exercise in intention. It’s no longer enough to stroll into a café and expect an instant circle of best friends. You have to show up—to the same spots, the same classes, the same volunteer meetups—until your face (and hopefully your name) sticks. And it’s about deciding—actively—to belong to a place, rather than waiting for it to happen to you.

I’ve Learned to Need Less

Before Encinitas, I thought home was something I curated.

I had spent a year in Boulder, then moved back to Los Angeles, determined to put down roots. I found what felt like a fairytale treehouse, and I poured my time and energy into making it beautiful. It was a temple of the heart, a space that felt like an extension of me, and a sanctuary where I loved to host friends.

And then, mold forced me out. At the same time, my parents’ home was swallowed by 5 feet of water from two hurricanes in a row. Suddenly, I realized: I didn’t have a safety net. The place I always thought I could always return to no longer existed.

With no set “home base,” I landed in a friend’s surf shack in Encinitas. It’s adorable in its own laid-back, eclectic way — but not the curated space of crystals placed perfectly to catch the sunlight and color-coded book shelves that feel more wall art than a cozy library. (I did take down the chili pepper lights and put Surfing Santa away for the post-holiday season, and added a few sheepskins and millennial neutrals.) It’s given me something I’ve never had before: the lightness of needing less.

Living out of two suitcases for eight months has stripped me to my essentials. The external markers of my identity—decorative objects, collections of books and furniture, curated mementos—are either gone or in storage. Strangely, I don’t miss them much. Without my usual anchors, I’ve been forced to build connection through who I am—my energy, my values, my presence—instead of the reflective sheen of my living space or adornments.

What surprises me is that I don’t feel diminished. If anything, I feel more myself.

I Say Yes, But Not to Everything

One of the biggest shifts in moving at this stage of life is becoming more discerning about who I spend time with. My 30s were filled with wide-open yeses—yes to every dinner, every party, every connection, every new opportunity. It was how I expanded, how I met incredible people, and how I grew in my philosophy on life: that meditation is not just an inward activity, but it is how you engage with the outside world.

It was also how I ended up in some truly bizarre situations. Like the time I went to a gathering that turned out to be a sex party (not my vibe). Or when I agreed to dinner with someone only to realize halfway through that they were trying to recruit me into a multi-level marketing scheme. I definitely sipped some Kool-Aid, and almost ended up in a few cults.

That does not happen to me anymore.

Not because I’ve become closed off, but because I’ve become clearer on where I say yes and where I say no.

Now, I invest in friendships where the energy is reciprocal. I say yes to people who show up, who put in effort, who want real connection—not just proximity-based acquaintanceships. I don’t feel the need to collect people the way I once did. Or to do things for the plot. Instead, I protect my time, my energy, and my peace.

My circle is smaller, but my connections feel deeper.

I Move Slowly— Instead of Chasing Intensity

When you find something new that you love—whether it’s a practice, a routine, or a community—it’s tempting to go all in immediately. To immerse yourself in it, do it every day, and make it a defining part of your identity. But I’ve learned that real habits, and real connections, come from slow, steady consistency—not bursts of intensity followed by burnout.

About a month ago, I tried cold plunging at my friend’s breathwork class at a studio called Breathe Degrees, which also has a sauna and community space. I had never done a cold plunge before, and the first time I tried it, I was hooked. It felt amazing, I loved the energy of the people there, and I immediately wanted to go as often as possible—to make it my thing.

But instead of diving headfirst into an unsustainable pace, I decided to integrate it slowly. I made it part of my weekly plan—two to three times a week instead of every day. That rhythm allowed me to stay excited about it without burning out. I could see familiar faces, slowly build relationships, and let it become a natural part of my routine rather than a short-lived obsession.

Community grows in the slow burn of repetition.

Turn a Life Change Into a Plan

Instead of passively waiting for things to click, I treated this move as an experiment. And, if you know me well, you know I like to reframe big changes as 90 day experiments. But I wanted some structure and parameters — not just the usual 90 day open ended exploration.

Inspired by my friend who made a six-month roadmap for quitting her job, I built my own plan for moving to a new town and for falling in love:

• By February 11, I’d decide whether to stay and root here—or move on.

• I’d commit to two new friend hangouts a week (even when I’d rather just stay in).

• I’d go to one new event every month—even if I felt awkward and didn’t know anyone.

• I’d only say yes to dates with men who want the same thing —no energy wasted on half-hearted dating.

• I’d take a paddleboarding and pickleball lesson, just for fun.

• I’d deepen my meditation and embodiment practice, grounding myself.

I don’t check the list regularly, but it’s a framework, a north star. And, without even trying, I am sticking to the goals I set — and receiving serendipitous invitations that nudge me toward my north star. Instead of feeling untethered, I have momentum and focus. And it’s working—I’m meeting people, being invited to fun events, hitting my self-imposed "KPIs" without forcing it.

When Things Get Tough, I Pretend I’m in a Sitcom

When things feel awkward or lonely, as they are apt to when we make a big change, I pretend I’m the main character in a sitcom or a romcom.

Not in a delusional way—more as a way to zoom out, take off the pressure, and see everything as part of a larger, unfolding adventure.

Instead of, Wow, I have no plans on a Friday night. This is depressing, I think, Ah yes, the part of the movie where she orders takeout, befriends the restaurant owner, and this somehow leads to an incredible new friendship.

This reframing frees me from spiraling into self-pity. Instead, I become curious: Okay, what plot twist might unfold if I stay open? It’s a gentle trick that helps me laugh at my own awkwardness and remember that every good story has a chapter where the heroine is figuring it all out on her own.

Plus, imagining my own background music for walks, grocery shopping and daily activities makes the mundane much more fun.

What This Move Has Taught Me (So Far) About Any Big Life Change

By now, I realize this move isn’t just about relocating. It’s a lens for examining any big change—divorce, career pivots, a major identity shakeup. Whenever you step into the unknown, you’re forced to ask: Who am I, really? And how will I build from nothing?

Here’s what I’ve learned:

1. There will be grief, even if you chose this. Change means letting go of what was. It’s okay to feel that loss.

2. Consistency creates belonging. The barista who remembers your order, the workout class where people recognize you—these tiny moments of recognition add up, and sociologists have found that these “weak ties” play a crucial role in happiness.

3. Make a plan, but stay open. Structure helps in moments of uncertainty. But life will surprise you—let it.

4. Pretend you’re in a sitcom or a rom-com. (Seriously.) When in doubt, reframe the awkwardness. Be your own main character. Embody a soundtrack. It makes everything more fun.

5. Push yourself to say yes—but not to everything. Be open, but also intentional. It’s okay to safeguard your energy—especially when that circle of trust has to be rebuilt from scratch.

6. Go slowly. Whether it’s a new hobby or a budding friendship, slow and steady creates stronger roots than quick bursts. As the saying goes, “The flame that burns twice as bright burns half as long.”

7. You don’t need as much as you think. The home, the aesthetic, the external identity—these things can be rebuilt. Who you are remains.

Where I Am Now (And What’s Next)

At this three-month mark, I’m still in the thick of discovery. Sometimes, I miss my old cities—the sooty swirl of New York or the laid-back sexiness of L.A. But I also revel in the briny peace of Encinitas, the barefoot walks to watch the sunset at the end of my street, the nods of recognition from neighbors I’m starting to know by name.

I no longer feel like a tourist in my own life here. And that’s the real lesson of any profound shift: Home isn’t just where you drop your suitcases. It’s the quality of presence you bring to a place, the rhythms you create, the trust you’re willing to extend to yourself and others.

For me, Encinitas is becoming a sanctuary where I can listen to my own heartbeat, test my boundaries, and learn how to thrive in quieter spaces. If I’ve learned anything, it’s this: being at peace with yourself is the most freeing kind of homecoming. Everything else—a dream aesthetic, a big social circle, a perfect plan—comes second.

For now, I’ll keep walking Dolly under the moonlight in my bathrobe and slippers, softening into the salt air, feeling my body exhale the tension it carried for decades. Maybe this is it. Maybe it’s just a chapter. Either way, I’m here, fully, for as long as this coastal breeze wants to hold me.