Turning 50 in East Africa: Life Transitions, Identity Shifts, and the Power of Pausing

Turning 50 in East Africa wasn’t simply a milestone—it was a lived experience of transition.

Many clients come to therapy during moments when something familiar no longer fits: a role, a relationship, a career identity, or even the version of themselves they’ve relied on for years. These transitions don’t always arrive with clarity. More often, they show up as restlessness, exhaustion, or a quiet sense of disconnection. At 50, I felt that same crossroads—not as a crisis, but as an invitation to reflect on who I’ve been, who I am, and who I’m becoming.

Being physically distant from home created emotional distance from the expectations I carry every day. In East Africa, the beauty was expansive and grounding—wide horizons, natural rhythms, and moments of awe that slowed my internal pace. That slowing mattered. From a clinical perspective, it allowed my nervous system to shift out of constant alertness and into regulation. Without the usual demands and noise, my body settled. My thinking softened. Reflection came naturally instead of being forced.

This is something we often see in therapy: when burnout is present, insight alone isn’t enough. The nervous system must feel safe enough to rest before deeper meaning-making can occur. Joy, novelty, and intentional breaks are not indulgent—they are reparative. The laughter, fun, and deep presence I experienced weren’t distractions from growth; they were what made growth possible.

The timing during the holiday season added another layer. Holidays often intensify identity questions: Who am I now? Who am I expected to be? What traditions still serve me? For many, this time of year brings both connection and grief, celebration and depletion. Stepping away during such an emotionally charged season created space to engage these questions honestly, without pressure or performance.

In counseling, life transitions—turning 40 or 50, becoming an empty nester, changing careers, entering or ending relationships—often bring grief and hope into the room at the same time. Clients are frequently surprised by the grief. After all, nothing “bad” has necessarily happened. There may be pride, gratitude, or even relief alongside the sadness. And yet, something has shifted. A role has ended. A version of the self that once felt certain is no longer fully intact.

This kind of grief can feel especially isolating because it is often invisible to others. There is no clear loss for the outside world to acknowledge. No ritual, no roadmap, no permission to mourn what can’t be easily named. Instead, people are left carrying quiet questions: Why do I feel unsteady when my life looks fine? Why does this milestone feel heavier than I expected? Who am I now that this chapter has closed?

Turning 50 in East Africa brought me into direct relationship with that kind of grief—not as something to solve, but as something to sit beside. I didn’t arrive with answers, and I didn’t leave with a neatly defined sense of what comes next. What I found instead was presence. Space to listen to my body, to notice what felt tender, and to allow compassion for parts of myself that were still unfolding. In that space, the nervous system doesn’t need to defend or perform; it can soften enough for meaning to emerge organically.

From a clinical lens, this slowing is essential. When identity is shifting, the impulse to rush toward clarity often comes from discomfort rather than readiness. Burnout, emotional exhaustion, and chronic over-functioning can make stillness feel unsafe. Yet healing often begins when we stop demanding certainty and allow ourselves to rest in the questions. Presence—without pressure—creates the conditions for integration.

I returned grounded, clearer, and more connected—not because everything was resolved, but because I honored the transition instead of bypassing it. I allowed my identity to evolve without forcing it into a familiar shape. That is the kind of space we strive to help clients create in therapy: a place where rest is not viewed as avoidance, where reflection is not rushed, and where meaning can coexist with uncertainty.

Transitions don’t ask us to hurry. They ask us to notice. And when we allow ourselves that permission, something steady begins to take root—not in answers, but in self-trust.