In early March, when the sky was still the pale color of frost, my children and I drove through Virginia, Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut into Massachusetts to marvel at our Puritan beginnings and consider our country’s history of persecution and redemption. We walked along the Freedom Trail and into the Salem Witch House and on to the site of the Mayflower landing.

We spotted the shrine that houses Plymouth Rock before we were even upon it. Next to the shore, seemingly on the edge of the earth, it rested, framed by the endless Atlantic, whose waves lapped restlessly, swallowing snowfall and the remains of winter. A prominent wound scarred the face of that boulder which has become a somber symbol of discovery and liberty and weathered storms. To gaze upon the year 1620 etched into its surface was a breathtaking revelation on the eve of my 43rd birthday, a day for considering my own discovery and my own liberty and my own weathered storms. Nine years ago, I would have been terrified to drive that distance all by myself.

I’ve written before about how life unraveled for me at 34 and the effort it has taken to try to redefine my life, to try to make it all count. I’ve written before about the challenges, the frustrations, and the constant apprehension that I would never make it on my own with two children in tow. I willingly left it all behind — his house, his retirement, alimony — to support myself and my children on a first-year teacher’s salary. There were those who promised I’d fail, and often it felt like I would. I have written before about my ten-year plan — this list of achievements that I knew would push me forward. Everything has taken so much longer than I’d hoped, and some of those things are no longer even on that list. I didn’t know that my plan, like my life, would evolve through disappointment. I didn’t know that through the many failures and false starts I would find strength and perseverance. Gratitude and Grace.

Perhaps like those who arrived on that shore so many hundreds of years before me intending to break away from oppression, what I’ve discovered in the nine years since I began to carry myself all by myself is that in this life, so many things will feel unnecessarily hard and supremely unfair, but I can still choose be brave with my days. I can choose to give thanks anyway and keep pushing forward.

My life is my own, and as a woman, a divorced women, a woman raising children on my own, I’m grateful for that. While women of 17th century America were poorly regarded, a decades-long surge of activism and progressivism and a commitment to keep fighting has won women in this country the right to charter their own destinies.

In 1886, twenty-something years after women won the right to own property, thirty-something years before women won the right to vote, and almost a hundred years before women won reproductive rights and minority women won the right to be recognized, Lady Liberty was prominently placed in New York Harbor, the Mother of Exiles, a symbol of independence, a magnanimous beacon of hope.

This month marks nine years in a documented ten-year journey. There is no great rock to gaze upon to immortalize the place of my disembarkation, but it is no less symbolic. The universe has thrown at me some heavy lessons, but my mother has been my beacon, shining so brightly in the distance, reminding me that I’m doing OK, and I keep pushing forward. Though I haven’t accomplished everything I set out to in the last decade, I have come close, and I am happy to have carried these optimistic ambitions for myself and for my children through nine years of independence. At 43, I am wiser and I am kinder and I am more cognizant and appreciative of the struggles and the sacrifices of others.

More meaningful than achieving the tangible successes in a numbered list of things-to-do has been the realization that a life well lived is truly not about how many degrees you have or how much money you make or how big your house is. It’s not about your designer bags or your fancy cars or your expensive trips. And even if you attain those things, the weight of your experience is measured by your integrity, your gratitude, your kindness, and your humility. A good life is about looking out for your neighbors, offering kindness to those who have far less than you, embracing the differences of others. It’s about giving back to your community and hugging your children a million times a day. It’s about buying less stuff and investing more time. It’s about taking more walks and making more memories. It’s about eating together, even if it’s not at the kitchen table.

We departed Massachusetts early on a Sunday afternoon, heading home to Arlington, just a few hours north of where the settlers first arrived in Jamestown, Virginia, and returned to the familiarity of our quaint little community and our quaint little home just as night was transitioning into a new day. How far we’d come. How far we’ve come, indeed.

As I push forward into the next year, I am reminded that the years pass quickly. I am reminded to make them count. And I offer this guiding truth: You will be better served to believe in yourself more than you believe in anyone who promises that you will fail. Keep pushing forward.

With love and gratitude,