The Threshold Between Who I Was and Who I’m Becoming

By Jacqueline V. Twillie

I’ve always been curious about thresholds—the moments when one chapter has ended but the next hasn’t fully taken shape. At 40, I’m standing inside one. It’s that liminal space where your old strategies start to feel too tight, your future self is calling you forward, and everything is simultaneously fertile and uncomfortable. It’s not a beginning, and it’s not an ending either. It’s the quiet inhale before the next big exhale.

When I think back to my 19-year-old self on the first day of college, she was wide-eyed and hungry for opportunity. She didn’t yet know the language of boundaries or the discipline of self-trust. She only knew she wanted a life different from limitation. I would whisper to her now: sit with your thoughts, ask more questions, go to therapy, breathe deeply. Discomfort isn’t danger. You’ll make it through every hard moment.

My 20s were charged with ambition. I was chasing titles, lists, the appearance of success. I thought power meant perfection and niceness meant safety. If I could sit across from that version of me, I’d tell her that power isn’t a bad word and rocking the boat is a survival skill. I’d tell her to heal early, rest deeply, question everything, and try new things fast. I’d tell her that being kind doesn’t mean playing small.

By my 30s, my public image and private reality often moved in opposite directions. When Forbes ran my first feature, the world saw expansion. I saw the residue of old conditioning—scarcity thinking dressed in achievement. Outwardly, I looked like I’d arrived. Internally, I was still operating with the mindset I’d inherited: get it out the mud, hustle at all costs. I didn’t yet have the tools to step fully into the version of myself the world was already applauding. It wasn’t fraudulence. It was a gap between visibility and embodiment.

Then came 40.

This decade opened with a quiet night on the balcony of our Brooklyn apartment. The fall air was crisp, the sounds of the city hummed softly beneath us, and takeout containers were still warm. I’d been saying it out loud for days—to friends, in texts, to myself: I’m closing the coaching chapter. I’m stepping into something new. That night was the hinge. It wasn’t loud or performative. It was a private declaration that the era of hustle was over.

The identity I left on that balcony was the façade of success. The woman I invited in was strategic, poised, healthy, expansive. Think Tracee Ellis Ross elegance meets Issa Rae brilliance. She doesn’t hustle. Things flow to her. She trusts that everything always works out in her favor.

And then there’s the daily rhythm scene—the quiet Tuesday that reveals everything. I wake up at six, kiss my partner, write my morning pages, drink water from a mason jar, and run downstairs to the gym. The sunlight hits just right. My shoulders are back, my breath is deep. I move through my day with ease, clarity, and intention. The food I eat heals me instead of hurting me. My clothes fit like they were made for me. Our plants thrive. Dinner with friends is intimate, not performative. This is the life I built on purpose, not by accident.

Later in my 40s, a full-circle moment arrives. An eyebrow-raising offer to return to career coaching lands in my inbox. A past version of me would have bent over backward to make it work. This version simply says, “Thank you, that chapter was fulfilling. It’s not aligned with who I am now.” No apologies. No explanations. Just clarity.

I imagine the 75-year-old version of me watching all of this. She’s vibrant, wealthy, powerful, healthy, sharp, and deeply at peace. She tells me, “Most of the fear is just discomfort. Learn to sit with it. The universe is conspiring on your behalf. Angels, ancestors, guides—they’re all working with you. It gets better from here.” She reminds me that this decade isn’t about shrinking to fit the past. It’s about expanding to meet the future.

When she looks back at my 40s, she doesn’t just see milestones. She sees purpose: alignment, discipline, clarity, focus, intention, bravery, and faith. She sees the decade where I stopped performing and started embodying. Where I shed identities that no longer served me and built rhythms that nourished me. Where I stood on a balcony one quiet night and decided to become the woman she already knew I’d be.