Love Letter To The Late Bloomer

I’m starting school again on Monday.

Not for the first time, not even the second or third. I’ve lost count by now, which used to feel like a quiet shame I tucked into the pockets of every new semester.

But this time feels different.

Image of DeeDee Thorne, ‘Half & Half’

Maybe because I’m finally old enough to be honest about how often I’ve wanted to quit. Or maybe because I’ve lived enough life to understand that starting over isn’t failure..it’s a form of faith.

I’m finally going to finish my bachelor’s degree. After more than twelve years of stop-and-start, after babies, breakdowns, bills, and becoming, I’m choosing to show up one more time. Not just for the degree, but for myself and for my children, who have only ever known a version of me that juggled dreams in one hand and doubt in the other.

I want them to see me finish something.

Really finish.

“I wasn’t lost. I was learning. And sometimes learning takes longer than four years.”

I’ve always been the girl with potential. The girl who teachers whispered about in conferences. The one who wrote stories in her notebooks and got awards for poems she barely remembered writing. But potential is a heavy crown. Especially when no one teaches you how to turn it into a plan.

I changed majors like hairstyles—frequently, impulsively, and with hope. Journalism, early childhood education, writing, maybe nursing? I tried to commit to whatever felt practical or promised a “real job.” But every time I sat in a classroom, it felt like I was playing dress-up in someone else’s life. Close enough to fit, but never quite mine.

Then came the years of silence. No school. Just survival. I told myself I’d go back when life calmed down, when the kids were older, when money was better. But life rarely pauses long enough to let you catch your breath. And before I knew it, a “break” turned into a decade.

“We weren’t behind. We were just becoming in a world that demanded we already be.”

Millennials were sold a dream. We were told that if we worked hard, got good grades, went to college, the world would open up. What they didn’t prepare us for was everything falling apart.

We came of age in the recession. We entered college with hope and exited into chaos. The housing market crashed. Wages stagnated. Social media became a mirror we couldn’t escape. And then came Trump. Then the pandemic. Then… all of it.

Image of Maxine Shaw, ‘Living Single’

We were the generation who knew just enough to believe we had choices, but not enough infrastructure to feel stable. We were told to dream big but settle quickly. And for many of us, like me, that created a loop of indecision. Of chasing a “right” path that no longer existed.

“Age isn’t the liability I thought it was. If anything, it’s my superpower.”

I used to feel embarrassed walking back into school in my thirties. Like everyone could see my unfinished story trailing behind me. But now? I carry it proudly.

I’m walking into this semester with clear eyes. I know how I learn. I know what I value. I’ve survived enough to know that finishing something, especially after failing at it a few times, is the kind of power no test score can measure.

This time, I’m not chasing a 4.0. I’m chasing closure. I’m chasing pride. I want to be able to say: I came back, and I finished—not because it was easy, but because it mattered to me.

And I want my children to know that it’s okay to not have it all figured out. That it’s okay to try again. That timelines are suggestions, not commandments. And that sometimes the slowest journeys are the most honest.

There’s a narrative that whispers we’re behind. That if we’re still finding ourselves in our thirties, we’ve somehow failed. But I call bullshit on that. We are not behind. We are in process. And process is holy.

I’ve grown into a woman who can parent with presence, write with clarity, and still sit in a classroom and be teachable. That kind of growth doesn’t happen on schedule. It happens through living.

So to anyone reading this who’s been thinking about going back: do it.

If you’re afraid it’s too late, it’s not. If you’re scared of looking “behind,” I promise, you’re not alone. If you don’t know how you’ll make it all work, just start anyway.

Start small. Start scared. But start.

And when you finish, not if but when. Let it be your testimony that starting over is not a sign of failure. It’s a sign that you’re still becoming.

Still choosing yourself.

Still writing the story.

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Author’s Note

This essay is dedicated to every millennial woman who’s ever stopped and started and stopped again. You are not broken. You are not late. You are the story and it’s still unfolding beautifully.

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Bio

Angel Jae’ is a lifestyle + wellness writer, mama of three, and founder of Nurtured Notes, a soft life space for women rewriting what strength looks like. She believes in slow mornings, deep healing, and being unapologetic yourself. You can find her journaling with incense, fighting the urge to overthink, and learning to choose herself daily.

Words bloom best with coffee (or tea!). Help me water the garden. [Buy me a cup here.]