I won’t live someone else’s life anymore. I’m forty-six—and only just starting to breathe.
Sometimes life feels like it suddenly stops. You walk and walk—then *smack*—you hit an invisible wall. When you open your eyes, you realise: all this time, you weren’t living for yourself. You were led, directed, nudged along, and you… just went quietly. You went because it was habit. Because it was expected. Because being convenient felt almost like duty.
My name is Emily, I’m forty-six, and I’m from Manchester. And if you knew how bitter it feels to write that… Because I stayed silent for too long. Because my whole adult life, I adjusted, appeased, endured. And only now, nearly at the edge, have I seriously asked myself: *What if I’ve never really lived?*
Recently, I met up with an old childhood friend, Lucy. We hadn’t seen each other in over a decade. She’d changed—gone grey, softened, even prettier somehow. We talked for hours, trying to cram in all the missing years. Then Lucy looked at me and said, *»Emily, are you happy?»* I didn’t know what to say. Because the answer was no. And it always had been.
From childhood, others steered me. My parents were good people—just very firm. Their word was law. They chose my after-school clubs, my friends, my university, who I should be. I wanted to study psychology. I was fascinated by the human mind. But Mum and Dad declared, *»You’ll be a teacher. It’s stable, reliable.»* They sent off my applications without asking. I passed my A-levels, got into teacher training—and from then on, I just drifted.
After uni, they found me a job—teaching literature at a college. I hated public speaking, dreaded classrooms, but told myself, *»If they chose it, they must know best.»* The work brought no joy, but I got used to it. I bore it.
Then came Richard. Steady, dependable, with parents who owned a cottage in the Cotswolds and a grandfather who’d served in the war. He courted me carefully—not pushy, but persistent. A year later, he proposed. And I said yes. Because I was twenty-three. Because it was the done thing. Because it was *»time.»*
At first, it was tolerable. Then it began. He never hit me—no. He just smothered me. I stopped wearing makeup because he said *»painted faces are for tarts.»* I wore dull colours, stopped seeing friends—he called it *»frivolous.»* I stayed quiet. I learned to make his favourite shepherd’s pie, did the laundry, worked, had a baby. And stayed quiet. Because that’s how Mum and Gran had lived. Because I didn’t know any other way.
My only joy was my daughter—Sophie. From the start, she was different. Defiant, brilliant, full of fire. I raised her the opposite of me. I taught her to choose. To speak up. When she was ten, I started secretly saving—for her future, for freedom, for a chance.
After Year Seven, I sent her to a boarding school in Scotland. A year later, she got into uni there. Now she’s in Edinburgh, studying architecture, dating a lovely bloke. And I tell her, *»Don’t come back. Live how you want. Don’t repeat my life.»*
Auntie Margaret helped—single, childless, but fiercely wise. She was the first to say, *»Emily, you’re not a servant. You’re a woman. And you’ve got years ahead.»* I laughed then. Now? Now I know she was right.
Today, I walked into an estate agent’s for the first time—flat-hunting. I’ve got a new job—not teaching, but editing for a small publisher. The pay’s modest, but I *feel* alive. I’ve signed up for sewing classes. Evenings, I embroider—like I did as a girl. I read Austen and Brontë, books I used to hide from Richard. And I smile walking home. To my place—rented, tiny, but *mine.*
I don’t regret leaving. I only regret one thing—not doing it sooner. But now I know: it’s never too late to choose yourself. Even at forty-six. Even with decades of others’ choices behind you.
Now, I live how *I* want. And I’ll never let anyone decide who I should be again. I’m not a daughter, not a wife, not a teacher. I’m a woman. I’m Emily. And I *am.*