Women of a Certain Age

Rust-Out, Transformation, and Having the Agency to Lean Into Who You Were Meant to Be 

I recently came across a phrase I'd never heard before. 

Rust-out. 

We've all heard of burnout. 

Burnout is real. 

You don't get over burnout with a weekend in Sedona, a singing bowl sound bath, a little Reiki, and having your chakras aligned. 

Research suggests recovery from burnout can take one to three years. 

One to three years. 

So if you've left a job and you're wondering why you still don't feel like yourself... 

Hold yourself in grace. 

Clarity requires energy. 

And energy is often the very thing burnout has taken from you. 

But burnout isn't the only thing happening to women of a certain age. 

I think many of us are experiencing something else entirely. 

Rust-out isn't doing too much. 

It's doing too little that matters. 

It's that slow erosion that happens when you've accomplished what you set out to accomplish, but your heart is quietly telling you there's still more in you. 

Your days begin to feel like sitcom reruns. 

You're solving problems you've solved a hundred times before. 

You don't need a vacation. 

You need a new challenge. 

As I started reading about rust-out, I couldn't help but think... 

This has a lot to do with women of a certain age. 

Not because we've become less valuable. 

I don't recognize the way some people describe ambitious women. 

As though we somehow drifted into our careers. 

That wasn't my experience. 

I wanted a career. 

My friends wanted careers. 

We watched Gloria Steinem, Bella Abzug and Mary Tyler Moore on black and white TVs 

At eight years old, I wanted to be an astronaut. 

When Sally Ride became the first American woman in space, she became my hero. 

I still have an autographed photograph of her. 

She represented possibility. 

She represented courage. 

She represented the belief that there weren't gender specific limits anymore. 

A few years later, Ann Richards burst onto the political stage here in Texas. With that unforgettable bouffant, razor sharp wit, and unapologetic confidence, I absolutely loved her. And Texas Sweet Tea. 

Those women didn't tell me who to become. 

They showed me what was possible. 

That mattered. 

Because I watched my own mother put her dreams on hold. 

She desperately wanted to be an Interior Designer. 

She accomplished this, but not until she'd spent nearly twenty years raising four kids with an absentee father. 

I watched what that cost her. 

I also watched what it meant to her when she finally got the chance. 

That memory was a fire in me that solidified understanding.  

I wanted a career because I wanted choices. 

I wanted independence. 

I wanted agency over my own life. 

So I built the career and then I left it. I made a choice at 55 to build something new, something that belonged to me. And something I had complete control over. At 60, I made a pivot to who I am today.  

And if I had to do it all over again... 

I'd make the same decision. 

Because that chapter made me who I am. 

The problem isn't that we made the wrong choices. 

You eventually no longer accept where you are in life and fiercely and with conviction, change it.  

 

Rust Doesn't Mean You're Finished 

The first time I really understood rust-out, I wasn't reading about it. 

I was watching it. 

My partner, Christy, retired this year at fifty-six after spending thirty years in the same career with the same employer. 

This wasn't a surprise. 

She had planned her retirement almost a year in advance. 

The date was circled on the calendar in red.  

As that day got closer, I watched something happen. 

The drive to and from work became mind-numbing, and counting days became unbearable.  

Not because she hated her job.  

She didn't. 

She was simply finished with what it represented.  

Too much compromise, too little passion from the people around her, money problems with her employer that canceled programs. Political infighting. Toxic personalities. 

I remember becoming genuinely concerned about her mental health. 

I was watching a brilliant person lose purpose. 

When retirement finally came, I think everyone expected she'd relax. 

Instead, she spent months trying to figure out what life looked like without a job she'd had for three decades. 

Then one morning everything changed. 

She literally leaped out of bed and before her morning Diet Pepsi, she displayed more excitement than I'd seen in months. "I've got it!" 

Not only had she thought of a software platform that would solve a major problem she'd watched her clients struggle with for years... She already had the name. 

Just like that. It exploded out of her. 

Thirty years of experience suddenly connected in a way neither of us saw coming. 

My wonderfully OCD, EdD wife came back to life because she had purpose again. 

Today she's building her business and y’all I haven't seen her since. 

She's completely immersed in it. 

That's what purpose does. 

It wakes up a part of you that you thought had gone quiet. 

That's when I realized... 

Rust-out isn't the end of your story. 

Sometimes it's simply your spirit telling you you've completed a book and you're ready to write another. 

That's a very different conversation. 

And I think it's one as female founders, we need to have more often. 

Because women over forty-five are now the fastest-growing group of entrepreneurs in America. 

Funny how nobody seems to be talking about that. 

Maybe it's because we're looking at it all wrong. 

These entrepreneurial women aren't "starting over."  They're finally building something that reflects who they are. 

Because here's what I know. 

The woman who made decisions at twenty-five... Isn't the same woman today. 

She's earned the right to make a different decision. 

And that's exactly what transformation looks like. 

People ask me why I went back to school at fifty-five to finish a degree I started in 1982. 

The answer is simple. 

I wanted it. 

I didn't leave college because I didn't care about education. 

I left because life had other plans. 

By the time I was seventeen, my world had changed overnight. My parents divorced, and suddenly I wasn't thinking about college visits like my friends were. I was thinking about how to help my mom keep our family together. 

We shared one car so we could both get to work. 

Every morning I'd get up early and make sure she had a lunch to take with her. She had stopped eating and weighed barely a hundred pounds. I'd drive her to work, an hour round trip, and someone who lived nearby would bring her home later so I could get to my own job. 

That was our life. 

Everyone thought I was the strong one. 

The independent daughter. 

The oldest child. 

The truth was, I could barely function. 

Almost overnight, I started having what I thought were seizures. 

I didn't know what anxiety was. 

Nobody talked about anxiety in the early 1980s. 

Doctor after doctor told me they couldn't find anything wrong with me. 

It wasn't until I met a counselor in college that someone finally gave it a name. 

Anxiety. 

For the first time, I understood something that changed my life. 

I wasn't crazy. 

I was wounded. 

Life kept moving. 

I married too young. 

I divorced too young. 

I came within senior hours of graduating before financial reality forced me to leave school again. 

I went back. 

Then my son Taylor was born. 

Life shifted again. 

At thirty-five, I landed a job with a startup technology company that never once asked whether I had a degree. They cared that I could solve problems. That opportunity launched a career I loved, and for a long time, finishing college stopped mattering. 

Until it did. 

When I reached my fifties, I finally had enough space in my life to think about something besides work. 

That unfinished chapter started calling me back. 

Not because I needed the degree. 

Because I wanted it. 

So I went back. 

I graduated at fifty-seven. 

That diploma hangs behind me in my early podcasts and videos. 

It isn't there for anyone else. 

It's there for me. 

It's a reminder that having choices is one of the greatest freedoms we'll ever experience. 

When you get to choose your challenge, doing hard things doesn't feel quite as hard. 

If you've been thinking about going back to school... 

Do it. 

If you've been thinking about writing the book... 

Do it. 

If you've been thinking about starting the business... 

Do it. 

We're living long enough now to have careers into our seventies. 

My mom is eighty-four. 

She's still designing beautiful rooms for people. 

Not because she needs the money. 

Because people keep calling. 

There are always copies of Architectural Digest on her coffee table with dog-eared pages marking something that inspired her. 

She's still learning. 

She's still creating. 

She's still becoming. 

So the moral of this story isn't to be cautious. 

It's exactly the opposite. 

Throw caution to the wind. 

Your next chapter isn't waiting for permission. 

It's waiting for you. 

 

Towanda 

If you're a woman of a certain age, I can say one word and you'll probably smile. 

Towanda. 

If you've seen Fried Green Tomatoes, you know exactly what I'm talking about. 

On the surface, it's just a funny scene in a Winn-Dixie parking lot. 

But that isn't why women remember it. 

We remember it because Evelyn Couch finally stopped apologizing for taking up space. 

She'd spent years trying to make everyone else comfortable. 

She put everyone else's needs ahead of her own. 

She questioned herself. 

She doubted herself. 

Then one day... 

She didn't. 

Towanda wasn't about a parking space. 

It was about agency. 

It was about deciding your life belonged to you again. 

I think every woman has a Towanda moment. 

Maybe yours wasn't in a grocery store parking lot. 

Maybe it happened sitting in your office after another meeting where nobody heard a word you said. 

Maybe it happened after your kids left home. 

Maybe it happened after a divorce. 

Maybe it happened after a layoff. 

Maybe it happened quietly one Tuesday morning when you looked in the mirror and thought, 

"I have another chapter in me." 

Whatever your Towanda moment looks like... 

Pay attention to it. 

Those moments don't show up by accident. 

They're invitations. 

Not to become someone else. 

To finally lean into who you were meant to be. 

The other day, I watched my friend Kat lead a live Zoom mastermind. 

She stood in front of a room full of women and told the truth. 

The real truth. 

She talked about building a successful business. 

She talked about getting sober. 

She talked about the messy, muddy middle where she wasn't sure she was going to make it. 

She talked about the fear. 

The uncertainty. 

The moments she questioned herself. 

She wasn't standing there pretending she'd always had it figured out. 

She was standing there saying, 

"I'm here to prove you can build something extraordinary, even when life is messy." 

There wasn't a woman in that Zoom room who didn't have a lump in her throat. 

Not because we'd lived her story. 

Because we'd lived our own. 

And we recognized courage when we saw it. 

That's what I think women of a certain age are looking for now. 

Not perfection. 

Not carefully curated lives. 

Not another highlight reel. 

Truth. 

Real conversations. 

Real women. 

Real transformation. 

When we're young, we're impressed by people who seem to have all the answers. 

As we get older, we're drawn to the people willing to tell the truth. 

The truth builds trust. 

The truth reminds us we're not alone. 

The truth gives someone else permission to believe they can do hard things too. 

Maybe that's why this article found you. 

Not because you're looking for answers. 

Because you're looking for confirmation that you're not the only one asking the questions. 

And trust me... 

You're not. 

 

Sometimes the Pivot Chooses You 

Not every transformation begins with a dream. 

Sometimes it begins with two words. 

I have a friend who worked for the same company for ten years. 

She loved what she did. 

She was really good at it. 

Then a new boss came in. 

Something shifted. 

The relationship became toxic. 

For months, we'd been talking about the tension. 

I finally said, "I think it's time to dust off your résumé." 

Not because I wanted her to leave. 

Because I think she already knew. 

You know when something is ending. 

Long before it ends. 

It's like breaking up with your significant other after ten years. 

You know it's coming. 

But instead of getting yourself ready...or hitting the gym so you've got that breakup body waiting... 

You stay in your sweats. 

Hair in a ponytail. 

Hoping maybe it'll all work itself out. 

We've all done it. 

A few weeks later, I texted her. 

"I've been thinking about you." 

She texted back. 

"It happened." 

She'd been asked to resign. 

After ten years. 

I just sat there staring at my phone. 

I wasn’t surprised. 

I was sad. 

She had poured ten years of her life into that company. 

But here's what I also knew. 

For months, she'd been talking about starting a business doing something she genuinely loved. 

Something she was incredibly good at. 

Maybe... 

Now was the time. 

Not because losing your job is a gift. 

It isn't. 

But sometimes life makes the decision you've been afraid to make yourself. 

I've seen it too many times. 

Some women leave on their own. 

Some women get pushed. 

Either way... 

They arrive at the same question. 

Now what? 

Looking back from where I stand today, every breakup in my life was a gift. 

Every one of them. 

I just couldn't see it at the time. 

Whether it was the end of a relationship... 

The end of a job... 

Or the end of a season I thought would last forever... 

Each one taught me something I couldn't have learned any other way. 

They taught me I'd survive. 

More than that... 

They taught me I'd win. 

Not because life suddenly became easier. 

Because every seismic shift left me a little wiser. 

A little stronger. 

A little more certain of who I was. 

Now, when life throws another one my way... 

I don't panic. 

I don't assume my story is over. 

I know I'll get through it. 

I know I'll figure it out. 

And I know, somehow... 

I'm going to win. 

It's just how I see myself now. 

 

Returning to Myself 

You couldn't have given me a bigger gift. 

When I first started building LAUNCH, I thought I was creating a roadmap for digital visibility. 

Positioning. 

Messaging. 

LinkedIn. 

Marketing. 

The mechanics of getting yourself out there online. 

That was the plan. 

Then I started writing. 

Not copy. 

Not marketing. 

Stories. 

My stories. 

Stories I hadn't thought about in years. 

The seventeen-year-old girl trying to keep her family together. 

The unfinished college degree. 

The anxiety I didn't even have words for. 

Christy leaping out of bed before her morning Diet Pepsi because purpose had finally found her again. 

Towanda. 

Somewhere between all those memories, something happened. 

Or maybe... 

I happened. 

I realized this wasn't really about learning how to become visible. 

It was about understanding how visibility makes you feel about yourself. 

It took me two years before I could record myself on video without feeling completely nervous. 

Two years. 

People ask me why. 

I honestly can't answer that simply. 

Maybe it was imposter syndrome. 

Maybe it was perfectionism. 

Maybe it was old stories I'd been carrying around for decades. 

Maybe it was all of those things. 

What I know now is this. 

Building a business isn't just about learning digital marketing. 

It's about becoming the person who's willing to be seen. 

That's why I believe so deeply in the journal. 

I've never journaled a day in my life. 

Ain't nobody got time for that. 

Or at least that's what I used to think. 

Corporate life has a way of teaching you to solve problems. 

Move on. 

Hit the next deadline. 

Put out the next fire. 

Keep producing. 

Keep performing. 

Keep going. 

But problems need total solutions from the total you. 

Writing these blogs from my heart and memory reminded me how important our humanity is along the way. 

As female founders of a certain age, we have stories that need to be told. 

Because they're ours. 

Along this journey, you're going to have thoughts you don't want to lose. 

Memories that suddenly make sense. 

Quotes that stop you in your tracks. 

Moments that make you laugh. 

Moments that make you cry. 

Write them down. 

Not because you're writing a memoir. 

Because you're writing your way back to yourself. 

Some of us take medication for anxiety. 

Some of us take antidepressants. 

Some of us take both. 

I have. 

There's no shame in that. 

But as I've been writing these blogs and remembering my own story, I've started asking myself a different question. 

Not whether I needed medication. 

I did. 

But whether I also needed to write. 

Whether I needed to stop outrunning my own story and finally sit with it. 

Andrea Gibson wrote, 

"I mean being afraid, staying afraid, and doing it anyway. It brings me to life. It's like vitamins for the spirit." 

Those words have become vitamins for my soul. 

Not because they erased my pain. 

Because they reminded me of my own humanity. 

Andrea knew they were dying. 

And they kept writing. 

They spared nothing. 

They left every beautiful piece of themselves on the page so the rest of us could find a little more of ourselves. 

That's what I want this journal to become. 

Not another workbook. 

Not another thing to check off your list. 

A conversation with yourself. 

A place to remember who you are. 

You're going to get a Guide who knows her shit when it comes to digital marketing. 

I've been doing this since 1998. 

I know positioning. 

I know visibility. 

I know how to build a brand that people trust. 

But what I also want you to get is a human being. 

Someone who understands this transition isn't just about building a business. 

It's about becoming more of yourself. 

Looking back... 

I could never go back to the textbook version of me. 

I'm a painter. 

A creator. 

A writer. 

A lover of music. 

A follower of Jesus. 

The Mother of Goats. 

Every one of those things makes me a better Guide. 

And maybe that's the greatest gift of women of a certain age. 

We stop editing ourselves. 

We stop apologizing for all the different parts of who we are. 

We become whole. 

Write with me. 

Journal with me. 

Heal with me. 

Win with me. 

I've got you. 

I'm Suzette, Female Founder of Innovate LAUNCH. 

I see you. 

I support you. 

And I want you to be successful. 

If this story resonated with you, share it with another woman who's standing at the edge of her own transformation. 

Join me in the LAUNCH Community. 

The book is open.