Every woman who reaches midlife will tell you there's an awakening- a stirring deep within the carefully compartmentalized archives of her mind. It's the moment she begins to shed the skins society so lovingly assigned: wife, mother, professional (and all the hats in between). As children leave the nest and hormones shift, retirement whispers in her ear, and the question emerges: Who am I…really?
For me, that question has echoed for decades. I've been Tanya Hart the daughter, the shy, green-eyed blonde, the child of an absent father, the drug addict, the mother, the "owner of Oomph." At forty-five, I've lived so many lives and tried on so many labels that I've sworn off restriction and authority. Apparently, calling myself a "successful entrepreneur" is a modern red flag...who knew? But labels aside, who is Tanya Hart? The answer, as simple as it is profound, is: I am me.
I'm introverted, reflective, curious, creative, goofy, insightful, calm yet intense- a Scorpio navigating midlife's roller coaster of low libido, rogue chin hairs, and sleepless nights. Ever evolving, I'm the cliche phoenix rising anew from my own ashes.
This year, I planted a garden. What began as a simple pollinator-friendly walkway accent has blossomed into a sprawling, soul-searching project. "You don't need therapy," I joke to friends, "you need a garden." I advocate for therapy too- but there's something about coaxing life from soil, making magic from your wounds. The morning dew, the hum of bees, the riot of colors and scents, the backbreaking labor, the blooms and inevitable failures. It's rich, messy, and deeply healing.
The past few years have hammered home life's fragility. In 2020, I bought this house and within a few weeks, found myself unexpectedly pregnant...perhaps the little girl I always wanted, and then, just as quickly, not. Some doors close before you're ready. In the fall of that year, I met my biological father for the first time. In 2021, I got sober. The summer of 2024 brought the end of an engagement; that September, the news that my ex-husband, the father of my youngest, had stage 4 prostate cancer. In the summer of 2025, I lost thirty percent of my staff. On November 6th, I lost my father- the man who raised me, chose me, adopted me as his own- to stage 4 lung cancer. And in June 2026, my eldest walked across the stage into adulthood.
It's a lot. All of it. Take those things, plus the enormous amount of chaos and catastrophe available at our fingertips at any hour- and, well… maybe you'd need a garden too. The hours spent present in the soil- and underneath all of it, the inner monologue. The deep thoughts.
Somewhere in the middle of my grief, I found my joy. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm not waiting for the phone to ring, or sinking into the couch to doomscroll, or lying awake tallying my failures (the protein I didn't eat, the steps I didn't take). I'm on my knees in the dirt, genuinely delighted by a toad the size of a walnut, a grasshopper holding still long enough to be admired, a mushroom risen overnight from nothing, a genuinely excellent rock, the small pilgrimage to the greenhouse. Joy in the smallest, most alive things.
People joke about it. "What are you going through- what a weird midlife crisis for you." I nod, I agree, I share the smile or the laugh. I joke right back about how my neighbors must think I'm an actual crazy person for the hours I spend out there. Six years in this house and I'm meeting people I've never even seen. They probably do think I'm crazy. In a lot of ways, they're not wrong.
I knew I was grieving. I just didn't realize how deep the wounds ran. And I didn't realize how much I'd missed creating- that making something out of nothing, rich in detail and wonder, has always been the fuel that feeds my fire. Art. Writing. New business ventures. Photography. Taking something simple and making it rich, inviting curiosity in others.
That's what this is. A grief garden.
— Deep Thoughts by T.