I’ve always been a late bloomer. Among other things, I married later than my peers, had children later than my peers, and spent a longer time than most searching for my niche in the work world. Since turning 50 a couple of years ago, I’ve tried to draw comfort from my history of belated blooming. Perhaps the best is yet to come?

Eager to find kindred spirits, my ears perk up anytime I hear stories about women who didn’t come into their own until late in their lives. (Side note: to me “late in life” is post-50, but while researching late bloomers I was forced to sort through an annoying number of articles defining late bloomers as mid-30s or, gasp, 40; sigh/groan).

Did you know Juliet Gordon Low founded the Girl Scouts at age 51? (Yes, those are my Girl Scout pins. Hello 1980s!) And Julia Child was 51 when she made her television debut in The French Chef. Laura Ingalls Wilder was in her mid-40s when she started writing and was 65 when her first book, Little House in the Big Woods, was published. One of the latest bloomers of all time, Anna Robertson (Grandma Moses) didn’t begin painting until she was 67 and her work wasn’t purchased until she was 78, after which her work was on display in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Then she wrote her memoir at 92 and lived until she was 101.

There will come a time when you believe everything is finished.

Yet that will be the beginning.

Louis L’Amour

Now that I’ve got my feet under me, the thought of a fresh start is appealing, I’ll admit. I just wish I could skip the learning curve. Brene Brown calls it FFTs (fucking first times) – all the stumbling around and mistakes and knots in the pit of your stomach as you grit your teeth and get through the slew of first times that come with a beginning.

I suppose one way to get through the FFTs is to remember they are proof something is beginning. That helps.