Midlife Mindset Reset: The New Years Resolution You'll Keep

Jess Johnson
2 days ago
5 min read

A New Season. Better Questions. Softer Landings.

Midlife didn’t tap me on the shoulder. It kicked open the door holding a fan, a calendar full of obligations, and a receipt for all the patience I apparently used up in my 30s.

a women holder head down sitting on her bed, a dog laying next to her

In my late 40s, when I started noticing my world changing, it wasn’t the lack of sleep or losing control of

my body temperature that got my attention—it was the fading sense of self. I no longer felt like the woman I’d always known. The internal calm (at least the version I thought I had) was gone. My brain started sprinting laps, rehearsing conversations, reviewing regrets, and rewriting the to-do list I had already rewritten twice that afternoon.

In my 20s and 30s, I wore stress like armor. Pressure made me feel powerful—unstoppable even. I was the woman who could pull off a miracle at the 11th hour. The one who worked better under the gun, who could juggle tasks, timelines, emotions, expectations, and still look composed doing it. But somewhere between hot flashes and hormone hijacking, that superpower quietly expired.

Then came anxiety. Hello, my new unwanted friend. I was lucky enough in my younger years not to experience panic attacks—at least not like this. I had faced uncomfortable moments before, but I always overcame them quickly. That was then. I remember one day taking a scenic drive through the mountains with my sister. We had done this drive many times—it was something we normally enjoyed until suddenly, I found myself crying uncontrollably and unable to even look out the window (thankfully, I wasn’t driving). That panic attack became a loud wake-up call. I realized something had to change. I didn’t want this to become my new normal. There was still too much to explore, and I couldn’t figure out how I was going to do that if a simple scenic drive could take me out at the knees.

I was left staring at a big, heaping mess of myself, thinking: Who even am I anymore?

But looking back, I realized something important in the middle of that mental static: It wasn’t failure. It wasn’t collapse. It was transition—a messy, beautiful, disorienting one. It was my mind and body demanding a renegotiation of identity, pace, pressure, and purpose.

And honestly? That demand was long overdue.

A girlfriend suggested I try journaling. It worked for her, and she always seemed like she had it together, so I figured if it worked for her, maybe it could work for me too. I even romanticized it. I imagined myself dramatically pouring emotions onto the page, healing with every sentence—basically the kind of scene that would make a killer montage in a movie trailer.

So I went to the store. Bought the gorgeous leather-bound journal. The brand-new pens. And yes…a set of markers I absolutely did not need. I was ready to journal the heck out of my feelings and emerge emotionally evolved and glowing. That first night, I opened it like a ceremonial act. Tea brewed. Chair fluffed. Mood serious. And then…I wrote three sentences before my brain spiraled into administrative chaos: Did I answer that email? Did I pay that bill? Why is the Wi-Fi slow? The dogs need to go out. Wait—did I move the laundry over? My deep emotional journaling era immediately derailed into mental gymnastics with a side of panic. Not the cathartic release I was hoping for.

I gave it a few honest weeks, but the habit never stuck. Eventually, my leather journal became expensive bedroom décor—buried under paperwork on my dresser. It didn’t heal me. It silently judged me from beneath the clutter.

So when I stumbled on The Five Minute Journal a few months ago, I actually laughed out loud and thought: Well…I do have five minutes. That’s manageable. Then I saw it had prompts. A guide. Instructions. Guardrails. No blank-page intimidation. No emotional performance review. Just gentle, guided questions that my brain could actually follow without spiraling.

I cracked a hopeful smile, clicked Add to Cart, and the rest…well, it’s history in the making.

a coffee cup sitting on top of an alarm clock

I’ll admit—I’ve missed a few mornings when my alarm clock basically said, “Nope, not today.” And I noticed on those days that I didn't take the time to journal, the whole day felt slightly off—like forgetting your coffee on top of your car before driving to work. Yes, I’ve done that too. More than once.

That’s when I realized: this wasn’t a chore. It was becoming a ritual. A tiny daily act of reclaiming myself—structured, short, and surprisingly enjoyable.

Because midlife didn’t steal my story. It handed it back and said: Your turn.

I wish I could tell you this journal cures menopause brain. That it hands you back your expired superpowers, rebuilds your attention span, and upgrades your hormones to “chill mode.” It didn’t.

But what it did do was more subtle—and more powerful. It gave me a place to land my thoughts instead of letting them circle the runway forever. It didn’t silence the noise—it taught me to notice it without narrating my whole life through it.

I still lose my train of thought mid-sentence sometimes. I still walk into a room and forget my original mission (half the time it's snacks, but that’s not the point). I still run warm, think loud, and tear up at commercials featuring golden retrievers, baby ducks, or anything else clearly engineered to emotionally destroy a midlife mindset.

But now? I return to myself faster. Because I finally have a tool that acts like a compass, not a critic.

Five minutes a day won’t transform your entire world overnight. But it will remind you that transformation is still in motion. And right now, motion is enough.

So since we're standing on the edge of a new year wondering if your resolution list is about to ghost you by February—start smaller. Start with structure instead of pressure. Start with a tool that gives you the first sentence.