When I first decided I was going to have a go at writing a book

Fiona McIntosh once revealed with stark honesty: “When I first decided I was going to have a go at writing a book – and really, it was a mid-life crisis – I was 39. I was in business with my husband; we had a very busy lifestyle and quite a hectic schedule running this flourishing business in travel, and I found myself waking up and realising that I didn’t want to do this anymore.” In these words lies the eternal struggle between duty and desire, between the life we build and the life our soul yearns for. Her confession is not weakness but courage: the courage to admit that success, even when gilded, may not satisfy, and that one must sometimes abandon the well-paved road to walk into the unknown.

The ancients knew well this restless stirring that comes upon the heart in mid-life. They called it the crisis of the turning years, when man or woman, having labored long at their station, suddenly feels the hollowness of the path. At such moments, one must ask: is this the life I was born to live, or merely the life I have stumbled into? Fiona’s awakening is the cry of the soul demanding authenticity, the call of the inner voice long drowned out by noise, business, and speed. She did not ignore it; she rose to meet it.

Consider the story of Siddhartha Gautama, who lived as a prince in comfort and plenty. Surrounded by all delights, he should have been content. Yet upon seeing sickness, age, and death, he felt the deep stirring of dissatisfaction. Though he had a flourishing life by all accounts, his spirit whispered that this was not his true path. He left his palace, just as Fiona left her business, to walk a road that would test him but also fulfill him. Both tales remind us that material success and outward stability cannot silence the soul’s longing for meaning.

Fiona’s words reveal also the power of writing as rebirth. To “have a go at writing a book” is not a trivial act; it is the claiming of voice, the shaping of self through story. The ancients saw writing as sacred—a bridge between mortal breath and immortal memory. By writing, she stepped beyond the confines of business and entered the realm of legacy. Her so-called “mid-life crisis” was in truth a mid-life awakening, a turning not toward destruction but toward creation.

There is a lesson here about honesty with oneself. How many rise each morning, as Fiona once did, to labor at a life they no longer desire, afraid to admit the truth even to themselves? How many cling to what is flourishing outwardly but crumbling inwardly? Her words teach us that it is better to confess the truth, even if it means upheaval, than to live in silent denial. For denial is the slow death of the spirit, while truth, though painful, is the beginning of freedom.

History offers us many who dared such pivots. Cincinnatus, the Roman farmer, left his plow to lead Rome in battle and returned again to his fields, showing that one may change paths with honor. Tolstoy, too, after years of aristocratic ease, turned to radical simplicity and writing, reshaping the literature of the world. In each case, as with Fiona, the change began with an awakening: the realisation that the old life no longer fit the soul, and the courage to step into the uncertain new.

For us, the teaching is radiant: do not fear the turning of life. If you wake one day and know that the path you walk is no longer yours, dare to choose again. Do not name it only a “crisis”; call it also a rebirth. Seek the work that makes your soul alight, not only the work that fills your purse. Practically, this means listening to yourself without judgment, allowing quiet moments to reveal truth, and giving yourself permission to change even when others do not understand.

Thus, Fiona McIntosh’s words stand not as confession alone, but as a beacon. They teach that flourishing in the world is not enough if the heart does not flourish within. And they remind us that even at 39, or 59, or 79, one may still begin anew. For there is no shame in turning away from what no longer feeds you. The only shame is in refusing to answer the voice within that whispers: “This is not the life I want.”