Recently, I dipped back into Brené Brown’s life-changing book, Daring Greatly. For some reason, it was still packed away in a box in our spare room, waiting to be placed on our new book case with our other books. So, what does it mean to dare greatly? A few years ago, I might have pictured something dramatic – scaling mountains perhaps, or plunging off a bridge head first, merely attached by a piece of rope wrapped around my ankles. Now I know it can look like a middle-aged woman dragging her suitcase through an unfamiliar town, trusting that God’s GPS might be better than Google’s.
In her book, Brown draws the arena metaphor from Theodore Roosevelt’s famous “Man in the Arena” speech, delivered at the Sorbonne in 1910.
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena…who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly.”
These words about the man in the arena, dust-covered and striving, resonated differently now. At 54, my arena turned out to be the path from South Africa to the UK, and my act of daring was simply saying yes to a new chapter, armed with faith and a determination not to live with the gnawing question of “what if?”
Although this move was something we deeply wanted, leaving South Africa was not easy. Gary, my husband, and I made the decision that many might consider unthinkable at this stage of life: we packed up decades of memories, said goodbye to family, friends and the familiar sounds and scents of South Africa—the place we had always called home—and embarked on a journey to the other side of the world.
Our adult daughter, Hannah, joined us on this adventure to pursue her own dreams. But life rarely follows our perfect plans: visa requirements meant our son, Timothy, couldn’t come with us—devastating when you’re already overseas and expecting to see him in a couple of months. Yet faith means trusting even when the path takes unexpected turns. While he builds his work experience in South Africa, technology keeps us connected through daily video calls. His time to join us will come.
The reality of such a massive change unfolded in stages. I arrived first. Navigating my way to our new town proved to be an adventure in itself. Finding the correct bus was straightforward enough; what followed was anything but. Google Maps led me on what felt like a tour of the entire town, as I trudged along pulling my heavy suitcase with a large backpack strapped to my shoulders.
Eventually, I reached the hotel, where a kind, yet mildly bemused receptionist helped me haul all my worldly possessions upstairs. There was no elevator, so it became a comedy act where I stood above my suitcase on the stairs pulling it up, while she pushed from below. Hannah joined a week later, followed by Gary two months after that, and finally our four cats completed the picture.
Some called it brave, others called it crazy. Perhaps it was a bit of both. But there’s a unique kind of courage that comes with choosing uncertainty over the comfort of the known. At an age when many are settling into well-worn routines, I chose to embark on a new adventure, carried by the quiet certainty that even if things didn’t go as planned, we would find our way.
Now, a year into this new chapter, I can say that trust was well placed. The initial challenges of building a life in a new country—finding our way around, establishing new routines, creating a home—have given way to a deepening sense of adventure and possibility.
The truth is, there’s no age limit on reinvention. No expiration date on dreams. The calendar pages may turn, but the desire for growth, for new experiences, for a different perspective on life—these things don’t diminish with time. If anything, they grow stronger as we become more aware of life’s finite nature.
This journey that started in our 50s isn’t about starting from scratch—we carry with us the wisdom of our years, the strength of our experiences, and the certainty of God’s presence. It’s about challenging the narrative that major life changes belong only to the young. It’s about recognising that sometimes the bravest thing we can do is listen to that persistent inner voice that whispers, “There’s more out there for you,” and trust that basic truth: no matter what happens, we’ll be okay.
And so here I am, one year wiser in my new home, proof that life’s greatest adventures don’t come with an age restriction. Because sometimes, the most liberating thing we can do is take that step into the unknown, carrying all that we are into all that we might become.
