Four years ago—nine years into my relationship with my then husband—I met the man I knew I was meant to spend the rest of my life with. It was terrifying.

I had built a beautiful life on paper: a seemingly good marriage, a strong community, a thriving career. But behind closed doors, I was aching. Our sex life was nonexistent, aside from checking a box twice a year—just enough for me to pretend nothing was wrong. We were partners in life, but we weren’t lovers, and we weren’t emotionally intimate in the way I longed for.

I ignored the quiet, persistent whisper that asked, Are you sure this is right? I buried it beneath gratitude, creative projects, and hope. I focused on what was working—our friendship, our adventures, our shared values—and tried to convince myself that was enough. Maybe if I just read another self-help book, tried another workshop, or found the right therapist, the passion and feeling of being truly seen would come.

So for a while, I stayed. But when I looked into the eyes of someone else, something in me woke up. Something that the therapy and the excuses and the self-help couldn’t conjure.

Maybe in another life, I thought at first. Quickly that turned into: Why shouldn’t I fully live this one?

Six weeks later, I left my marriage. But more than that, I left the version of me who had spent years abandoning herself to pretend everything was fine.

Sometimes we reach a point where the life we built no longer fits. A job, a relationship, a version of ourselves—we feel the quiet ache of misalignment. And we’re faced with a choice: stay in what’s familiar, or risk everything for a life that’s more beautiful and true.

In my 20s, I blew up my career in tech to pursue a creative path. In my mid-30s, I blew up my marriage to take a chance at big, true love. Now I’m married to the love of my life, raising our 10-month-old son, and doing work that I love.

If you, too, have been quietly wondering, Is this really it?, I want you to know: You’re not alone. And the truth is, it’s never too late to choose something more honest, more true, more you.

Now I imagine your next question is: How exactly does one do all of this? How do you find the courage, the strength, the confidence? So if you’re in the same boat I was four years ago, here are six things I’ve learned about blowing it all up—and rewriting your story.

1. Fear is a compass pointing you toward your most meaningful life.

The moment I met my now-husband, I was terrified. His presence illuminated a truth I was afraid to say aloud: that my marriage was over—and had been for some time. A crossroads appeared before me at once: I could do what was expected of me, or I could follow what felt most true.

Following that truth came with a hefty dose of fear: Who do you think you are? Are you really going to blow up your life for a feeling? What will people think? What if you’re wrong? What if you ruin everything?

I used to believe fear meant stop. That it was a sign to retreat. Now I understand that fear is often a signpost, a blinking arrow saying this way.

While fear’s job is to protect us from danger, it also hates the unknown. And when we dare to pursue something novel, meaningful, or essential to our becoming, fear tends to get loud. So if the thought of making a meaningful change in your life makes fear rear its head, that doesn’t mean you’re on the wrong path.

It might mean you’re finally on the right one.

2. The past is present—until we’re willing to look back.

As someone whose work is devoted to helping people live their most authentic, meaningful lives, I found myself—on the other side of my first marriage—asking a question I couldn’t shake: How the hell did I get here? I was writing about truth. Speaking about liberation. And yet, I’d spent years silently shrinking inside a relationship that no longer fit.

Later, I realized: My fear of leaving had very little to do with my then husband and everything to do with me. My father left when I was young, and I spent most of my life aching to be seen and loved by a reliable father figure. Somewhere along the way, I decided that being “good” was the path to love and belonging, and that true desire was too dangerous. That if I wanted too much, needed too much, or let myself be fully seen, I’d be left.

So without ever realizing it, I made safe choices in love. At the time, it felt like healing. Like I had built something solid and good—nothing like the chaos I came from.

But in hindsight, I see it clearly: I had chosen safety. It wasn’t just my marriage I was walking away from, but the identity I had built around staying small to feel safe.

When we find ourselves in a place we never thought we’d be, it’s worth asking: Have I been here before? Because the present almost always carries echoes of the past. And if we want to choose differently now, we have to be willing to look back.

3. Disappointing others is a skill.

Leaving my first marriage was messy, painful, and full of guilt and grief and the kind of ache that made me want to hide. I feared the judgment—Who does she think she is, leaving her husband after meeting someone else?—and guess what: I got it.

Some people said, “You’re so brave.” Others said, “You’re horribly selfish.” I was called courageous and cruel, sometimes in the same breath. Some projected their fears onto my choice, as if my leaving threatened the stability of their staying.

For too long, I tolerated disconnection, unfulfillment, and self-abandonment. As a recovering people-pleaser, the more essential skill became tolerating their disappointment instead of continuing to live with mine.

Disappointing others is uncomfortable—but it’s not the same as doing something wrong. Sometimes, it’s the cost of being honest. Sometimes it’s the price of becoming who you really are.

4. Liberation is a two-way street.

I told myself I was doing the right thing: leaving would break my then husband’s heart, and staying—even if it required me to leave myself—was the kind, loyal, good thing to do. But here’s what I see now: My silence wasn't kindness. It was preventing us both from living fully and honestly.

Sometimes the most loving thing you can do—for yourself and the other person—is tell the truth. No one benefits from one person being half-in on the relationship. If you find yourself stuck in a story that no longer fits, ask yourself: Is staying really sparing them—or just delaying the inevitable?

5. You don’t have to blow it all up. You can begin with one brave step.

It’s easy to look at someone’s life and only see the outcome—the big, bold leap; the dramatic turning point. And yes, my story had that moment. But what you wouldn’t see at first glance were the hundreds of quiet, brave steps leading up to it.

My first step was a single sentence scribbled in my journal: I don’t think I want to be in this marriage anymore. I wasn't ready to say it out loud, but I had finally said it to myself. Another step? Telling a trusted friend. I braced for shame and judgment, but instead she could tell I wasn’t fulfilled and exhaled with relief, giving me permission to trust what I already knew.

You don’t have to blow up your whole life to begin again. Sometimes change starts with honoring an inner whisper. Setting a boundary. Having a hard conversation. Saying yes when you mean it, saying no when you mean it—for one moment, one day, one interaction. Sometimes that’s all it takes to start moving toward the life that’s waiting for you.

I invite you to ponder: What truth are you afraid to admit to yourself—and why? Because the moment you name your truth—quietly, bravely—you begin the process of setting yourself free.

Amber Rae’s new memoir, Loveable, is out August 5.

Related:

• 6 Small, Everyday Habits Couples Therapists Wish You’d Stop Doing in Your Relationship
• 5 Subtle Signs of ‘Abandonment Issues,’ According to Experts
• 50 Non-Awkward Questions for a First Date That’ll Actually Spark a Connection

Get more of SELF's great relationship advice delivered right to your inbox—for free.