It is unclear to me whether this is The Plan or not. But it seems to be happening. 

I took my life seriously, in the early years. I devoured books on childbirth, parenting, and marriage. If there were answers, I was committed to finding them. In an acceleration of acquiring knowledge, there was a crescendo in confidence. I led mother's groups for those whose children were younger than mine. I presented at conferences. John and I offered marriage groups to couples who did not yet know about the Five Love Languages, and strong communication. I was on a mission to protect people from mistakes. 

But at some point it was not about me leading the way anymore. When young mothers are overwhelmed, I listen rather than speak. Hug, rather than explain. Our marriage groups are less like workshops and more of a chance for people to unpack their week. There is no sage advice, just a palm over my heart. 

Part of it is because mistakes are less scary. Having navigated the abject defeat of locking my son up in residential care three times, the notion of life after failure is real. I will perhaps offend someone when I suggest that it is sweeter. 

Hence the shift from being a traffic cop, trying to steer people away from dead ends, to standing on the sidelines of a marathon, handing out water and power bars. 

It turns out that I have fewer answers now than I did in my forties. Fewer in number, yet pithy. 

God is in charge. Be kind. Don't be a jerk. 

"He must increase, but I must decrease." John 3