There’s a kind of ache that comes with starting over — not the dramatic kind, but the kind that sneaks in quietly. It shows up in small ways: in the silence after a big change, in the hesitation before making a choice, in that moment where you realize the life you were building isn’t the one you’re living anymore.

I know that feeling. I’m a single mom, raising two boys, running a business and figuring out my next chapter while I’m already halfway into it. I didn’t plan for this life exactly, but here I am, doing my best to rebuild with what I’ve got.

It’s something I see in my work too. I help families figure out senior care. When it’s time to make a move, when someone can’t live safely at home anymore, when a parent who once took care of everyone suddenly needs care themselves. These moments are tender. Hard. Messy. And honestly? They feel a lot like the kind of rebuilding I’ve been doing too.

And lately, I’ve started to notice how all of this connects to another part of the community I care about: the growing number of refugees making their way to Maine. Different story, different path — but in some ways, it’s the same emotional experience.

Maine is the oldest state in the country. Almost one in four people here is over 65. At the same time, we’re seeing more people resettle here from all over the world. In 2023, nearly 700 individuals were resettled in Maine through the federal refugee program — the most in over a decade. People have arrived from the Democratic Republic of Congo, Syria, Angola, Haiti and more. Some are escaping war, others political violence, and some are just trying to give their kids a better shot. And while every person’s story is different, there’s one thread that keeps showing up: they’re all starting over.

And starting over, no matter where you’re coming from or why, can feel like losing yourself.

I’ve worked with older adults who were once business owners, parents, community leaders — people with full lives who now feel reduced to a list of needs and medications. And I’ve met people who were respected professionals in their home countries, who arrive here and find themselves starting from scratch, unsure if anyone sees them beyond the label of “refugee.” I’ve felt versions of that myself — after my marriage ended, after I had to rebuild everything I thought I’d figured out.

Here’s what I know: we don’t talk enough about how disorienting it is to be in transition. And we definitely don’t give people enough credit for how hard it is to start again.

Most people don’t need you to cheer them on or give them a list of next steps. They just want to know they’re not invisible. That someone sees what they’re carrying. That someone’s willing to sit with them while they figure it out.

Whether you’re aging, arriving or just in a season of figuring life out again, that feeling is the same: please don’t look away.

In my business, I don’t try to offer perfect answers. I show up. I stay in the hard conversations. I don’t rush people to be OK before they’re ready. And I try to give others what I need, too: space to be honest, even when it’s messy.

Whether someone is moving into assisted living, building a life after fleeing their country, or just trying to hold it all together day by day — I hope they find at least one person who won’t flinch when it gets uncomfortable. Someone who doesn’t try to fix it. Someone who stays.

Because when everything’s changing, what people remember isn’t who had the right advice.

It’s who stayed when the dust was still settling.