4 Rows of 13 Circles: 52 Weeks of Getting to Know My True Self

By the time I reached 36, I thought I "knew myself": behind the facade of a reasonable business consultant was a burned-out, anxious woman who was slowly gaining weight and had lost trust in herself. I "knew myself" and had already given up hope of "changing myself." I had tried dozens of times to pull off the same old trick: I’d get excited about some brilliant idea — of course, lose weight, conduct a workshop in English, learn to cook healthy meals, launch my online product, and finally write my book.

At first, I was fueled by euphoria, riding the wave of enthusiasm and excitement. But as time passed, the changes became harder and harder to sustain, then "sh*t happens" — different obstacles would emerge. Discontent with myself would grow, I’d hit a wall, experience a setback, and fall into a pit of suffering and self-loathing: "What’s wrong with me?", "I’m so lazy", "They were right, I’m irresponsible", and "Maybe I have ADHD?". And with each iteration, this Treadmill of despair from euphoria to apathy spun slower, the pits got deeper, and it took me longer to climb out. First, proving something to others stopped motivating me. Then the fear of letting someone down lost its power, and finally, not even money could get me out of bed.

So, what I knew about myself by 36: sports weren’t my thing, I wasn’t gifted in languages, and marketing was something I could do for others but not for myself.

Yet here I am, two years later, working out 4-5 times a week, blogging regularly, having conducted two events in English, launching my online product, starting investing, and signing a book deal with a publisher.

In my case, the secret to change didn’t lie in some special mindfulness or power of discipline. I got a few harsh wake-up calls and unmistakable signs from the outside world. First, in January 2022, I saw flashbangs exploding outside my apartment window for the first time in my life — Kazakhstan was experiencing the Qantar, January tragedy. Then, in February, the full-scale war in Ukraine began, and I was consumed by doomscrolling. The heightened sense of urgency to live, familiar to every adult who has ever realized they might not wake up tomorrow, combined with my deep anxiety. This mixture brewed in my head for five months — by May, when I turned 36.

I realized that life is finite and not guaranteed, and there’s a good chance I’ve already lived through most of it.

And there are only 52 weeks in a year — that’s 4 rows of 13 circles. Sobering, isn’t it?

That year, I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday. My mom came over to congratulate me. I remember sitting her down on the couch, and telling her possibly the most important thing I had realized at that time: "You know, it seems like I’ve been making decisions and navigating life based on a map that was last updated 30 years ago. No wonder I kept hitting dead ends, crashing into walls, and getting stuck in ditches." My mom was scared, but I reassured her: "This time, no sudden moves."

So, at 36, I realized I had been a prisoner of an "egg of immaturity." I didn’t know myself, the world, or what I was capable of beyond my fantasies of how things should be. I set a goal: by the time I turn 40, I want to hatch from this egg and discover what I’m truly capable of and what’s possible in this incredible world.

Now I’m halfway there: two years have passed, two more to go, and I’m ready to start sharing my journey.

P.S. The PDF with the 52-week plan and some other templates are available through the link: https://drive.google.com/open?id=1UqihUBdkRj2kVlqPX4qre9pcHsALK9kV&usp=drive_fs