From trophy wife to tequila-swigging party animal - like so many women I had no idea who I really was, says agony aunt DEAR JANE. Then I cracked the secret to happiness...

Someone recently posted a photograph of me on Instagram from 20 years ago.

In my mid-30s with seven bestsellers under my belt, I was dressed in an expensive designer coat, with immaculately blonde-streaked hair and dripping with jewels. I studied the picture carefully; how bittersweet it was to see myself so young and so glamorous, but so filled with self-doubt.

In fact, I barely recognised myself — and not just because of the passage of time; my whole demeanour is different. Despite the coiffed appearance and confident smile, I was looking at a woman who dressed to impress because she felt so inadequate.

Back then, I hid my overwhelming lack of self-worth behind a coat of gleaming armour. I thought I had to emulate glamorous, strong, rich-looking authors such as Jackie Collins and Barbara Taylor-Bradford. Mainly because I had no idea who the real ‘me’ actually was. Two decades on, this picture makes me realise that my abiding lack of confidence has led to me inhabit many different personas.

There was that young glamorous author; the laid-back beach chick; the party-loving bohemian; and the pink-haired artist.

Jane Green aged 35: Immaculately blonde-streaked hair and dripping with jewels

It took me many years to find the person I was looking for all those years: myself.

Like many insecure women I know, I have always been something of a chameleon. I may not have known who I was, but I had the ability to turn myself into whoever I thought I needed to be in order to fit in — or, whoever I thought you needed me to be.

You only had to look at my hair over the years for a clue as to what was going on inside: blonde streaks meant I was trying to fit in; brunette meant I was hiding, and pink signified the beginning of my no longer needing to fit in. Finally, four years ago, letting the grey show through was a sign that I was moving closer to self-acceptance.

For when we don’t know who we are — or worry that who we are isn’t good enough — we can hide behind luxury labels, jewellery or indeed a persona we create.

But in doing so we deny ourselves the ability to connect with others — for heaven forbid anyone should see through to the real us.

As a child, growing up in London with a younger brother away at boarding school, I was awkward and shy. Dressing to fit in as a teenager meant hobble skirts and very pointy flat shoes from Kensington Market, or oversized donkey jackets and clunky DMs.

Throughout my 20s I fell in and out of love — and turned myself into whoever the boyfriend at the time wanted me to be.

Jane aged 29: She says that in her twenties she fell in and out of love and turned herself into whoever her boyfriend at the time wanted her to be

Dating a musician turned me into a groupie, hanging out at recording studios; dating a barrister turned me into the perfect trophy girlfriend. Yes, I could step into any role and play it wholeheartedly, convincing myself that was who I was — temporarily.

At 30, I married the man I thought my parents would have chosen for me. Ironically, they later said that they didn’t think we were well suited.

We had met on a blind date, and talked for hours. There was little physical attraction for me, but he ticked the boxes required of a secure and sensible partner, and my biological clock had me doing what I thought was the right thing for this stage of life.

We were two good people; he an inflexible American, me a free spirit who didn’t understand that we simply weren’t on the same page about anything.

After we had our first child, we moved to America. My career was taking off there, and it was far easier to put my energies into a move, rather than look at the real problems in the marriage.

I distracted myself by having three more children. From the outside, life looked perfect: my career was successful, my income lucrative, and I stepped easily into the persona of a bestselling author with the requisite blonde-streaked hair, the big diamonds and the big house.

Little did I realise how off-putting this was. When people looked at me, they saw someone impenetrable; friends tell me now that when they first met me, they were terrified.

They didn’t know if I was kind, or loyal, or funny, or — surprisingly — much more down to earth than my suit of armour would suggest. Because as well as being utterly inauthentic, such a facade was intimidating.

The role of the perfect wife with a perfect life was, eventually, one I could no longer sustain; the pretence was simply exhausting.

Our split in 2006, after seven years of marriage, followed what should have been a normal row. Except this time, when he asked whether I wanted him to leave, I said yes.

It’s not surprising that my divorce triggered yet another re-invention. Many women report that the end of a marriage represents a new start for them.

I moved into a little cottage by the beach, and sold every piece of designer clothing and jewellery I owned. I didn’t want any reminders of how hard I had tried to be someone else.

I spent my days in shorts and T-shirts, walking the kids to the beach for picnics and after-dinner swims. Now a hip, single-mum beach chick, I felt free, and light. This role suited the new me. But still, I was only conforming to what I thought a woman living by the beach should look like.

The landlord of my beach cottage was wise, handsome and calm. Within a couple of months I had fallen in love with him, and I loved what he brought out in me. Down-to-earth and humble, he would have had no time for the trophy wife Jane.

We lived together for three years, before marrying in 2009.

On our honeymoon, I became friendly with a woman staying at the same resort who happened to live near us at home. Upon our return to Connecticut, she introduced me to her group of friends.

Because they are all impossibly glamorous, I re-invented myself yet again. This time it wasn’t designer clothes, but pricey bohemian-inspired pieces.

I bought dress after dress from Maison Marché, a company owned by one of the women, who swiftly became one of my dearest friends. She sources from South America, so it was ruffles and frills for me, with large earrings.

My life became a whirlwind of tequila at parties, and dancing all night long. This earned me a pseudonym: Tequila Jane. No one knew what might happen if she was in the house, but it would always be fun.

My husband was along for the ride, joking that he hadn’t realised just how many women he was marrying when we walked down the aisle.

I loved this version of me, loved the fun I was having, even when I overdid it, which I did rather more frequently than I should have done.

Jane at 46: A few years later, on the eve of her 50th birthday, she looked in the mirror, still had no idea who she really was and told herself it was time to figure it out and find happiness

Of course, later I would look back and see that I was losing myself in too much drinking, too much partying. I was not a woman you could have much of a conversation with; I was too busy whooping it up on the dance floor.

On the eve of my 50th birthday, almost six years ago, I found myself looking in the mirror, stunned that at this ripe age, I still had no idea who I really was.

‘Jane,’ I said to my reflection, ‘it’s time you figured it out. There’s no denying that you are frankly past midlife, and if you don’t figure it out now, you’re never going to find true happiness.’

Of course, there had been many joyous times, and I loved my family and friends, but I never felt settled.

Who would I be, I thought, if I stopped caring what anyone else thought? If I stopped worrying about fitting in, and discovered instead what I like? I really had no idea.

The first move I made was to dye my hair pink for fun. I thought it brought me closer to the real me but, in fact, it was a small step, trying on unconventionality just to see how it might feel.

My journey to self-acceptance couldn’t be completed with a bottle of hair dye.

It was made both harder, and easier, when the pandemic struck. I could no longer distract myself with parties, evenings out, hosting dinner parties at home; I could no longer run from myself.

At the same time, my husband and I were planning our next move. Having sold our family home in 2021, we wondered whether we would stay in the Connecticut town in which my husband grew up, a town where I had lived for 23 years, or whether we would move somewhere else?

My husband wanted to go to California, or North Carolina. But I didn’t want suburbia; it had been a wonderful place to raise our families, but now that my kids had left home, I wanted something bigger, something more.

At first I had a yearning for home; for Europe, for London and for old friends — the friends who had known me long before I became a bestselling author, and who will always be my family. So I spent proper time back in London, feeling most myself with them.

The version of me that they saw — the one with natural grey hair, who was not afraid to make a fool of herself, nor afraid of what anyone thought — felt like my truest, best self.

Then, last year, I spent around four months in Marrakech, Morocco, with my husband travelling back and forth.

In 2022 I had written a book — Sister Stardust — set in this magical city. We loved our time there so much that last month we moved into a riad that we have rented for the year, to see whether this is a place to lay a hat.

Now that I know who I am — someone with a fierce honesty gene, who likes change, who is too much of a free spirit to stay anywhere for too long — it is much easier to make friends.

I no longer feel the need to prove myself; as a consequence I am open in a way I hadn’t been before. And that shame I had carried for so long, the shame of not being good enough, has gone.

Jane at 55: She says that she no longer feels that she has to prove herself and that the 'sahme of not being good enough has gone'

In November, I was invited to teach at a writers’ conference. Previously I had always stepped into the persona of ‘Jane Green, Bestselling Author’ to hide my natural shyness. This time, I showed up simply as Jane — and for the first time ever, I felt fully embraced.

‘What’s happened to you?’ asked one writer who has known me vaguely for years. ‘You’ve changed. Your energy is so different now.’

‘You’re porous,’ another one told me. I think she meant that before, no one could get in to see the real me; now I let everyone in.

What happened is that not only did I figure out who I am but, more importantly, I realised that I am enough.

I have learned to not just accept that person, but to love her. Previously I struggled to get close to people, for how are you supposed to love anyone else when you don’t love yourself?

Life is not perfect, and I do still have bad days, but all in all, I’m pretty happy.

So many women hide behind personas, wanting to fit in, wanting to be enough, instead of looking deep into their hearts to find out who they really are.

I am proof that it’s never too late to find the real you. Now I wake up every day happy and, more importantly, at peace.

I wish I’d learned this lesson in my 20s, but perhaps it takes age, wisdom and a deep vein of unhappiness to force us to take a really long hard look at ourselves. To decide who we are, not for anyone else, but just for us.