Happy Easter, friends! I hope you enjoyed some time with your family or friends this weekend, and I hope you are looking forward to all that spring brings. This year, the holiday has special meaning to me as I celebrate new life in so many ways.
Last week was a blur of moving boxes and a lot of cleaning up at my old house. By the end of it, I had a truckload of things donated to a local charity and another large truckload of things sent to a junk service. All abandoned remnants of a shared life. And the English professor in me has to work very hard not to see metaphorical significance in how a few things played out last week, but that is neither here nor there. And I refuse to dwell on the exhausted despair today. Not now with so much newness greeting me on the road ahead.
I loved that house so much. I loved my neighbors. I loved what it felt like to make dinner in my big beautiful kitchen. We built it from the ground up, and we had so many dreams and plans there. I cried like a baby the February afternoon the for sale sign went up in the yard.
But last Monday, as the kids and I slept on a mattress on the floor surrounded by boxes of my own and items left behind, I had a moment – not of sadness really – but of sweetness. One of those moments you feel heavily like a graduation or a wedding or a birth of a baby. When you know you are standing at a threshold, and it feels like you are outside looking in on your own self, knowing that this is it. The moment that you won’t return to because your life is completely changing. The dividing line you will reference when you see your story in retrospect with all of its “befores” and “afters.” I will have more moments like this in my life, I’m sure. But I will never forget what last Monday felt like, cuddled with my kids on that mattress on the floor in a big dark house that didn’t feel like home anymore. Waiting to close the door on that chapter.
And perhaps it is my brain protecting me a bit, but I was not one bit sad to leave that house when moving day arrived. It felt vast and large and haunted, more like a museum than a home. Frankly, it felt like a museum of my own grief these past few months. The elbow grease required to get rid of things left behind and fill holes, paint, etc. worked as a way to process the end of that chapter, I think. When the moment came and it was time for me to close that door, it was not bittersweet in the least. Grief is part of this process. I have to feel it. I have to cry. I have to push through. But I don’t have to build a monument to it. I was so grateful to leave it behind.
I moved into my new place on Wednesday, and I really started to unpack this weekend. My garage is full of boxes, and my own closet is a mess of half empty bins, but I am getting there slowly but surely. It is such a perfect space for us, and one that feels like home already. I hope to post photos soon. The kids are loving it, and so do I. I feel certain that divine intervention landed us here, and the string of unlikely coincidences that put me in this house is a very long list. I’m right where I’m meant to be. I have no doubt.
We celebrated Easter with my family yesterday afternoon. The kids hunted eggs with cousins, and one little girl was determined to climb a tree, even in her Sunday best.
These two bring me joy everyday. I have moments where I step outside of myself for a minute, remembering this is real and I am a real grown-up dealing with grown-up matters I never predicted and that I’m forever tied to these two little people who are growing and learning everyday. My only prayer at the moment is that I model what I want them to know – curiosity, kindness, honesty, vulnerability, self-reliance, and a joy that comes from knowing what matters most. A joy that is not reliant on circumstances.
That last part has been HARD lately as I deal with things that, quite frankly, leave me feeling sad and inferior and even broken at moments. But true joy and peace cannot depend on what changes in the peripheral of my life, what changes outside of myself. It is a lesson I have learned in these past few months in the hardest of ways, and a lesson I am learning still.
To new life and new joys and unforgettable moments that are waiting for me down the road. Celebrating spring this week and all it means, especially this year.
It has been a crazy couple of weeks over here. I am moving to my new place in 3 days, and I hope to write more on that process soon. There is SO MUCH that I’ve learned about the post-divorce real estate process that doesn’t seem to be written anywhere. Important things that can help women avoid headaches I’ve endured. I hope to write those down here soon – if nothing else so that I don’t forget them. When you’re in the fire and it’s all happening at once, it is intense. Then I think people look back and smooth out those rough edges, and we forget the details.
Truthfully, there are details I hope to forget.
This week, my ex informed me that he’s engaged (via text message, no less), and I didn’t expect it to be such a hard pill to swallow, but it is. My kids. I hate this all so much for them. I don’t know what to say or do when they ask questions. I, frankly, know very little of the situation or the person involved, except that the relationship began before my marriage was over and that it is moving at lightening speed with an engagement already and a shared home my kids will visit twice a month.
This process of relinquishing control of my kids in light of a troubling situation and immense heartbreak is unbelievably hard for me. I felt like the dust was beginning to settle a bit, but now there is new mess to clean yet again. I feel frayed. At loose ends. Open and raw. I hope to dig into some books this summer about kids and divorce and remarriage, but time is so precious right now as I pack a house, do the daily duties of mothering them, and then also manage to carve time for my paid job at what is undoubtedly the busiest time of the semester. I haven’t read much yet on how to ease this transition for them or get them to feel secure in the midst of marriage and cohabitation.
But the big hit came with an email I received on Friday night that I guess was supposed to be some sort of consolation or comfort. An email that explained that she hopes one day I find someone who “completes me.” I can’t fault someone who is ten years younger than me for saying something like that, I suppose (especially someone who has been engaged since she was 21 – minus a 3 months break before her engagement again last week). Age teaches us so many valuable lessons. What is it Maya Angelou says? “When you know better, you do better.” … But her “completeness” comment is still itching, still crawling under the surface of my skin, and I can’t get it out.
When I was married, I never viewed my husband as someone who “completed” me, and who knows… perhaps that is why we didn’t work and he found someone who fills that hole. But to need someone else to fill you up is such a dangerous place to be as a woman. For men and women both, really. But especially as a woman when we receive so many messages about what we should or shouldn’t be, that lone voice inside has to guide you and complete you. People are not half-broken pieces looking for a fix. People are not half-empty vessels who can only be filled through a particular man (and then another particular man, and then another one). Or perhaps some people are, but I refuse to be.
But even though I say this, the comment still stings so much. The announcement of their engagement still stings so much. And here is the ugly part, friends, as I pour the rawness out here like I always do. The ugly part is that I need to ask myself why it stings. Why her comments succeeded in hurting me. Why I began to heal, but now the wounds are raw again. I am the one who can control that hurt and reaction. The words aren’t rolling off. They are sticking and stinging. The message that I am less than she because she has someone whom she feels “completes her,” and I am alone and somehow broken and inferior as a result. That message succeeded in reaching me, and I’ve given it far too much space in my head these past couple days.
I’ve been reading here and there when I can – which honestly is pretty seldom these days. And I’ve flipped a bit through my old copy of Eat, Pray, Love remembering that I read this long before I divorced, but it begins with that rock bottom moment of Liz Gilbert leaving her marriage. Some passages are catching my eye that went by unnoticed before.
The only way to get through is through. Could I find someone to put a band-aid on the wound? Absolutely. It’s not hard. Brokenness typically tends to attract similar brokenness, and two wounded people come together like magnets. But where that would lead frightens me, and more than that, I have been through enough pain with this, and I don’t want it to be wasted. Pain is senseless suffering if you don’t grow from it. The only way through is to keep trudging, keep moving, not cling to someone else’s body or emotions or flattery as a means to escape my own pain. But I’m going to be honest that this is hard. It’s hard to swallow the feeling of being alone when you haven’t been in quite some time.
I’m learning there is a difference between loneliness and solitude. A major one. But sadly, this week I also learned that no matter how comfortable you are with your own solitude, it still stings when people ask you questions, when you see happy couples, when you receive a consolation message from someone who wants to wear her relationship like a badge.
Completing yourself is hard work. But it is THE work. It’s why we are here – to know myself, to feel whole, to fill myself up, to know my purpose and the role of the divine in that purpose. To stand on my own feet and hear my own voice as I guide two little people as best I can to hopefully one day teach them these same lessons. I hope to reach a point one day when that voice inside is loud enough to drown out the others, but I’m not there yet.
I celebrated a birthday this week, and as always with milestones and big occasions, it makes you realize where you are and how far you’ve come and reflect on the year behind as well as the one in front of you. Remember when I posted a list of 33 goals last year? That list got abandoned in the chaos of my past 5 months, but I had no idea when I wrote that post that life had bigger plans on what I needed to learn in my 33rd year.
Last year on my birthday, we ate dinner as a family on the back porch to inaugurate daylight savings time and spring and another year for me. I posted a photo of Norah and me on Instagram, and I captioned it with a quote by Jarod Kintz that I’d run across which says, “The year of your birth marks only your entry into the world. Other years where you prove your worth, they are the ones worth celebrating.” I intended that as a reflection on the previous year and the challenges that I faced in motherhood and work and the whole work-family balance I began that year. It’s so weird to look back on that now – knowing I had no idea the challenges that lied in front of me.
But this year, friends, I really proved my worth. I’ve got a mountain left to climb in the coming months, but I’m on the way. I celebrated this week in a big way. Lunch with a friend on my actual birthday (with cupcakes!) followed by an impulse buy to a concert on Friday night with some former coworkers who have become like family to me. (For Hozier, and people, if you have not heard that album go buy it NOW. I have been obsessed for months.) The setlist was just what I wanted it to be, the venue was great, and he closed with a couple of my favorites as the audience sang along. I love those connected moments you get with strangers at events like plays and concerts. It felt like church in the most real way.
Then Saturday afternoon my closest girlfriends of 16 years treated me to a facial and a private spa party at our favorite place to chat and treat ourselves. The older I get, the more grateful I am for my truest friends. I cannot begin to explain the struggles we’ve encountered in the time we’ve known each other – and I won’t because some of those struggles are closely held and deeply personal for us. But it has all shown me that life is so scary and unpredictable and that most importantly, the human spirit is stronger. The strength I gather from these women and their perspectives and stories is like no other. I’m so lucky to know them and to be loved by them. After that, we went out to dinner and met up with my other closest group (whom I saw Friday at the concert, so it was a double treat). I could not have made it through year 33 standing on my own two feet without this crew. And I mean that with absolute sincerity. There were days, weeks even, that I really just wanted to roll over and cry a river and did not understand what the next step would be to move forward. But these girls and their constant contact and honesty with me, their acceptance of me and their listening ears when I poured everything out in all its ugliness, they are the force that pushed me forward. It’s such an irony that the year I learned I was so dearly loved is the year that I lost the person who was supposed to love me, so to speak. He was expected to and bound to by vows and legal trappings and societal expectations, but these women emerged as my tribe this year. My people and my family. I cannot write enough words of gratitude to express what that has been for me, the way it has healed me. I am loved and valued, and I truly don’t know that I would feel that without so much support from so many people this year.
We followed up dinner with a spontaneous decision to walk around a bit and stop for cookies. Can’t help but laugh at the deja-vu of a mall cookie experience with a group of thirty-somethings. It was in an outdoor shopping area, and we saw groups of middle schoolers walking together. We struck up a conversation with a few of them and reminisced on what those early days of independence felt like for us, when parents would first allow you to go on an outing alone with friends and the thrill of possibility it brought to you. And now, at 34, my life is so different than it was at 14, of course. But I feel that sense of possibility emerging a bit despite the pain. My perspective is shifting in the slightest way, and I am realizing that a whole world lies ahead and I don’t know what it holds, and that is both terrifying and thrilling. But it is mine. All mine. With my decisions and my own ideas and my own future waiting. I don’t know where or to whom it will take me, but it is a blank canvas right now, and I think I’m ready to start painting it as I begin year 34.
Another birthday treat came last weekend with a handwritten card (oh, how I love real mail!) from a graduate school friend who knows my love for Mary Oliver and reminded me of the joy in the journey, so to speak. The joy of possibility and self sovereignty. There is another line from that poem that I adore which says, “there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world.” And I’m hearing that voice now. When I am still and quiet and allow myself to listen to it, I’m hearing my own voice.
It sounds like an old friend.
The kids and I enjoyed Disney World last week with my mom as my university was on midterm break. It was a trip planned and paid for ages ago before everything changed, and I feel grateful that we got to enjoy it together.
Disney is not a vacation for parents. (I’m not sure how many ways I should say that to make it clear, but really and truly, it is exhausting.) But there is something magical about seeing it all through your kids’ eyes and watching them get lost in all the fantasy. These two had such a great time.
It was a good lesson for me to live in the moment. I didn’t take as many photos as I “should” have – not one single picture of all four of us together, which I kind of regret. (Remember the days when we were little, and our parents would take a handful of pictures on vacation and that was it? Expectations are so different these days.) But at the same time, there’s something to be said for just throwing your things in the car and hitting the road to forget everything else for a while. It’s liberating in our current world of Pinterest and planning and iPhone sharing.
I booked a few character dinners for them ages ago, but that is all the planning I really did. Other than that, I just let them hold the reins on this one, and we followed along – which meant riding Buzz Lightyear too many times and walking most of Disney World with my almost-three-year-old strapped on my back in the Ergo, but it was worth it. It was a good reminder to live in the moment and enjoy what is right in front of you without thinking ahead to tomorrow or next week. They are growing into such incredible little people these days. It makes my heart beat a little bigger to see them interacting and growing and learning.
As we arrived home, we were in negotiations with some potential buyers on our home, and it looks like we are officially under contract now. It’s both exciting and terrifying. I have no idea where I am going with the kids, but I’m trusting something good will fall in my path. Send good thoughts our way as the kids and I begin the next chapter in this journey.
I’m finding so much comfort in the little things lately. My happiness jar is a fun way to reflect on what makes me feel joy. But another great distraction lies in my kids. The funny things they say and do, the way they interact with each other. Every little bit of it heals me lately.
Atlanta weather, as usual, is nuts. It’s icy this week with school closings, and a couple Saturdays ago, we were at the park with a sunny 68 degrees. I take what I can get these days though.
Jude’s class also celebrated 100 days of school earlier this month with “Dress Like You Are a Hundred Years Old” Day. He loved it. Such an old soul, this one.
And Norah is pretty much always my shadow lately. Never a private moment away from her, but I do love this stage. So much curiosity and observation. And a lot of joy.
I’ve always heard that the divine is felt most in everyday moments, and I’ve written before about how I’ve known that to be true. I’m finding healing begins with these everyday moments, too. Perfection is never found when I think too much or look around. There is so much chaos and disappointment happening in my life right now. But in these little moments here and there? A glimmer of peace and contentment.
I’m working very hard to trust the timing of my own life and know a bigger plan is in store with brighter things ahead. I don’t feel it all the time or everyday. But sometimes it’s the slightest little tug, like a knock at the door. A whole new world on the horizon when I get there.
I remember when I was pregnant and nearing the end of it, I’d always have a moment in the grocery store when I bought something with an expiration date after my due date. It was always a scary realization, knowing that the milk or yogurt could potentially last longer than the inside kicks I was feeling.
I keep doing that retroactively lately with so many things around my own home. The huge bag of bulk brown rice I bought at Costco? I had no idea when I bought it that I’d be divorced when we reached the bottom of the bag. I had no idea when we bought this dream home that life events would force me to sell it before we even put down real roots. I had no idea when we adopted our lab 8 years ago that he’d follow me to a new chapter alone with two children while my husband began his own new life with a woman ten years younger than I am.
But as another thing that outlasted my marriage, I also vastly underestimated the role of friendship in my life. Over the holidays, I had dinner with a friend who only knows me from my work life years ago, and I was in a bad place of fear and confusion and self-pity, and I remember saying that I felt like nobody even knew me outside of my husband. No one sees me as a separate being. But in reality, I’m learning that nothing is farther from that truth. Even when I didn’t see my own self in the mirror very much and I only saw a wife, others were seeing the real me tucked away inside.
Lately, not a single day goes by that I don’t receive a call or a text or an email from someone close to me. Someone who graciously continues to think of me and check in and give me words of encouragement. As word has leaked out on social media, something I feared for a long time, I have been so surprised at the people who have reached out with some really specific and genuine words in my time of shaky ground. Graduate school classmates I’ve hardly talked to much in the last 8 years, former teachers, former students, so many I forgot that I’d once been closely connected to.
I dreaded telling our neighbors for quite some time. I don’t even know why. It’s just such an awesome neighborhood as I’ve mentioned before, and I’m sad to leave it. But it’s also ALL married families with children here. And everything always looks so pristine on the outside when you are looking in. It’s intimidating to let someone know that yours doesn’t match. (I think we all know what I mean with that feeling.)
So finally last week, I had to tell them the day before the “for sale” sign emerged in our yard. I emailed the three I am closest to with very few details and a lot of tears, and what happened? They rallied and sent such words of encouragement and invited themselves to keep me company last Wednesday evening, sneaking over after kids were asleep with bottles of wine and gifts and food. My only contribution was s’mores dip and a lot of conversation.
There is a line in Almost Famous (anyone else love that movie?) where Phillip Seymour Hoffman says to the young protagonist that “The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool.” I’m learning that lesson in all of this. Every time I open up and share the real vulnerability, the real pain or sadness or confusion or whatever overflows, the result is real currency, so to speak, real friendship.
It’s such a lesson for me, and for all of us I think, to be genuine and real and stop the game of pretending we don’t have worries or sadness or doubt or fear. This problem is worsening with Facebook and Instagram and blogs and every other avenue for posting polished photos and catchy captions. Let’s be real, for once. Say what bothers you, say what you need from a friend, say what you need from your own self. Express your sadness and doubt and fear and disappointment. So much good happens when we finally just say it.
I’m so grateful for friends and real conversation and relationships that span time and distance and reach out to comfort us when we need it. Life is funny. I’ve connected with a lot of people, at times closely or intensely, and then you move forward and time separates you. You forget you had that connection once, and yet if we are willing to put ourselves out there, it can still shine through unexpectedly when you most need it. And at this time in my life, when I am feeling so doubtful and less steady than ever, it soothes and encourages me more than I can express to hear someone say that I have what it takes to move forward and begin this new chapter for myself and my kids alone.
So to any of you – if you are reading here though I know many of them don’t – but if you are reading this and you sent an email, a text message, a card in the mail. If you listened to me cry on the phone, if you sat across from me at lunch or dinner or over coffee and listened to my rambling as I worked through the hard weeks and hard moments. Thank you. Thank you for seeing me as I really am and looking beyond the mess to exchange real currency, so to speak. It’s been a life raft for me, and I’m still clinging.
And I’m promising to become a more fearless friend in the future as well. I think we sometimes fear being too connected with others, judged as too forward. We might hear that someone is in a rough patch, or likewise hear about something good in her life, and stop ourselves from reaching out to comfort or encourage or congratulate. But having been on this end of the equation, I see how much it means. Putting yourself out there with a quick note or comment or call – even if it’s been years since you’ve seen the person – it feeds the soul in a way nothing else does. I’m vowing to put some of my own encouragement outward again and really observe and listen, in the truest way I can.
I’ve missed this space so much in the weeks that have passed. I’ve wanted badly to come here and string words together in this familiar spot and gain encouragement from those of you who read. But because of the details that exploded in my life last fall, I’ve resorted to an old pen-and-paper journal until I felt ready to come here and strong enough to begin to tell my story. I feel like life during these past few years has been one reinvention after another. From grad student to young married. From high school teacher to motherhood that consumed me full-time. Then to college professor with one foot in the working world and two preschoolers to look after. And now to single motherhood. I read Anne Lamott’s Small Victories this past December, in efforts to make sense of anything that was happening and to link together my fumbling attempts at reframing my whole perception. As always with the written word, the perfect thought was trying to find me, and a beacon was shining already on page ten when Lamott explains the process of forced change that happens in our lives:
“Redefinition is a nightmare – we think we’ve arrived in our nice Pottery Barn boxes, and that this or that is true. Then something happens that totally sucks, and we are in a new box, and it is like changing into clothes that don’t fit, that we hate. Yet the essence remains. Essence that is malleable, fluid. Everything we lose is Buddhist truth – one more thing that you don’t have to grab with your death grip, and protect from death or decay. It’s gone. We can mourn it, but we don’t have to get down in the grave with it.“
I’m here to finally tell you, friends, that in the weeks of my absence from here, I was in the grave, so to speak. In the darkest reaches of a grief that gripped me so completely it sickened me from the inside outward. I wish I had words to explain what it feels like to have one perfectly sculpted idea of your future, and in a matter of days, that image disappears completely. But I know so many of you know exactly what I mean by that – whether it is a wandering husband, a scary diagnosis, a death of someone you can’t live without, a change in your life or career or family that is irreversible …. We all encounter it at some point. And after that initial heaviness of grief, I’ve seen women emerge stronger and better and wiser because of it. But how they get to that new place, I am not really sure yet.
I won’t be the same me I was before. It’s weird to look back and hardly recognize who you were in your last life. I’m embarrassed in ways – of how I loved without question, married at 24, so sure that I would never be in this position. Of how unbelievably hysterical I was for weeks when this erupted. Of how I made excuse after excuse of all the things I found last October and November and blamed myself for someone else’s actions. Of how I still wonder what I could have done differently or how I could have been better, and I know that list is long. Marriage is a partnership, a work in constant progress. And I think anyone in my position tends to look back and wonder when it all started to unravel, how I could have predicted the future and intervened sooner. Why I didn’t see it coming. Sadly, you reach a point when these questions don’t even matter anymore because what’s done is done. Irreversible. The only place left to go is forward.
I wanted so badly to believe the best, and I think I also feared what life is like on the other side. And I am still a little scared, to be honest. But I’m flailing – ungracefully but purposefully – to make it to the next shore. I lost my center and my backbone in the mess that was left when it all fell apart, but I’ve found it now.
A new adventure awaits, and I’m losing my death grip, as Lamott calls it. Piece by piece, I’m letting go of what has no place in my life anymore. It still hurts, and I know I’m gripping some of those pieces a little too tightly even now. But I’ve heard it said that “Ruin is the road to transformation.” I’m ready.