Perhaps 2018 was my last ‘normal’ Christmas. My daughter was 3 that year. We baked cookies. We sat out the empty bag for Santa. I rocked her to sleep. Santa brought her a dollhouse – custom painted to look like OUR house. Funny how talented that Santa bloke is. I made my from-scratch cinnamon rolls the next morning and ate them with my husband as we watched our daughter delight in the general merriment.
In contrast, 2019 was anything but normal. My husband had left me in July, so we split our daughter’s Christmas day in two King Solomon style. He handed me a bottle of red in a holiday bag when he picked her up at noon. I was bitter and hurt so I refused the gesture, closed the door behind them, and cried.
My luck (nor anyone’s) improved in 2020. My first ever Christmas Eve and morning in a new-to me home was spent alone. Without my daughter. Without anyone. There was a pandemic. Family remained unvaccinated. Madness, chaos, and despair seem to rule the day. I cried all of Christmas Eve and most of Christmas morning; but my girl came home at noon. She helped me find my smile because despite it all, she still was able to delight in the general merriment of it all.
On Christmas Eve in 2021, my neighbor got drunk and told me that my ex-husband had never loved me. Why else would he have left me? Stung is an understatement. Surely, that will never count as normal. But I tried. I baked cinnamon rolls but my daughter wouldn’t eat them. And then at noon the dreaded switch-over came. I had pre-planned though and promptly departed for the airport to escape the loneliness. I visited my best friend in Portland. She broke my heart two weeks later; and perhaps I broke hers. Nevertheless, I cried that year.
I didn’t bake my from-scratch rolls in 2022. In fact, I didn’t do much of anything in 2022 to be honest; unless you count surviving. I think surviving is supposed to count. It was a lonely Christmas Eve. A quiet Christmas morning. And though my heart lightened somewhat when my baby came home, I couldn’t shake the heaviness and a post-Christmas day trip to see my extended family somehow left me lonelier, and with more tears, than before. I refuse to believe that 2022 was my new normal.
But I could see this year being a real contender for my new normal. By most accounts, it was a wonderful (half) holiday. Despite my hectic work schedule, my now 8-year old daughter and I delighted in each other’s company for the first 10 days of the break. We laughed. We played. We talked. And then last night (Christmas Eve), we watched The Muppet’s Christmas Carol and made cookies that didn’t look like cookies and made last minute preparations for Santa. Then this morning, I watched her pull Santa’s gifts from the same bag that once… a long time ago, held that beloved, custom dollhouse.
Like a portal to another world, today it produced a custom crocheted doll of Ramona Flowers. A last minute Wish List addition, but Santa magically manages to pull through even on those tough requests, doesn’t he? We played some Mario Bros. and nearly an entire game of Doctor Who Monopoly (She lasted longer than I predicted, and had more cash on hand when she threw in the towel). She even ate my from-scratch cinnamon rolls with me and told me that they were the best cinnamon rolls she had ever tasted. My heart was full.
Then noon came and so did he. I handed him a gift (for their family of three from… me), along with cookies and a few of those from-scratch cinnamon rolls that he used to love. A gesture, of course, but one sincerely sent. Along with my child. He got her as well I suppose; undoubtedly more appreciated than the gift — as it should be. But not before I hugged her a million times; trying to savor her presence just a moment longer before relinquishing it. And like that, it was his turn to make the most of a half holiday. So she waved goodbye and I managed to hold my tears at bay until they rounded the corner.
It was a good Christmas. It was. It really, really was. My best since 2018 without doubt. But, does everyone’s Christmas normally involve tears these days, or is that just a hallmark of a single mom’s Christmas day?
I’m a full-time mom of an 8 year-old, but also a part-time empty nester; It is never harder to forget that fact than during the holidays. The house goes all quiet, but my soul still aches loudly.
I’ve spent the last few hours daydreaming about my daughter one day being all grown up. A home and family of her own. Perhaps she’ll invite me to delight in her family’s presence from sun up to sun down on Christmas Day. I wonder when that magical day that might be? My first FULL Christmas Day with my daughter since 2018 can’t come soon enough! But I have to believe that it will. And maybe that, one day, IT will be my new normal. If so, I can’t promise will be no tears, but I can assure you they would be tears of joy! ✨
But perhaps Judy Garland said it best:
“Someday soon we all will be together, if the fates allow. Until then we’ll have to muddle through somehow. So have yourself a merry little Christmas now.”
Today is my thirty-seventh birthday and before I dive into my annual 40 by 40 update, I have a story I’d like to share:
Thirty-one years ago, as I celebrated my 6th birthday, my mother was celebrating a milestone of her own. She had reached her long awaited due date with my little brother. Having endured 42 weeks of pregnancy myself, I can now relate to how ‘over it‘ she must have felt on that day. Swollen feet and hands. Sleeplessness and constant discomfort. And yet, there she was – wrangling a gaggle of rowdy children that she had invited into her home just to celebrate…me. Bless her.
But as so often is the case, children are oblivious to the needs of others and I was no exception. According to her, sometime during the party festivities, I stopped and placed my tiny six year old hands on her full-term pregnant belly and gave my new sibling a stark warning: “Stay in there! I am not going to share my birthday with you!”
In the end, Matthew stayed put for an another week; so either he heeded my counsel or the Fates decided to give me a bit more time to acclimate to sharing. I say a ‘bit more‘ because little did I know that one day, the Fates would actively weave strands of change in, around, and through my favorite day.
Thirteen years ago, my older sister met her now-husband and, as luck would have it, he shares my birthday. Overnight, within my extended family my day of recognition and celebration became ours; As I was then 24 and not six, I like to think that I adjusted slightly better to the shared spotlight; but in truth, I still recall feeling an intangible loss that I struggled to explain, understand, or even share with those I trusted most.
Roughly four years after that adjustment, I became pregnant with my daughter and eagerly began preparing for her arrival with my, now, ex-husband. When my doctor initially determined that my due date would be in September (albeit the 30th), a part of me was gleeful. It tickled me, of course, that my daughter would be a Libra like her mother; but a sliver of self continued to feel like maybe October would remain ‘mine’ insofar as it related to the family and life I was building with my Partner. Maybe I wouldn’t have to share.
The Fates, of course, those clever, tricky Moirai, didn’t waste a chance to remind me that anything I seek to claim as ‘mine’ is truly an indistinguishable fiber in the brilliant tapestry that connects us all.
My sweet September baby ultimately took her time and reluctantly arrived Earthside on October 14th following a 47-hour labor and delivery. I was discharged from the hospital on my 29th birthday with a stitched abdomen, an impacted bowel, and an infant. Happy Birthday, right?
Though I was too exhausted to see it at the time, my daughter’s arrival — so close and yet so distantly removed from my own — would forever change my thoughts on October and birthday celebrations altogether. Her traumatic birth had flipped a switch within me; Something that once felt special because it was ‘mine‘, grew in its noteworthiness because it was now, and would forever be, intertwined with her.
*****
My dear daughter turned eight this past weekend; And, as I have done in each of the seven preceding Octobers, I planned a celebration worthy of her. It, of course, included a party, plenty of presents and surprises, and a sugar intake that definitely exceeded the daily recommendation. Most importantly though, her birthday (for me at least) has become symbolic of something I hope to never take for granted: An opportunity to ensure that she knows her presence on this planet — for this lifetime — is truly remarkable and worthy of celebration. And this year — after over a decade of insisting that I no longer needed to celebrate my calendar square, I’ve finally come to my senses.
For the first time — in a looooonnnggg time — I will fully reclaim my favorite day by celebrating myself with those I love, who love me in return. Tonight there will be a small dinner + an Escape Room adventure. And on Friday, I’m opting for full cringe by throwing myself an Eras inspired 37th birthday party. My birthday present to myself this year will be the same one I give willingly and joyfully to my daughter each year: An opportunity to remember that, I too, am lovedand worthy.
I think time + age have a way of making us feel like adult birthday celebrations are arbitrary and frivolous. After all, grownups should be practical. Our minds should be focused on bill paying, grocery shopping, endless laundry, and Outlook Inbox monitoring. Indulging in too much whimsy — especially when it involves spotlighting oneself — is generally frowned upon and perhaps even considered narcissistic. But my daughter taught me that each of us come into this world carrying a light that is unique and purposeful and that together, they spotlight the tapestry we all continually weave; The anniversary of our birth is a beacon, perhaps needed now more than ever, that calls us back to, and rekindles, ourflame so that the world can be a little less dim.
The world’s population is currently estimated at over seven and a half billion; On average each of us share our special day with over 20 million people. My six year old self would have been horrified to know that, but my 37-year old self finds abiding comfort in it. How wonderful it is to never be alone in our celebration!
I know without doubt that my world — hell, THE world — would most assuredly be less bright without my daughter. And today, I will embrace my own inner child and concede that — even when I can’t or won’t see it — this world would also be less bright without me. And without you. Without each of us.
So thirty-one years later, I’m all out of stark warnings and instead will issue an open invitation: “It’s okay to come out now. I know how lucky I am to share my birthday with you all!”
Here are the items I am crossing off the 40 by 40 list this year:
Level 1:
Read 3 “classics” I haven’t read before: This item has sat, unfinished, on the list since my Year 31 update. Back then I managed to easily power through Jane Eyre + Catcher in the Rye. I ran into issues though in both picking a final classic to read and in, well… reading my pick. I initially tried both For Whom the Bell Tolls and Lord of the Flies. Nothing against either Hemingway or Golding, but I eventually set both aside in favor of more modern reads, which… left this item undone. This year, however, I read The Bluest Eye – Toni Morrison’s first novel initially published in 1970. While some may debate whether it is ‘old enough‘ to be considered a classic, I would argue that its current ‘banned’ status only solidifies its place in the body of critically necessary literature; I know I am better for having read it.
Watch the sunrise and sunset in the same day: Without realizing it, I’ve completed this item more than once in my 30’s. Most recently, last November when I arose in Barcelona, Spain for an early-morning flight and noted the sunrise while in route to the airport, and then later watched the sun descend as I embarked on the final leg of my return journey. The year before that, it was an unforgettable sunset on my last evening in Venice followed by another early airport morning run. It seems like I am only awake early enough to catch a sunrise when I am also catching a flight 😉 I’ll get yet another go at it next month, when I travel back to Italy —this time, with my mother. This go round, I hope to be more intentional in my appreciation of the sunrise part; I will endeavor to wipe the sleep from my eyes long enough to admire its glory with the same awe that makes a sunset so moving.
Level 2:
Purchase Create and display original artwork from a local artist: I noted in my Year 34 Update that I had picked a local artist (and friend) to work on a custom piece for my home. Well, life happens and she ultimately wasn’t able to work on piece as planned. I still love the specific idea that I discussed with her and I hope to one day have it commissioned. Until then, however, I’ve learned to embrace my own creativity and the walls of my home now contain a variety of original artwork created by yours truly + #LittleLadyHolland. It’s been an adventure getting to know my artistic side again and I hope it is one that continues well into the next decade.
Level 3:
Leave a 100% tip for great service: Throughout my 30’s I have made it a habit to give 100% tips on Uber/Lyft services when I felt called to by either 1) great service, or 2) meaningful connection with the driver. There was a time though, when I didn’t want to ‘count’ these tips insofar as each relates to this list, because I felt like my ‘Official 100% Tip’ needed to be for some impressive or elaborate occasion with a BIG check. In other words, if the 100% tip didn’t amount to BIG dollars, I did not consider it ‘worthy‘ of notation here. But if anything, my 30’s have taught me to have an open mind and to always take credit for my actions. I still hope that one day I can afford to tip 100% on a BIG check, but for now I know that my current practice of 100% tipping on smaller ride fares still creates BIG ripples of kindness and generosity and I am happy to mark this item off my list.
Meet 5 “Internet Friends” in real life: At this stage of my life, it is honestly hard for me to keep track of the difference between ‘Internet Friends‘ and ‘IRL Friends‘. That distinction seems soooooo 10-years ago 😉So many of my IRL friends have morphed into Internet ones due to lockdowns, physical moves, and other major life events. But I have little doubt that between meeting + maintaining friendships with many of my fellow ‘semi-retired bloggers’ and fellow GOMI-Fall 2015 moms in my early 30’s, plus more than one run-in with Julianne Moore (1 + 2), multiple international travel acquaintances that I keep in touch with, at least two relocated besties (I miss you Niki + Kevin!), and a handful of Bumble matches turned BFFs certainly ticks off the spirit of this item, and likely the letter of it as well. I’m good with calling this one done.
Level 4:
Visit three countries in Europe: France (2018), Italy (2022), + Spain (2022) = CHECK, CHECK, CHECK!
*****
Other List Updates:
Pay off all student debt(Level 4): This would have happened this year but for an illegitimate SCOTUS striking down President Biden’s student loan forgiveness program. It will never be lost on me that millions of Americans, including myself, are expected to struggle with debt while dozens of elected officials — and others who celebrated the ruling against student loan forgiveness — lined their pockets with forgiven PPP loans, but I digress… I hope to still reach this milestone before 40.
Become proficient (er, conversational) in another language(Level 4): I like to think that I am slowly but surely inching towards this one. Does ordering coffee in Italian while in Rome count? If so, I’m in like Flynn😉
Do an unassisted pull-up(Level 4): I have made progress towards this goal several time throughout my 30’s thus far, only to have each push derailed by a physical injury. This fall it was intercostal costochondritis. 0/10 I do not recommend. Perhaps the Fates don’t intend for me to accomplish this one, but once my doctor has given me the all clear, I’ll still certain to give it another go. Let’s just see how it plays out.
We’ve been doing this whole 50/50 thing for over a full year now and in many ways the 2-2-5 has become the ‘new normal’ for us both. That said, I don’t think it will EVER get ANY easier to say Goodbye (for now) to #LittleLadyHolland when she leaves for the long-leg stretch of her time with her Dad & Stepmom.
I have many married friends who have expressed to me that they would kill for some quiet, alone time in their own homes without any children to care for or partners to consider. And while I certainly understand that sentiment, 5 full days of solitude every other week usually feels like an overdose of alone-time for me. I think perhaps, it is one of those ‘grass is greener on the other side’ type of things, because despite being single-by-choice AND knowing Hols needs time with her other parents (+ genuinely wanting them to enjoy her presence as well), I am often envious of my friends’ partnerships and continuous access to their children.
But we all know that the grass is TRULY greener only where it is waterer, so I’ve been trying harder in 2023 to really dig deep and honor these sans-Holland stretches with things, people, and experiences that bring me joy and fulfillment. I know I am a better mom to Holland when I am first and foremost caring, compassionate, and kind to myself.
This morning we hugged goodbye outside the school and she ran back for one last round of kisses before disappearing into the building for another day of 2nd Grade. We both know that our Invisible String keeps us connected, even when we are miles apart.
I will honor this phase of my #singlemomlife journey by making the absolute most of these next 5 days. But there is little doubt that I will also scroll through photos like this one on my phone and daydream about all the adventures that await us both when my Very Best Girl returns home. ❤️
In the year of our Lord 2023, I find myself happily languishing through a relatively still, easygoing era of my life. If you would have told me three years ago that I would spend 95% of my waking hours within the same four-walls, with largely just myself and my pets for company, I certainly wouldn’t wager that I was happy. But here I sit and quite frankly, it’s lovely.
The daily theatre of my life is largely a one-woman show. I wake. I work. I relax. I sleep. And then I do it all over again.
Of course, I also parent when my daughter is home, but between school, shared custody, and soccer practices, that time feels distinct, precious, and rarer than I prefer. I simultaneously exist in two parallel universes: In one, I am with my daughter; In the other, I must find a reason to still exist without her. This post is about my time in the latter universe.
My waking hours are typically quiet and low-key. I watch a lot of television. I binge a lot of social media. I read a respectable number of books. I research a bunch of interesting things just for the hell of it. I start, and occasionally manage to finish, fun, ADHD-inspired projects. I accompany my 12-year old dachshund on delightful morning walks and I take wonderfully refreshing afternoon naps basically whenever I want them.
Despite the regularity of my solitude, I assure you that I haven’t been completed isolated while in this Languishing Space. Notwithstanding the occasional calendaring conflict, I not only see my closest friends quite frequently but I also choose to regularly leave the comfortable confines of my home. These practices have helped me savor this time while also helping me avoid a slip into full Hermit mode. All in all, it has been a really, lovely time. Quite lovely. So lovely in fact that ─ despite instinctually knowing that it is time for something else ─ I hesitate to leave this behind.
Sure, it can get a little quiet here, but at least I am at peace. I haven’t always felt peace you know.
Sure, it can get rather lonely here but at least I am safe. I haven’t always felt safe you know.
Sure, really amazing things might await me out there, but I really appreciate everything I’ve got here. I haven’t always appreciated what I have you know.
But its clear now that I have tried to make a permanent home out of this temporary situation and like a Bear awakening in the Spring, I realize my Languishing Cave cannot sustain me much longer. If I stay, I will eventually starve. My carefully constructed refuge now only offers the illusion of safety. Lingering here too long will bring about my own ruin. And I know it. And yet…
Each step away from this place of shelter and respite, brings closer the avoided feelings: Discomfort, Fear, Anxiety, Anger, Sadness.
I want to write again, but what if its bad? Worse yet, what if its good? If its good and no one ends up reading it, will I be a failure? Again? If its good and people do read it, will they like it? Will they like me? Worse yet, what if they don’t? Will I be sad again? God, I don’t ever want to be that sad again.
But the Bear cannot reacquaint herself with the cool, refreshing pleasures offered by nearby glistening waters until she sets her sight on the hills it nestles in between and she walks away from Winter’s den. So then I too should set out on this journey and hope the road I travel leads to new possibilities and maybe even second chances to delight in pleasures I’ve now forgotten.
In this new era of my life, the daily theatre will still feature work, play, restoration, and slumber but there will be a new castmate: Discomfort. For me. And for others too.
I don’t like that and frankly, it is a big part of why I think I have chosen to languish in the comfort of the here. The comfort of the now. The comfort of the quiet. I really don’t want to disappoint anyone. I really don’t want to hurt anyone. I really don’t want to offend anyone. I really don’t want to embarrass anyone. But I do really need to write words again. And I really do need to tell stories again. And I really do need to be able to express myself again. And I need to be able to do it without putting absolutely everyone’s comfort, peace, and well-being ahead of my own.
I can no longer drown in the lives of others while waiting for lifelines they may never cast.
And who knows, maybe this time I will be seen. Maybe this time, I will be appreciated. Maybe this time, I will be loved in the way that I love. That would be something, wouldn’t it? There are no promises, but there is certainly a chance. But there’s no chance without deliberate choice. So you see, I cannot languish here much longer. I cannot. I wish I could. I really, really wish I could. I’ve lived out a million invisible lifetimes trying to find a scenario in which I could linger in this languishing forever… And I cannot.
Once upon a time, I was the type of person who would enjoy poking a sleeping bear just to delight in the surprise of it all. Maybe I should be that type of person again.
I would like to know what happens when the Bear awakens. Really awakens. What then? Once she has rubbed the sleep from her eyes and shaken the last traces of Winter from her fur, what possibilities await her then? What wilds will she see? What adventures will she encounter?
I don’t have answers yet, but on the breeze there are subtle notes of Spring’s renascent splendor and for the first time in a long time ─ in the year of our Lord 2023 ─ I don’t think I want to Languish here anymore.
I put off starting this post quite a bit this year and had trouble putting my finger on why that was. I did want to write the post. I truly love this annual tradition of mine and this year has been eye-opening for me. I wanted to share more about it, but something seemed… off. I couldn’t place it.
So I decided instead to “prepare” for writing this post. I determined the best preparation would be reading and re-reading my original 40 by 40 list, taking honest stock of what I did do, what I didn’t, and what I wish I had already done. But every time I revisited the list, I found myself struggling with that “off” feeling again and it sent me into a frustration spiral.
One night last week, with my birthday looming, I laid in bed willing myself to focus on reading the last “Classic” necessary to technically cross another item off my list and it suddenly hit me: I no longer fully align with the woman who made the list.
The original list was published shortly after my 30th birthday in 2016. That was the year I watched my daughter turn one and the year I first suspected (though couldn’t admit to even myself) that my marriage might not last. My job change that year that would ultimately put me on a professional path I had never before considered and along with the rest of the world, I watched the 2016 election unfold. I cried as one of my heroes gave her concession speech, and then held my breath to see what would happen next.
A lot happened next.
2016 and the version of who I was at 30 years old seems far, far away. We can all argue all day about how the world has changed in that handful of years, but I am certain of one thing: I am NOT the same woman who wrote that list.
The world isn’t a static place full of static people with unchanging desires and dreams. I could spend the next five years of my life identifying all the ways I’ve changed in the past five years of my life only to find that the passed time had once again shifted my alignment.
What I am trying to say is this: If I made a 40 by 40 list today, some of those same things may possibly make the cut, but not all of them would.
With that realization, it started to seem rather silly that I felt obligated to check boxes off a list that another woman had written. Why would my annual reflection or self-critique be beholden to desires that I no longer have? Even more, how could I properly reflect on my own growth and awareness without holding myself accountable for working towards new dreams I discover along the way?
So what does all this mean? Well, I’m not cutting any items from the list but I no longer feel compelled to complete them all either. Now I see each item as a time capsule reminding me of a moment when something in particular held my interest or attention. And I want to add new things to my list as I go because there is so much more I want to do on this side of 40 that 2016-me never even considered.
So here’s my updates and additions. And I can honestly say that over the next five years, absolutely everything is subject to change:
Purchase and Display Original Artwork from a Local Artist (Level 2)
I did pick a local artist and friend (Looking at you Meg!) who I adore and discussed the piece I wanted with her earlier this year. But you know, life happens and it isn’t yet hanging in my house. That’s okay. The thought of it being there one day already makes me happy and I plan on sharing the shit out of it when it does finally grace my walls!
Meet 5 “Internet Friends” in real life (Level 3)
As an elder millennial, I remember a time where people thought it was weird to call people from the internet you’ve never met in person your friends. But between the lockdown and the pandemic, that ship has sailed and I will happily admit that I love so many people that I’ve never had the pleasure of embarrassing in public. Next week that will change though when the beautiful Natalie Kristeen comes to the Natural State! I absolutely cannot wait!
Invest in Luxury Bedding (Level 3)
Over the last 5 years I have bought multiple sets of expensive sheets and duvets all boasting high ratings and long lists of happy customers. And yet, I still find myself regularly sleeping on Target brand sheets and curling up for the night with a fuzzy blanket from my sofa. So, this is officially a cry for help: Help me find luxury bedding that I don’t hate y’all. I sleep hot so I prefer cool sheets. I am needy so I prefer something weighted. And I have a toenail that can get a little snaggly at times so durability is a must. Oh, and I like my fitted sheet to be TIGHT. Super tight. No oversized saggy mess over here. So feel free to hit me up with any (and all) suggestions at this point. I’m beyond tired of spending money only to end up disappointed and back at Target.
Go Scuba Diving (Level 4)/Take a girls only vacation (Level 3)
Check, check, and CHECK! This summer I had the pleasure of taking my very first dive trip in Bonaire with some amazing women and friends. Was it perfect? Nope. But life seldom is. There were hiccups along the way (including at at least three missed flights) but at the end of the day, I got to experience something I’ve always wanted to experience and it was pretty damn cool. So I’m pretty damn happy about it.
List Additions (For Now):
Get Published- My original list included writing something small for myself that I was proud of and that was nice. But I’ve done that time and time again and I want to challenge myself to more so I am officially expanding the original item: I’d like to be published. I’m working on a variety of things and one day, I want others to read them because quite frankly, I think the things I have to say are worthy of hearing. A younger version of myself never would have said that and I think that kind of growth is pretty fucking cool.
Climb a Tree – I get how crazy this makes me sound but I don’t care. As a kid, I loved to climb trees. Hell, I literally used to climb a tree in my backyard and write poetry in a notebook made of homemade paper. Somewhere along the road to adulthood, I stopped climbing trees and I’m not even sure why. So the next time I see a tree that is begging to be climbed, I want to go for it without hesitation. Life is too short to not climb the tree.
Low Priorities (For Now):
Keep a garden alive for one full season (Level One) – I have no desire to be Annie Oakley; I am a city girl who enjoys the farmer’s market and my lawn guy in equal measure. I don’t see myself learning the intracentries of fertilizer anytime soon but I suppose I can never say never.
Renew wedding vows (Level 2) – I hate to be the one to break the news, but I’m divorced. And my ex-husband is remarried. So, the odds of renewing the wedding vows we exchanged when I was 26 is approximately… Zero. In truth, I’m not sure I am the marrying-type anymore. I suppose only time will tell. Either way, I’m not losing sleep over not being able to cross this one off the list.
Curate and maintain a stylish and versatile wardrobe that compliments my body type (Level 3) – Pssst! Guess what? What compliments my body changes over time because my body changes over time! Bless the innocent heart I had at 30 thinking that once I was done having kids I would fall into a steady routine and maintain the same figure the rest of my life. But I do enjoy reducing my carbon footprint through thrifting and experiencing with styles I once considered too out of the box for me. So all in all, I like where I’m at with this one for now.
____________________________
So that’s the end of 34. As I enter into my 35th year, a recent TikTok keeps popping up in my mind. It declared that your 20’s aren’t your prime, but are instead the primer. I like that but I want to add to it. If your 20’s are the primer, your 30’s are for experimenting with color. Enjoy in some haphazardness and don’t worry too much about drop cloths or taping off the corners. It’s just paint babe. You are always capable of adding another layer.
A little over two years ago, I shared a post about how lonely and hard parenting was without a village. I lamented that I was often exhausted and cranky; and that I longed for the little island I lived on to somehow find connection with another shoreline. When I think back to that time now, I can still remember the pangs of loneliness and the ever-present struggle to keep everyone’s head above water. Everyone’s that is, except mine.
I wanted nothing more than to make tomorrow a better day — an easier day — for the people I loved. This desire was all consuming; a mental quagmire that I navigated daily but never seemed to make much headway with despite my efforts.
So much has changed in my life since that post. For starters, I got divorced. Then I sold the only home my sweet daughter had ever really known and embarked on new adventures in a new (to us) home that I purchased alone. And of course, COVID. No one has escaped its impacts but my little family has certainly been more fortunate than others.
With all of these changes, it would be reasonable for me to feel even more isolated these days. It would make sense if I found solo-parenting to be overwhelming. I don’t think a single person would a hold it against me if I wanted to moan about how lonely it is to be a party of one in the middle of a global pandemic. There would be no shame in admitting any of these.
But two years after writing that post, I can say with complete honesty that I feel more supported and loved than ever before. I think, in large part, this is because I have discovered my village.
My village stretches far and wide. It includes people I technically have never met (or perhaps do not see often) but who have nonetheless become pillars of support. We talk about parenting and divorce. We trade coffee recommendations and terrible first date stories. We send care packages, cards and theories about the newest Taylor Swift album. They infuse my life with levity.
My village has family in abundance. Family that helps me do amazing things for my daughter that I’d never be able to pull off all alone. Family that laughs with us on video chats when COVID prevents us from sharing embraces. Family that asks about my day and then really listens to the answer. Together, this extended family I have been blessed with, by both birth and choice, gives me an unwavering sense of belonging and stability that I’ve craved for a long time.
My village overflows with more friendships than I dare count:
Friends I’ve made through my work with Moms Demand Action who have enveloped me with love and care all while keeping my head level and uplifting my spirit in difficult times by consistently challenging me to see the good we can do in this world. College friendships (some recently rekindled) that fill my empty tank and replenish my mind, body, and soul by reminding me of who I was when I was younger — a woman who I admit, I lost sight of for far too long. And friends I’ve made from other walks of life — law school, work, random encounters — who go out of their way to remind me of my worth. But even more, they consistently demand that I give myself the same grace and space that I so freely provide to others. I sometimes try to reflect on how desperate I was two years ago for a single, deep connection with another human being; now these relationships are so abundant that it is difficult to remember precisely how it feels to not be truly loved and supported by the people in my life.
I’ve been quiet on the blog for the last several months, in part, because I’ve been trying to piece together exactly how this amazing village has come into my life. I have reached three conclusions: 1) I broke free of abusive cycles and persons; 2) I prioritized myself for the first time in a long time; and 3) I learned how to ask for (and accept) help.
I could write ad nauseam on the first two of those conclusions. They have certainly transformed my life and are worthy of further discussion. Perhaps one day I will share more on those but for now, I want to focus on the last one.
I’ve never been good about asking for help. As far back as I can remember, my pride has been rooted in the knowledge that I am a strong, independent woman; I concluded (quite falsely) that seeking help from others would undercut this attribute. I mistakenly saw unsolicited offers of help as acts of pity and therefore believed acceptance of such offers would be acknowledgment of weakness. I held tight to the false notion that carrying all of it, all by myself, was somehow the key to freedom.
But instead of setting me free, these beliefs left me shackled.
Last summer, with my marriage falling apart and my island smaller than ever before, I found myself in a very undesirable position — in desperate need of help. The universe left me with no choice to send up flares and request assistance. I can still remember how my stomach knotted as I admitted the truth to others and the shame I experienced as I confessed that I could no longer do it all by myself. But oddly enough, what I remember even more clearly is just how quickly my tears cleared and my fears lifted as the people in my life — sometimes people I had purposely kept at a distance for years — rushed to give me anything they could. In the process of losing life as I knew it, I found something I had not had in a very long time: Unconditional Love.
Sure, it’s cheesy enough to hear on a poorly written Lifetime movie (which I hope my blog doesn’t remind you of), but I have been liberated from my prideful shackles by pure love. I know now that help is love and love is help.
I cannot begin to count the ways my newfound village has poured their love out to me and to my daughter, in the past fourteen months. Help with mundane tasks, house projects, and childcare. Help that propelled me forward when I was stuck. Help that held me steady when the road became expectantly rocky. Help that was freely offered to me and yes…help that, with time and practice, I’ve learned to ask for.
I did not come to any of these realizations overnight. I will admit there are still moments I feel a wave of guilt when my load is lightened because someone else willingly picks up a burden. In those moments however, I’m finding I can acknowledge my misguided instinct, identify it as not only unnecessary but also harmful, and then release it entirely; focusing instead on the love poured into me and the love I pour out to others who are likewise happy to accept. Because that’s what a village does. And I no longer live on an island. I live in a village .
And just in case you are wondering, I am still a strong, independent woman — even if my neighbor occasionally brings in my trashcan.
This is the fifth (and final) in a series of posts (parts one, two, three & four here) recounting the men that I’ve romantically loved in my life, the differences between them, and what lessons each experience has left with me. In every relationship there are two experiences and each of my posts only intended to capture my personal experience both in and out of each relationship. Please read knowing that each of these men likely also has a story that could very well differ from my own, either in whole or in part, and that their stories are either not known or not expressed on this personal blog.
Back in early April, I sat down at my computer and decided I wanted to do this series. My life looks so sweepingly different than it did a mere twelve months ago, and it was difficult for me to fully process all the changes that had so rapidly occurred. After talking with my therapist about this difficulty, I decided I wanted to further explore myself, my feelings, my experiences, and my healing processes as each related to significant relationships in my life. As I’ve mentioned before, writing has always been a form of therapy for me – almost impulsive. At times, it is like I am uncertain of how I even feel until my fingers begin dancing along the keyboard and it suddenly becomes clear; I feel this deep desire to create, craft, and cultivate my reality into words.
I wrote initial drafts of all four posts the same day. Then, in the week prior to its publication, I would revisit each post individually so I could revise it appropriately. I spent that week mediating on that particular relationship as well as that general time in my life. I ultimately found that each of the posts softened (sometimes significantly so) under this week of review. I was able to perceive each relationship differently and with more compassion and sympathy for my previous partner after a full week of deep reflection. I also caught a lot of typos. I’m bad about typos. Just ask my boss.
When I sat down on that first day to write, I did initially entertain the idea of including a theoretical “five” post but couldn’t see how it would look or what it would bring to the series. I didn’t even know at first if I wanted the series to end in a positive note or a bitter one. But over the last month and a half of processing and reflection, a “five” post slowly came into focus and I realized that I wanted to write and share it as well. Spoilers – it’s positive.
It shouldn’t be all that surprising that the level of reflection required to write and publish this series has given me deep insight about myself. Some may think that this series has been about the men. They would be wrong. It hasn’t. Each of them has only been a conduit I’ve used to more fully understand myself. You see, each reflection in this series – from the beginning – has always truly been about me:
Reflection on One helped me see that sometimes heartbreak – as painful as it can be – is oftentimes for the greater good. It taught me that I wasn’t always a head-strong, independent woman who wanted to forge my own path in life. I reminded me that I was once someone so insecure or oblivious to myself and my own needs, that I would have given anything to keep a relationship with someone I loved afloat. I know now that I’ve grown since those days. I know who I am, what I want, and I have the capacity and confidence to verbalize both to any future partners.
Reflection on Two helped remind me that most of time relationships fail because both people are not on the same page. It showed me that I had been cruel in not owning my feelings and being honest with my partner. I now know how to walk away from someone I care about in a respectful and honorable fashion when it doesn’t feel right. I can clearly see that sometimes, in our efforts to not hurt someone, we hurt them even more. I’ve made these mistakes. I admit them. And now, I can move forward with a clear conscience and better judgment.
Reflection on Three reminded me just how hard I am willing to fight to save the things (and people) that matter most to me. But also, how that’s not always a good thing. I realize now that some of the parts of myself I was willing to sacrifice to uphold a vow of til death do us part are offerings that should never be placed upon the alter of any healthy relationship. It impressed upon me that I oftentimes lack the ability to set expectations in my intimate relationships. That’s something that I want to continue to work on so that it doesn’t plague me in future relationships. I can see now that I sometimes cut away pieces of myself in an effort to protect or help my partner – but doing so doesn’t really help them or me; it is a false sense of security at best.
Reflection on Four reminded me that dealbreakers are dealbreakers for a reason and that I shouldn’t excuse things away (in myself or others) in the name of love. It also taught me that I shouldn’t let my heart get so far out in front of my head. Hearts, despite our best intentions, are fragile things – so willing to trust what makes them flutter. But our minds are different. They wake us up in the middle of the night full of doubts that we oftentimes dismiss by the morning sunrise. I now know that things are not always what they seem to be for a variety of reasons. I’ve learned that in the most intimate of relationships, intentions can be wildly misconstrued by everyone involved if there isn’t frank discourse. I’ve also discovered that I am not only capable of such discourse, but I now crave it in a way that I had not experienced until now.
You see, these things aren’t about men – they are about what I once lacked or misunderstood. These are things I want to do or continue to work on – not for One, Two, Three, Four or even a future “five”. No. I want to do them simply for myself. The whole experience of writing and editing this series impressed upon me that the only relationship I can truly guarantee I will have for my life, is the one with myself. Significant others (as well the people in other types of relationships) are always free to come and go as they please. Even bigger than that, no day is guaranteed to any of us and at any moment those most dear to us could be taken in the most tragic and senseless of ways. No amount of good intentions, promises, precautions, or even vows alters that hard truth. And since you have no control over the needs, desires, disasters or experiences of any other person, I’ve discovered that it is best (I’d even go as far as to say, necessary) for an individual to only prep himself or herself for a lifetime of commitment to themselves. No other person.
And as worthy as I think it has been to reflect on the past, I think it is equally worthy to contemplate the future. Specifically, how after decades of self-doubt, I can now see what I will bring to the table with any future “five”.
As women in our culture, I think many of us have reservations (in some form or fashion) of having the confidence in ourselves to state boldly what we bring to a relationship. Men, I’ve found, are quite eager to tell us about all their good qualities. Of course, most of them haven’t been conditioned by society to constantly doubt themselves and their abilities. None of them have been told that being bold and confident equates to being a bitch. Most men have never been asked to hold their tongue or to think carefully about how they describe themselves to others. I have always found this intriguing in men, yet I’ve never once felt the desire to think about myself in such terms. Until now. Now, I can see my worth and I can see yours. As women, we bring a lot to the table. We don’t often talk about it. We usually downplay it. But I don’t think we should anymore. Let’s be honest about ourselves. I’ll start:
I love hard and I am faithful. When I make a commitment, I honor it and expect the same in return. No matter what. I love the people in my life and often worry on their behalf. If I care for someone, I cannot simply turn off that facet of myself. I do everything in my power to make their lives easier, happier, and more fulfilling. If I know someone is struggling in some capacity, I have a drive to fix it for them. I expect “I’m home” texts from the people I love and if you give me any cause to be concerned about you – any at all – I will be. The very core of my nature is to love hard; to be true and faithful. I will never be made to feel ashamed of these qualities.
I am financially independent. I don’t need anyone to pay my bills. Not a one. I’m good sir. Anything you bring to the table in that respect is just icing on the cake that I baked and am already enjoying.
I am an amazing mother. Motherhood is the hardest thing I’ve ever been tasked with and sometimes, I mess it up. None of us are perfect. But I apologize when I’m wrong – usually directly to my daughter – and I work hard (especially when I falter) to show my daughter the type of woman I want her to grow up to be. I don’t get it right every day, but I wake up every day and try my best to get it right. No one compares to my daughter and anyone who wants me will have to prove themselves to her as well.
I’m emotionally secure. I’ve done the hard work. No wait – I do the hard work. Our mental and emotional health isn’t a one-time box we can check off and forget. I am incredibly privileged to have the financial ability to seek therapy and guidance from professional third parties – and I do. Openly. Without fear of judgment or reprisal. And most importantly, I do not do so for other people. I do it for myself. I understand that I owe it to myself to sort through what life throws at me to the best of my ability. Life is never static. Neither is mental health.
I am independently happy and healthy. I do not look to my partner to provide these things for me. Once in my life, I did. But now, I can find solace in spending an entire day alone reading books or working in the garden. I am comfortable and happy in my own skin and do not require validation or approval from anyone. I can now (this one is rather recent) prioritize my physical health and not allow my standards to wax or wane with the circumstances of my life. I see how my physical health impacts other parts of my life and it is not something I’m willing to give up again.
So now I want you to think about what you bring to the table. I guarantee it is far more than you give yourself credit for – whether you are in a relationship or not. This whole series, for me, has been an exercise in honest self-reflection; a necessary tool in our tool-belts that we don’t pull out as much as warranted.
It is true that I do not know who “five” might be or if he even exists. There could never be a “five” at all. Or maybe there is, but he is followed by a “six,” “seven,” and “eight” as well. I used to think that I needed to be certain of these things. To nail them down so that I could have a sense of peace that everything would be alright. But truthfully, I don’t know these things and that’s okay. Because I do know Kate. And let’s just say, I’m impressed with her.
“More than anything, I know that you just have to choose to make the best of things. You get one life, and it only goes forward. And there really are all kinds of happy endings.”
This is the fourth in a series of posts (parts one, two, & three here) recounting the men that I’ve romantically loved in my life, the differences between them, and what lessons each experience has left with me. In every relationship there are two experiences and each of these posts only intends to capture my personal experience both in and out of each relationship. Please read knowing that each of these men likely also has a story that could very well differ from my own, either in whole or in part, and that their stories are either not known or not expressed on this personal blog.
I wasn’t looking for a relationship. I was honestly looking for a distraction. My divorce was progressing but not yet final. I desperately wanted to laugh again. It felt like it had been such a long time since I really laughed or been happy. Such a long time since I had truly enjoyed myself at all. I carried so much weight from the daily burdens of solo parenting and getting my home with Three ready to sell, that I longed to cast all of it aside for a brief moment occasionally and remind myself that I was more than just a thirty-something single mom with a failed marriage to my name.
But I met Four and everything changed. I’ll be the first to admit that my time with Four was a bit of a whirlwind. He took me by complete surprise. I honestly wasn’t expecting much of anything from him or any other. And after what I’d been through — after the heartbreak I somehow managed to survived — I wasn’t sure I even wanted anything more than for someone to open the door for me and occasionally tell me that I was pretty.
My first real date with Four didn’t go as planned and instead of sipping cocktails at a fancy bar, we drank cheap wine in my living room and talked for hours. And I mean… hours. I think he left around hour six but not before an awkward first kiss that made me laugh when the door shut. Our second date followed soon thereafter and then a third.
It wasn’t long before Four asked if we could be exclusive. I was hesitant. Not because I wanted to see anyone else (What single mom has time to date multiple men?) but because my divorce wasn’t final and I had zero intention of well, truly being with anyone until it was. Fidelity is among the highest of my virtues and being with anyone while still officially married to Three (the father of my child) felt wrong in all sorts of ways. I knew that if my daughter asked one day if I was faithful to the bitter end, I wanted to unequivocally answer in the affirmative. Four and I discussed my hesitations and my limits in detail, but he continued to insist that he wanted what he wanted and that he felt the way he felt. So we both essentially signed up for an exclusive wait list – when the marriage was officially over, we could officially begin.
And begin we did. Even now, I stand in awe of just how quickly Four and I connected and progressed. A skeptic might say it was because we were both recently divorced, but I know it was more. We were particularly well suited to each other. We used to joke that it was chemical or something; our pheromones matched.
Still, I had learned lessons with Three that I did not want to carry into a new relationship with Four. I was left wondering how differently it would have gone with Three if he had never felt any pressure from me to get married or to have kids. So with Four, I took a different approach altogether. I told him that I didn’t need or expect any promises from him. None. But he willingly made promises all the same.
Promises about marriage, kids, family. Promises about vacations we would take and adventures we would go on. Promises about where we would live and when we would retire. Each was essentially a promise for a future… together. When the promises began, I pleaded with him to not make any that he couldn’t keep. I’d done that. I’d been there. I knew from experience that it was devastating to pick up the pieces broken those promises left behind. I told Four in detail the type of wreck I had been when Three had done that to me. I told him about the sobbing in bed for hours. The lack of sleep. The depression. I insisted that I could not survive that kind of heartbreak again.
Four would listen to my pleas, then he would pull me in close to him and whisper in my ear: “I’m good for it.” And I really thought he was.
When Four told me that he was ready to meet Three and my daughter, I cautioned him. I told him that I had zero intention of introducing my daughter to someone unless it was a sure thing. The last thing I wanted for her was to get in the habit of seeing men walk out the door. Four assured me that we were a sure thing and that he was ready to take that step so I arranged a dinner with Three so that he and Four could meet on neutral ground before I introduced Four to our daughter.
The night he met Three, Four looked at him directly and told him that he wanted to build a life with me. In that moment, my heart swelled and even though I knew I already loved Four, I allowed myself to truly fall for him. I didn’t even realize I had been holding a part of myself back but when the dam broke, I felt this rush of relief that I could indeed, truly fall in love with a man again and it still takes me breath away to think about how just how right it felt to fall for Four. On a cellular level, I felt more certain about Four than I had felt about anyone else in my life. That fact both scared me and excited me. Things about Four that I normally would have picked apart in other men — things that I would have considered deal breakers — became not just acceptable to me but almost endearing. And despite the voice in the back of my head telling me that it was too good to be true, I found myself diving deeper still into plans for a new life with Four.
We looked at houses together. We talked about the kind of wedding we wanted. We booked vacations. We talked about our future kid together. We met each other’s families and friends. There was general approval from everyone all around. We shared favorite things, inside jokes and special phrases. We did family things together with my daughter and the three of us fell easily into a comfortable routine — one that seemed perfect.
And maybe it was, until it wasn’t. After all the promises to the contrary, I found him sitting across from me in early April, anxiously avoiding eye contact with me and without much explanation, telling me that he was ending things between us. There was no satisfactory answer as to why. Really there wasn’t even a single answer as to to why — nothing for me to grasp onto and even attempt to understandwhy the man I held dear was once again choosing to leave me. He said that he cared for me but that he couldn’t be in a relationship at this point in his life. And after a few moments of silence in which I felt each of his promises shatter and dig deep into my flesh, he left. And he never even looked back. Not once.
Friends and family have implored me to ease my pain by seeing him as a bad guy. As a villain. As someone who exploited a woman in a vulnerable position and intentionally mislead her. And while I will concede that is a possibly, it honestly is not one that I can bring myself to believe. I’ve gone over it and over in the last month or so and no matter which way I spin it, I cannot believe that none of it — the feelings, the love, the plans — was real or that Four set out to intentionally break my heart yet again. Though I still can’t fathom why Four did what he did, I also cannot believe that he set out to cause me or my daughter to hurt so deeply. To conclude any of that would mean that the man I knew — the man I loved and wanted to spend my life with — was a deception from the start. That is something I absolutely cannot accept. I am still struggling with a reality in which I never get the answers I seek; one is which it never makes sense and it always remains a mystery why Four departed my life so abruptly. But I don’t see myself ever deciding that Four was a bad man altogether.
That said, after having so much time in isolation to think it over, I no longer believe that Four ever loved me at all. It stings to say that and I’ve shed many a tear over it , but it is the conclusion I have reached. I’ve come to believe that he loved the idea of me or what a relationship with me represented perhaps, but no — he never loved me personally. And therefore I also think it is impossible to conclude that he was ever in love with me at all despite how impossibly fast and deep I fell in love with him. As I’ve mentioned, I don’t think it is possible walk out on someone you are actively in love with and Four’s exit from my life (and that of my daughter’s) took place with a stunning ease and conviction. No; he was not in love with me.
And while I’ve spent some time cursing Four and his (unintended) deceit, I do think that my short affair with him taught me very important things about love. First, I learned that broken hearts can indeed beat again and that’s a lesson I do not wish to undersell for in ways, it brought me back to life. Four taught me that somethings (and people) are not meant to be understood at all; sometimes there is no real explanation for how any of it unfolds and answers sometimes do not come despite how badly we need them. Four also taught me that I will never beg to be loved. No matter how much I might want to be loved in return after giving myself and my love deeply and freely to my partner – I will not beg anyone to stay with me. And perhaps, most importantly of all, Four taught me that if it seems too good to be true, it probably is.
I am definitely not happy that Four and I live separate lives now. In fact there are even still days I wake up and half expect to find him snoozing beside me, but the truth of his sudden departure cuts and burns like a knife along my skin and the scars of what could have been ache when I least expect it. I do find myself wondering occasionally if all of it was in my head; but I know deep down that I did not imagine it. It was real but it is also really over. Each day is a new day for me to make peace with that reality and so each day, I try. For now, I do still love Four despite my best efforts to the contrary. And though I’m not feeling particularly grateful to Four for much these days, I know that if nothing else, Four made certain I know that life and love after divorce is possible albeit not guaranteed.
“Just remember that sometimes, the way you think about a person isn’t the way they actually are.”
This is the third in a series of posts (one & two) recounting the men that I’ve romantically loved in my life, the differences between them, and what lessons each experience has left with me. In every relationship there are two experiences and each of these posts only intends to capture my personal experience both in and out of each relationship. Please read knowing that each of these men likely also has a story that could very well differ from my own, either in whole or in part, and that their stories are either not known or not expressed on this personal blog.
I met Three in the fall of 2011. So much had happened between my final ending with Two in early 2007 and the fall of 2011. Many of the events that had transpired, including one in particular, left me pretty determined not to be in any kind of relationship for quite sometime. So for four years, I wasn’t. I didn’t even try. I would date of course, but every time there was a whisper of anyone “catching feelings” as the kids say, I found the exit rather abruptly.
During that time I also graduated college during the aftermath of the 2008 recession, decided I actually wanted to be a lawyer, moved to a different state, took the LSAT, got into law school, moved back to Arkansas for law school, made new friends (and a few enemies), and finished my first year of classes with good marks. It seemed for the first time in a long time, I was truly comfortable in my own skin. I knew who I was, where I fit in, what I wanted out of life and I finally knew what I wanted in a partner.
Like most 25 year old women raised south of the Mason Dixon, I was constantly reminded by friends and family that I wasn’t getting any younger. There were attempts to set me up on dates but they never went well. I had a variety of male friends at the law school that girlfriends said I should date (some of whom expressed an interest) but I knew none of them were for me and quite frankly, after years of intentionally avoiding it, I ready for an actual relationship. In fact, I was ready for the relationship. So I did what any reasonable woman with the sound of her internal deadline ticking away in her ears would do — I took matters into my own hands and joined Match.com.
It was quite an experience. I met some terrible guys. A handful of okay guys. And even one really great guy who just wasn’t for me. But then I found Three. We messaged each other for a few days on the website before I inquired whether or not he wanted my phone number. He did. After about a week of texting, I inquired whether or not he wanted to meet up. He did. I felt an immediate attraction to Three when I saw him. I found his voice in particular to be very soothing. I tried my best to impress him on that first date in hopes that he’d invite me to a second one. He did. I had the best time on that second date and found myself having a difficult time focusing on conversation with him because I couldn’t stop thinking about him kissing me goodnight. When the moment finally arrived, I sent up every flair signal they teach a girl in charm school but, he didn’t. I went home that evening and decided that he just wasn’t that into me. I was prepared to not hear from him again. But much to my surprised, he texted me one rainy Wednesday evening and asked if I would meet him for fro-yo. And it was there, standing in a frozen yogurt parking lot under an umbrella that he did at last. Right then and there I decided that I was marrying this man.
It didn’t take long for Three and I to make it official. Then to move into together. And a year into our relationship, he proposed. In retrospect, I’m really not sure that Three personally desired (or at least needed) any of these things. I do think he wanted to be with me and knew that those things were important to me. But with hindsight (and a shit ton of therapy) I see that he could probably have been happy without any of them.
But we had them. And then we had a wedding. And then we bought a house. And then we had a baby. And somehow, in the span of just a few short years, we had gone from complete strangers to people with lives so utterly entwined that it was hard to see where one of us ended and the other began. Maybe that was the issue; maybe it wasn’t.
As I’ve mentioned before, I do not wish to share much in this space about the inner workings of my marriage or the specific things that led to its end. Our daughter will one day be old enough to navigate the World Wide Web and I feel it is most respectful to her and her father to only share certain things over wine with friends rather than over blogs with strangers. But suffice it to say: I did not want my marriage to end. Had it been up to me and me alone, I would have willed it to continue indefinitely in spite of its faults. Of that, I am certain.
I of course, both loved Three and was in love with him. Until the end. Even after the end if I’m honest. I don’t think I have it in me to leave someone that I’m in love with and quite frankly, it is hard for me to see how anyone walks away from someone they are in love with. That said, I do believe that Three loved me and that at one time, he was in love with me too. But at some indeterminable point along the way, Three fell out of love with me. I have my suspicions about what contributed to that fact, but none of those matter now despite the amount of time I’ve spent letting it keep me awake at night.
Even though it ultimately ended in divorce, our nearly eight years together taught me quite a bit about love. Three taught me that love isn’t always easy. In fact, sometimes love feels like the hardest thing that you’ll ever have to do. Three taught me that no matter how well you know someone, you can’t know everything about them. Ever. Three taught me that nothing, not even vows, are unbreakable. But Three also taught me that perfect things can come from imperfect things and that imperfect things can still be exceptional when they work. And perhaps, most importantly of all, Three taught me that you cannot change things (or people) by simply loving them harder.
I am not (and I think I will never be) happy that Three and I live mostly separate lives. We of course, share a child but also so much history that it is impossible to regret my time with him. Regretting it would by extension mean regretting my little girl — the light of my life — and that’s unfathomable. I know we are divorced but I will always love Three and not just as the father of our child. But for him. For what we had. And for what, despite it all, I still believe we could have had if the cards had fallen just a little differently. And also because, in the end, Three reminded me that my voice should matter more than I sometimes give it credit for and that I am resilient enough to do impossible things when I must.
“Closure happens right after you accept that letting go and moving on is more important than projecting a fantasy of how the relationship could have been.”
This is the second in a series of posts recounting the men that I’ve romantically loved in my life, the differences between them, and what lessons each experience has left with me. (Part One here) In every relationship there are two experiences and each of these posts only intends to capture my personal experience both in and out of each relationship. Please read knowing that each of these men likely also has a story that could very well differ from my own, either in whole or in part, and that their stories are either not known or not expressed on this personal blog.
I started undergrad in the fall of 2005. As a kid from a small town who never truly ran with the very limited in-crowd, campus life was beyond refreshing. Suddenly, there was no single in-crowd that I had to conform to in order to survive. It felt like I had received a permission slip to figure out who I was and what I wanted out of my life.
I determined from the start that I did not want a relationship. It had been over a year since One had told me goodbye and while I did not initially take One’s departure particularly well, I had grown to see that it was probably for the best and had no intention of settling down with anyone during my freshman year of college. Instead I surrounded myself with new group of female friends and set out to experience things I hadn’t had the opportunity to try prior to moving three hours away from home. Still, despite my best intentions, my path crossed with Two.
I honestly cannot recall the first time I even met Two. He lived in my dorm so it is possible that our first encounter was pretty nonchalant. That didn’t last terribly long. Two began to pursue me pretty hard. Somehow we were always at the same events and Two would find a reason to be by my side most of the night. He would offer to get me drinks, take me home, walk me to class, meet me in the cafeteria for lunch. Even when I rebuffed Two’s initial attempts, he persisted. To be frank, I had never truly been pursued by a man before and his brazen attempts were flattering to me in a way I couldn’t even understand at the time. Despite my original intention, I found myself charmed by Two and when Two ultimately asked if we could be exclusive, I agreed without considering what that meant for the experience I had so desperately wanted for myself.
Even just a few months in, it was clear that Two and I had a volatile relationship. When it was good, it was so good. We would be that adorable hand holding, picture taking, always smiling couple. But when it was bad, it was bad. There would be fights and mean comments. There was no such thing as “below the belt” when we argued. Our friends took notice but we ignored their naysays. But then, about a year into our relationship, Two admitted something to me that shattered any trust I had left in him. I was incredibly hurt and wondered why I had spent the vast majority of my freshman year with someone who proclaimed to love me and yet… could hurt me so badly.
The next six months consisted of Two and I going back and forth. We’d come together and have a couple weeks of semi-harmonious coupledom only to split again shortly thereafter following yet another battle of cheapshots and purposely incendiary actions. As our friends became exhausted by our efforts, so did I. I called it off during Winter Break for the final time much to Two’s extreme displeasure. What followed was months of harassing Facebook messages and texts. I was not perfect neither in my relationship with Two, nor in the aftermath of it but I will say that I did truly want the best for Two. I knew he needed to move on and find someone who was a better match for him because I had come to the conclusion that I was not that person. I did everything I could to encourage him to do so.
While I did love Two, I don’t believe I was ever in love with him (If I had been, I don’t think I would have ever called it off with him but that’s a discussion for another day). I honestly do not know if Two was ever in love with me but I do believe he loved me as best he could during that period of his life. Despite our turbulent run, Two did teach me several things about love. Two taught me that love should fight fair and when it doesn’t, it’s doomed. Two taught me that love isn’t jealous or unkind. Two taught me that love, while messy, should be more concerned with making things right than about being right. But most importantly, Two taught me that love carefully considers its actions and words not because it has to but because it cares enough to want to. Far too often Two and I were miles apart in our actions despite insisting that we loved each other and wanted to be together. If you do, then you do. If you don’t, then your actions show your cards long before you do.
I am very happy that Two and I live separate lives today. Unlike with One, I actually regret the vast majority of my time with Two. And that isn’t wholly down to his actions. The problem was ultimately with both of us. Despite everything that transpired between us, I’ll always cut us both slack for ultimately just being just a couple of college kids discovering that oil and water don’t mix. I may not love Two anymore, but in the end Two taught me to trust my gut and for that, I am thankful.
“Bad relationships are like a bad investment. No matter how much you put into it you’ll never get anything out of it. Find someone that’s worth investing in.”
