After 25 years of marriage, I moved out. My husband refused to leave the family home, so I did. On my 48th birthday, I sat with my dog amidst piles of boxes in an unfamiliar house–dazed, exhausted, stressed, conflicted, and out of my element. Two days later, I sat at my parents’ Thanksgiving table, the same table I ate at as a child, feeling bewildered and yanked back in time, missing my kids. You can imagine how Christmas went.
Today, over two months later, it’s still raw. When I venture into town, I pray under my breath that I don’t run into my kids’ friends’ moms, my old neighbors, that lady from church, that guy from the country club—You get the idea. Not because of shame, but because the awkward silences that force me to explain myself feel tedious and pointless. There’s no smoking gun, no clear-cut reason, no infidelity or physical abuse. It doesn’t make sense to them. Why would a middle-aged woman who seems to have it all leave her marriage? Because I love myself enough to do it now, that’s why.
I won’t get into the intricate specifics of why it happened, but sometimes something funny happens when kids grow older and more independent: Parents are forced to focus on inner stuff that maybe they’d ignored for decades. It felt sudden, even though I know it wasn’t. My soul’s whispers eventually became screams that manifested themselves in my nighttime dreams. In my most prominent dream, I stood in darkness, approaching a doorway filled with brilliant light. I know I’m meant to step through it…I know I will. One foot is already extended before me. But, before I let go, that terrifying, unknown light makes me freeze…
My family was my existence. I don’t regret those precious years when the kids were little, but my sense of accomplishment hinged completely on the role I had embodied as a wife and mom. The love and approval I received depended on how I behaved. I kept the peace at the cost of truth. I occasionally, fleetingly, wondered what it would be like to make my own choices and my own mistakes–and still feel unconditionally loved. A passionate, compassionate woman inside of me, the woman I was born to be, slowly grew furious with each passing year. She longed for liberation. Underneath all of the layers of who I thought I was, this vaguely familiar woman kept creeping through in my personality, my actions, my outlook. She was unattached to status, roles, and material things, and she could care less who approved. This person lingering on the edge of my dreams was the purest part of me.
I was told that my decision was selfish. If I believed everything that I was told about myself, I would be in a fetal position in a hole somewhere. My decision was made completely out of blind faith. Don’t get me wrong, doubt does haunt me. I grieve for the family that once was. I feel a tear in my heart every time I think about the kids. But I’ve come this far, and I am not going back.
I currently exist in an odd state of limbo—I’ve stepped through the doorway, but I haven’t touched ground, and I’m suspended in cotton-candy-colored light. Terrified exhilaration fills my lungs. Who knows where I’ll be in ten years, five years—hell, next year. But I’m breathing and I’m fully alive. There’s a freedom that comes with monumental second chances. I can try to welcome each new possibility with gratitude. I don’t have to settle for a “close enough” version of myself. I feel the lifetime of armor I had built around me slowly shedding. Stepping out of it is someone allowed to be who she wants and do what she wants. I dug beneath my layers of self and found someone who is inherently good and gorgeously flawed. I trust my voice, embrace my emotions and listen to the wisdom of my gut. I cherish each momentous and meaningless decision I make. I can have wine and cheese for dinner if I want to, or even become a vegetarian. I can sleep in and not feel pangs of guilt. I’m oddly okay with being misunderstood by old acquaintances because I know I’m trying my best and living in alignment with who I am. As my kids grow into adulthood, I hope they see that I always sought to be the best example for them, largely by allowing myself to be led by love over fear, in the most authentic way possible.
The hours of time I currently spend alone, just me and my dog, would have thrown my old self into a shocking bout of depression. Years ago, silence felt empty. Now, silence invites me to be content in my own company. Belief in myself holds me together. It’s my saving grace. It gives me permission to start over at the age of 48. It propels me to keep my heart open at times when it hurts the most. It tenderly assures me that, indeed, I do deserve happiness. It allows me to let go of the guilt. Each day feels precious to me, and each moment feels less like a means to an end, and more of a gift. After almost five decades on this Earth, nothing is certain, anything is possible, and it’s beautiful, and it’s never too late. That I now know.
Although the ground is still somewhere far below me, I trust that it’s going to be okay, even though I don’t know how, when or why. As I gain freedom, I surrender. I’ve learned that perhaps, more than anything, self-love is what peace, joy, and acceptance are born of. On my first Valentine’s Day alone, I will be okay. Because now I know that I’ve always carried the love I’ve longed for, right inside of me.
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