A Winter Without You

Christmas is coming, and with it that familiar ache beneath the sparkle. I’ve always loved this season—the lights, the warmth, the way everything feels a little more enchanted. I used to pour myself into making it special, almost magical. And yet, this year, my mind drifts back to last Christmas… to him.

I remember buying him a small gift—nothing extravagant, just something that carried a piece of me. A quiet reminder. But when I asked for an address, he hesitated. He wouldn’t risk my husband finding out. I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter, but it did. God, it did. He saw it in me instantly… teased me with that wicked wit of his, “Who’s being the brat now? But love it.” And I was being a brat. I ended up throwing the gift away, but part of me still holds on to the moment. I miss that spark between us—effortless, intoxicating. I miss how he lifted me without even trying. I miss the way he made me feel seen without trying,  I miss his wit.  I miss our friendship.

Six months. Six long months since our last conversation, and the heartbreak still hits in waves. I pray for the pain to dull, for the longing to loosen its grip. Sometimes my fingers hover over the screen, wanting to reach out… but I won’t. I can’t risk the silence I know I’d get back. He’s moved on—maybe whispering encouragement into someone else’s darkness now.

And here I am, tangled in the unraveling of a marriage that no longer feels like mine. My husband is fighting for this relationship like it’s his final breath, but I know it’s not love he’s clinging to—it’s control. A control I will never surrender again. The guest room walls feel too close, too familiar. I need distance. Space. A clean break so we can both stop suffocating in something that’s already ended.

I hate that he’s hurting. There are moments I wish anger would take over—anger is easier, simpler, cleaner. But instead I keep repeating to myself, Move through this with dignity. With grace. And somewhere beneath the ache, I know this is where the lessons live. In the quiet. In the unraveling. In the pain that is slowly, painfully, teaching me who I am without anyone else’s grip on my heart.