Coming Home to Myself

It’s been six months since I’ve written here. That sounds strange because the truth is, I haven’t stopped writing. I’ve written more in these past six months than I probably have in my entire life. I just haven’t shared it. I wrote when I was angry. I wrote when I couldn’t sleep. I wrote through tears so heavy I could barely see the words in front of me. I wrote things I was ashamed to admit, things that broke my heart to finally acknowledge, and truths I had spent years avoiding. Writing became my therapy and when I went back and read my last blog, I completely fell apart. I cried for the woman who wrote it. I wanted to reach through those words, wrap my arms around her and tell her, You have no idea how much your life is about to change. You have no idea how much this is going to hurt. But you also have no idea how strong you are going to become. Because so much has changed.

In January our living situation changed and I found myself living alone for the first time. At the time, it felt like one more thing being ripped away from me but what felt like loss became one of the greatest gifts I could have been given. I could breathe. God, I could finally breathe. There was no tension waiting for me when I walked through the door. No wondering what mood someone was in. No trying to keep the peace. No constantly measuring my words or swallowing my feelings. There was just…quiet and at first, that quiet was almost uncomfortable because I wasn’t used to hearing myself anymore. For the first time in my adult life, I could ask myself, What do you want? And the heartbreaking part was I didn’t know. I had spent so many years putting everyone else first that somewhere along the way, I had completely abandoned myself.

I knew what everyone else needed. I knew how to take care of them, protect them, fix things for them, make life easier for them. I knew how to carry everyone else’s pain. I just didn’t know how to carry my own. I think so many women understand this. We love deeply. We nurture. We forgive. We make excuses. We keep giving long after we are empty because somewhere along the way we were taught that loving people means sacrificing ourselves. But there is a difference between loving someone and disappearing for them. And I disappeared. That realization hurt like hell.

So these past six months haven’t been about “moving on.” They’ve been about coming home to myself. I’ve stopped running from the pain. When it comes, I let it come. I sit in it. I cry. I get angry. I grieve. I mourn the marriage I thought I would have forever. I mourn the woman I used to be. I mourn years I can never get back. And then I remind myself that I’m still here. Still standing. Still becoming. I don’t know exactly what my life looks like from here. Some days that scares me. Other days it feels like the most beautiful freedom I’ve ever known. But I know one thing with absolute certainty.

I will never abandon myself again just to keep someone else comfortable. I will never make myself smaller just to make someone else feel bigger and I will never again confuse losing myself with loving someone. It took losing the life I thought I wanted to finally begin finding the woman I was always supposed to be. And for the first time in a very long time I think I’m finally starting to love her.