Cocktails & Polygraphs

I was standing in a small, southern boutique between my momma and one of her dearest friends when it hit me that I was officially entering the dating world. We were among a bustling, support small business Saturday crowd, holding up a variety of tops and dresses as options to wear on my first date with front porch man. I caught a glimpse in the mirror of 20-year-old me, running through the mall with her momma searching for the perfect, grown-up, first date night dress. The same curiosity and anticipation were all there as I now embodied the reflection of 38-year-old me. A lifetime later, surrounded by the energy of supportive and kind women, and preparing for another first date. And this would not be just any first date. This would be my first date post deception.

A week after our tailgate meeting, I remained both eager and comfortable with my decision to have a date with front porch man. I decided on a local spot for a late lunch. A day-date.

And this felt good.

This was an opportunity to compassionately evaluate my two years of hard work; two years of consistently investing in the healing. This was an opportunity to see that I could trust myself; the validation that I arrived in a relationship with Self, long before the thought of placing trust in another was on my table.

It was a chilly fall day with spurts of rain showers. I left a few minutes early in a casual fall hoodie, jeans and flat boots, and my natural head of curls. My nails, shockingly, remained unmanicured. I remember adoring the innate confidence when I left my apartment that day. I remember texting my trusted inner circle as I headed out the door.

And this felt good.

Among my circle of fellow betrayed partners, I had candidly coined the dating post deception era, Cocktails & Polygraphs. We laughed at the play on words, while simultaneously and whole-heartedly expressing a real desire for tools when screening potential dating candidates. How does one even entertain dating, after experiencing what we have survived? How does one guarantee that truth, and only truth, is existing at a table among a cocktail, shared appetizers, and past and present experiences?

I did not initiate a polygraph for front porch man.

I did, however, give myself permission to experience refreshing Green Flags, in the early weeks of getting to know him.

These were the impactful connections that my brain and heart made, as safe to proceed:

Eye Contact.

Suggested options for date locations, and giving me the opportunity to decide the where and when.

Well-mannered, kind, and compassionate behaviors seen in multiple settings, situations, & among various circles of friends.

Punctuality demonstrated for all dates. My time and presence matters.

Active participant in conversation, with equal parts initiating, responding, and listening.

Long-standing, meaningful friendships exist in his life.

A strong commitment to family with healthy boundaries.

Consistent flow of transparent communication.

Openly discusses his faith and relationship with God.

Openly discusses where he is at in healing from prior relationship(s).

My body & mind relax to my healing baseline in his presence.

The truth, dear partner, is when you have survived and healed from the worst, you brain and heart will recognize it. And if you have done the work. If you have participated in the invested healing. The laying of a firm foundation. The rebuilding of a house with solid and boundary-proof walls. The grieving. The forgiveness. You won’t need the polygraph.

Bring your boundaries, core values, your trusted inner circle for support and the reality check-ins, on any new and exciting adventures you may consider post deception. But the ultimate reward, if you should choose to entertain dating post deception, is arriving to this new and exciting era, with the most trusted relationship of all. The one that lies in you.

One of the earliest safe-to-proceed connections I made with front porch man was, in fact, not through the green flags. It was not through anything he intentionally said or did. I caught a glimpse of a piece of artwork stretched across a wall, the first time he invited me to his home. The soft hues of blue, beige and teal, were mingling among a row of birds, ruffled in layered feathers. One line, traced delicately in script font sat beneath the birds. “He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge.” Psalm 91:4. The connection for my brain and heart was instant. I prayed Psalm 91, most nights on my knees with hands stretched open and wide, in the months leading up to my divorce. I prayed Psalm 91 after surviving some of the hardest days of my life. It was my protection. It was my refuge. And it was hanging on his wall. A wall I would pass by, as I continued to pass through many more stages of healing. A wall I live among to this day.

Safe to proceed.

The Day I Met You

I had only been in my new town for a few weeks when I was invited to my first college football tailgate. I was sitting in a coffee shop with a chai latte and a post traumatic growth workbook when my new friend’s husband kindly insisted I should join. I was really embracing a work-in-progress persona as I bookmarked my page, took another sip of early fall spices and cautiously accepted the invitation. I didn’t know it at the time, but this invitation was part of the plan. His plan.

I just needed to say yes.

I heard it was intensely spirited, but could not have possibly anticipated the passion that which is a college football game day. I had one week to find proper attire in home team colors. And not just any red. Garnet red. My Amazon cart took a hard left from self-help books and moving supplies to garnet red, flowy fall dresses and plaid. I decided on a sleeveless top layered with a fall flannel comfortably tied at the waste, as temps were expected to drop by nightfall. A not quite 40-something, but also not a 20-something, college game day look. This felt good. I felt good.

On the morning of, I was one text away from calling the entire day off. I stood in front of the mirror and saw fingernails that had not been manicured in weeks. I cringed with insecurity as I pulled my old tennis shoes out of the closet. My hair was strategically placed in a pony tail, as I had yet to find a new salon to cover my roots. I stressed over picking the wrong shade of red, and feared I would be completely outcasted as an obvious transplant the moment I stepped out of my vehicle. I picked up my phone to send an obscure, I have a headache text, and my sweet Aunt was calling. A brave woman who led by example and long before my own battles began, on how to fight the good fight of choosing faith in survival. She was so excited for me. For all of it. The move, the job, and the opportunity to meet new friends that day. It was a warm embrace of a call. I hung up and took in the sun rays that were now trickling in through my apartment windows. And with every ounce of my being, I felt God say, Go. You never know who you are going to meet.

I pulled up to my new friends house and was the last of the group to arrive. I applied a soft shade of rose to my lips and a confident smile. I left the now mild concerns of wrong-color-red and old tennis shoes in the backseat of my car. I gave myself permission to not be newly-divorced me. I gave myself permission to embrace an entirely new version of me, in a new place, with new faces. I gave myself permission to not be defined by my story, and tossed that chapter in the backseat for the day as well. I followed my friend up to her dreamy house, delicately traced by maturely bloomed trees, string lights and a pair of dog faces resting in the front window. And then I saw him. He was standing on the front porch with a cooler at his feet.

And I noticed him.

To be transparent, dear partner, I did not notice, men. I may have been in my new red top and embracing unmanicured nails for the day, but was still zipped tight from head to toe in the boundaries that kept me safe. I walked up to the front porch and held out my hand for an introduction, while simultaneously convincing myself he was married. He definitely had a few kids at home. And the day resumed.

We arrived to the sea of garnet red, cowgirl boots, and interlaced scents of mid-fall leaves and meat smoking, in a dirt field of faces that were not familiar, but also felt as if I had known them for years. And I would find myself next to him. I found myself returning to conversation with front porch man.

He had kind eyes that radiated a confident, present soul. His eye contact was unwavering. This was nearly too much for me, as my boundaries didn’t account for kind, present, eye contact. He was not married. He had no kids at home. And it was the first time in many years that I was relaxed in one on one conversation with a man.

As night descended, the temperatures dropped and I reached for my perfectly planned fall flannel, a well-known and romantically deep country song began to play in our background. I watched, in a field of grown, football-loving men, as they grabbed their partners one-by-one and twirled them around under a November, southern sky. It was a really sweet moment. Front porch man and I were the only two not dancing, and I both asked and gave him my permission to twirl me around. I remember touching his hand for the first time, as I described a love for how old couples dance. One arm out and the other at their partner’s side. I remember him telling me someone should show me around my new town and take me to the best restaurants. I remember giving him my number, entranced in childlike memories of slow dancing and asking God, how did I get here? And this felt good. I gave myself permission to just feel the goodness of this moment.

What I love most about this day, wasn’t just this meeting. It was showing up to this meeting as an unmanicured, old tennis shoe-wearing, hair pulled back, imperfectly embraced version of myself, and he saw me.

I told front porch man I would have a date with him.

I told him I was healing.

I told him I had a story.

We can unpack that. He said.

And he’s been faithfully, consistently, meeting me exactly where I am at ever since.

Forgiveness Washes Over Me

I remember the days getting longer when I received acceptance. I found myself moving slower and more intentionally. I was no longer in a hurry to close the blinds, blow out my aromatherapy candle, and simply end the day. I wanted to sit on my little porch with a cup of tea and watch the sun set on a day I deemed well lived. I became more open to stretching my legs outside the rigidity of a routine that felt consistently safe. I wanted to explore new places to eat. New trails to walk down. I remember a very conscious shift to more thoughts on what would be, instead of what never was.

Forgiveness was different.

There were moments that a dear friend or loved one would bring up the previous chapter in a capacity I was not prepared to receive, and I would find myself thrown into an immediate state of raw bitterness. Words that are life-stealing and not life-giving would creep out between my teeth. As quickly as the moment came, it went, because this was not who I wanted to be. A human carrying around a bottle of bitterness.

I was still clinging tight to forgiveness as an option, giving myself permission to feel in control of this incredibly difficult step. As a Christian, I believed it was entirely necessary for my healing. I believe God desires our hearts to forgive, just as He has forgiven us. As a broken human, I had more or less packed up the idea of forgiveness with my old self help books and would save it for another day.

I was visiting a church in my new town when forgiveness inexcusably and undeniably showed up. The pastor stretched his hands wide and asked if there was something we were still carrying that we needed to let go of, to continue growing in our faith with Christ. The light that was on him may has well have been on me in that third from the last row of seats, heart racing as if the entire crowd turned to say, what are you holding onto? My trauma twitch I do with my fingers, a combination of snapping and pulling tightly at my knuckles, started immediately; which was my sign I was both uncomfortable and convicted. Tears started to flow down as I asked God, how can I forgive all that had been taken from me? For all that never existed? For the absolute fool he made of me as a wife?

The pastor went on to share the church mission statement, the scripture verse I had yet to hear them recite in unison. I paused my internal, emotional battle while waiting to see the scripture hit the screen. Ephesians 3:20.

My shoulders dropped and my hands opened, palms facing up on my lap, to a God who I do believe can do immeasurably more than we can ever imagine. I committed to God in that moment that I wanted to continue growing in my faith. I committed to the continued process of allowing God to remove lingering bitterness from my heart, that would otherwise prevent me from honoring this very important step in my healing. And the tears that began as a burning bitter, ended as a joyful release in this moment.

I think of Paul and Silas in prison, with shackles on their feet while singing songs of praise to God (Acts 16:25). Living out their faith, emulating an unwavering example to others, despite their circumstances. I reflect on the practice of speaking words of truth. Not imprisoned by an injustice, but continuously redeemed by grace. And this is how I think of forgiveness. A receiving just as much as a practice. I receive the release of bitterness, by practicing forgiveness.

The practice of forgiveness will be a part of my testimony.

What do I want to echo when I tell my story? When my sweet nieces ask about my marriage one day. My story.

I want to echo the power of surviving.

I want to echo the freedom of forgiveness for a human, a situation, a circumstance that could otherwise leave you debilitated.

So much power rests in that freedom.

Forgiveness, dear partner, like the ocean rushing toward your feet, finding its way between all of your toes and quickly retreating with only your footprints left behind, washes over me. It comes heavy and it leaves light. It is not complete. I am not yet immersed by its fullest capacity or entirety, but it washes me clean.

Raise the Bar

The year was 2022 and I had just moved out of my marital home two months prior. I was spending a few days on a yoga retreat, in a southern, beachside town among new and kind faces. One evening after our sessions, we broke for free time. I sat on the beach with journal in hand, burrowing my feet in and out of the sand as I remembered an encouragement I received from a trusted friend. She told me to write down the qualities I desire most from my husband. Pen to paper, it didn’t take long to flood two pages with what my heart desired. Perhaps it was all of the breathing and stretching, fresh air and new surroundings that enabled the thoughts to freely flow. I paused in gratitude, thanking God for the opportunity to be there, peacefully present in this moment. I decided to re-read the list out loud for any processing that it could offer, and with each line, the peace in this moment grew darkly somber. With each line, the tearful reality etched deeper. I had titled this list, “My Husband,” and my pen slowly drew one, solid, line through My. My then husband, was none of these things.

I wanted a partner who was honest.

I wanted a partner who desired to know me intimately.

I wanted a partner who chooses God, and then chooses me.

I wanted a partner who protects our marriage.

I wanted a partner, who simply wants to do life with me.

I circled back to this list a few months after I moved South. I had not touched the lined pages, ran my fingertips over the desperate words from this particular journal entry, in more than a year. So much had changed since the day I believed my then husband would become that person. So much had shifted in my heart as I had passed through grieving and radical acceptance. I exhaled as I read this list of what I desired most in a partner; now in a new space, and with a completely fresh start at life and opportunity.

I would candidly joke among my circle of fellow betrayed partners, that if I were to ever remotely entertain dating, the expectation bar was on the ground. As if having someone to eat dinner beside and make weekend plans with, were miniscule and seemingly ordinary desires. More specifically, I did not hold what I desired most in a partner as attainable. I had seen some of the very worst that a human can inflict on another life and marriage, and my current baseline rested somewhere between these desires do not exist in a partner and these desires would take a lifetime of weeding out to find. Dating, was not on my radar. But curiosity and readiness for a partner if the opportunity should arise, was…

I return to this list. I return to the expectations that a younger me once believed were unrealistic and unattainable, and share what I now render as an opportunity to raise the bar. An opportunity to believe in the goodness of another human. To believe in a God that can and will align us with someone who aligns with His plans for our life. Today, I raise the bar. If it matters to God. If it matters to me. If there were to be a next time. Then this is the bar.

My A Husband

• Faithful - loves & honors God.

• Genuinely honest - no secrets.

• Desires to know me intimately.

• Present.

• Demonstrates compassion & empathy.

• Lives with purpose.

• Challenges me to grow.

• Chooses God, then chooses me.

• Slow to anger.

• Patient.

• Leader in our marriage & outside the marriage.

• Knows who he is, and whose he is.

• Fights for our marriage.

• Shares new perspectives on life.

• Confides in me his concerns, insecurities, and fears.

• A judgement-free love, free of resentments.

• We work out the hard stuff consistently & together.

• We are a team, a support & comfort for each other.

• We do life together.

• In sickness - he cares for me deeply, in my times of weakness.

• In health - he chooses his own health (spiritual, emotional, physical) and encourages me to do the same.

• Maintains healthy relationships with family & friends.

• Establishes & maintains clear, healthy boundaries.

• Enjoys new experiences, big & small.

May we all have the opportunity to approach the idea of dating, a relationship, and intimate love with a firm foundation that is not of this world, but of our own expectation.

May we remain firm in this foundation, considering it a road map that aligns our core values with those we desire in a partner.

May we let that which is in the past, rest there, and diligently prepare our hearts for the what and who is yet to come.

Right & Good

I picked up the chalk-ladened erasers as the dust began to settle against my plaid school uniform. I can still smell the white particulate that hung in the air, just beyond an old chalkboard. It was my day and my turn to take all of the classroom erasers, and bang them outside, just beyond the broken water fountain we would crank for any sign of life on hot days at recess. The back porch of our school had a metal railing where we would hang our heads and little arms over to aggressively bang, releasing remnants of phonics and arithmetic into the air. I was in second grade, and having a turn at this task was a gold star. I imagine I skipped down the hall. I imagine I was completely satisfied with my work at hand. The imagining stops when I make it back to my classroom, because what ensued thereafter doesn’t need to be imagined. What happened thereafter was an intense, very public humiliation at the hands of my 1990s, Catholic school teacher. I was asked to stand in the front of the room, until I could say what I had done wrong. My paralyzed, 7-year old self, facing a room full of second grade faces equally terrified. What had I done wrong? The blood drained from my face and down to my little fingertips where it froze, like I now was, without permission to move until I could say what I had done wrong. I was wrong. I was not good. Evidently, it was not the day or my turn to bang erasers, I would later learn. Pages were turned. More chalk was caked onto those erasers. And eventually, another second grade body was humiliated over a different scenario. But my internal battle ensued. Please let me be right. Please let me be good.

Fast forward many years.

I am a late-20s something changing in the parking garage at work out of day-worn scrubs and into cocktail attire. I am tired, but I am focused. I am applying fresh mascara and covering cheek blemishes as I move through rush hour traffic. I take one last look, as I remind my reflection that I am a wife of a soon-to-be partner. I will be classy, conversational, and confident. I will be right. I will be good. I walk into the event and meet the faces of admin’s who call me by name, but realize there is no name tag for me. They didn’t know I was coming. I am used to this scene. I have lived, and I have survived this scene. The one where my then husband forgets to acknowledge that I am his partner in life. This scene rolls off my body like an old worn hat. A glass of Chardonnay is placed in my hand, and I catch his eyes for the first time. I hold my first and only question of the night on the edge of my softly lined and rose-painted lips. The question I was confident I knew the answer to, because I had worked harder this time. I would be right. I would be good. I ask if he likes my new dress. I get the fast, up and down look of his otherwise distracted eyes, as it’s okay, slips out between his lips that are now sipping a cocktail. He reminds me he has a room full of clients and disappears. I am paralyzed among a sea of suits and business jargon, when a kind soul I know from prior engagements approaches me for a friendly, awkward side hug, and tells me I look beautiful as he turns to walk away. More cocktails are had. More smile and nod conversations, dull handshakes, and after a long, late drive home, I learn that my dress was not short enough. My heels were not tall enough. I was not right…I was not good.

My question, dear partner, is when were you told what makes you right?

When was it decided what makes you good?

When was the power handed over to another to decide?

When did we stay small, and the world continued to rotate while we were paralyzed in a frozen frame?

When did our validation rest in someone else’s perception and definition of our worth?

Wherever and whenever this took place. In a time of childhood innocence, adulthood experience or relationship, or somewhere in between. If placing your self worth in the hands of another circulates your body, penetrates your soul, and lies dormant in the cracks of a trauma that once defined you, then it is time we take back the power.

Self Worth may be defined as an internal belief of all that which makes one valuable, worthy and belonging, regardless of external validation and accomplishments. In other words, a healthy sense of self worth reflects: my value lies not in what I do, but simply in who I am.

I am enough.

Redefining my self worth has been one of the hardest phases of my healing journey.

I have learned that taking back the power requires an on-going commitment; a dramatic and conscious shift from validation seeking and rating worthiness by external measures to a deep, internal love of self.

Taking back the power requires rewriting the narrative of all that was once believed; all that makes me right & good.

Taking back the power requires a curiosity. A questioning. Who am I outside of the things? The perceptions? The titles?

Taking back the power requires a desire for something different.

A desire for different led me to a complete dependence on and surrender to God. It led me to leave the narrative I once thought was my purpose. A desire for different was a catalyst for shedding the labels, the titles, the possessions. A complete surrender moved me to a space where God emulates: You are none of those things. You are mine.

Moving Day. Round 2.

I remember when it first hit me, deeply, that I was moving. I was in my sisters backyard for one of our week night dinners. My sweet nieces were on their swing set and the sun was amber-rose, setting over the school and church where we spent our childhood and my nieces would be doing the same. It hit me like the unanticipated coolness in the breeze that September night. I wouldn’t be here anymore…

My moving preparations had been a walking checklist, much like the last one. But this move was anticipatory. This move held promise. Because I had seen God deliver. Through all of the perseverance, the seeking, the leaning in, up to and including the finish line of divorce, I had been deeply held and God was faithful. I knew this move held purpose. From the moment I got the call with the job opportunity, to the time I flew down South for the interview, to the brief moment of am I crazy that I worked through with my momma outside of a Starbucks as I hunted solo for apartments in a town I knew for 24 hours, to the time I closed the last box of my belongings; I kept moving and embracing God’s faithfulness.

I held a concrete schedule with very little room for error or delay from the time I packed up to the time I would be transitioning into the new job; a new life. I remember running the details of this schedule in my head for days while packing boxes, wiping down counters, cabinets and walls, wanting to leave no trace in a rented space but subtly taking in the last of the memories in the first place I called mine. I held space long enough to process and retain memories, as I stared at the desk where I battled countless nights, and took in the last of the sunsets from the porch where I would sit with tea reflecting on my day. Intentionally processing, as I was moving. This was different. This was good. This was healing…

There was laughter and joy on this moving day.

Dad and I wondering how we we were going to drive a U-haul; all five-feet-something of us asking for a booster seat at check out. The look on dad’s face after the 8-hour U-Haul drive, when learning there was no elevator to my fourth floor apartment. The first time we saw the tall ceilings and windows in my two-bedroom place that felt more like a house than a master bedroom closet. That first Southern sunrise between brightly painted units and palm trees. The renewal of confidence that I experienced in all of the planning, decisions, and steps forward.

There was bittersweet on this moving day.

How tight and close I held my body, so I could brave this goodbye.

But what made this moving day so special and bearable, was I knew in my gut, in my body, in my nervous system, that I could do the hard things. I knew God had equipped me and provided all that I needed to try a new adventure. To try and see what felt good. To try…knowing with complete confidence, that I can always come home.

The gratitude I hold for one chapter, not being the whole story.

The peace of knowing more chapters were going to be written.

The trust in knowing here, may not always be there. But there, would always be with me.

And here, is where God was calling me to be.

The memory of that snowy, January day that I headed up my long, marital home driveway for the last time would circle about as I unpacked boxes in my new town, in the second place I would call mine. This memory would hang just above my conscious as I walked into a new grocery story, new church, new walking trails, new coffee shops, new yoga studio. And one day, I told this memory it was safe to go. I told this memory we kept moving. Just look at all the places we will go…

That’s Where We are Going!

We set out for our third day of hiking with two miles of uphill switchbacks in front of us. I had planned this trip nearly ten months prior, having no idea at the time that I would not only be divorced, but would be packed with only days remaining in the place I spent the entirety of my life. The timing. The destination. This trip was from God, honoring all that I had conquered but also showing me I had so much more capability remaining. This trip would also be the last time I was with two of my dearest friends before my 500-mile move, and all the hiking and conversating was the gift my heart needed that week. Mountain air and a lifetime of genuine friendship does the soul good.

We reached the top of the climb as I began stripping off layers despite colder conditions; my skin studded in dewy mountain sweat. It had been quite some time since my body had worked this hard on anything but trauma healing. And it felt so good. After trekking up wooded and uneven terrain, with sneak peaks breaking through the mountain pines of the aqua blue lake that was now reflecting morning clouds, our pace began to slow as we crossed through a picturesque meadow. Morning was now settling in as sunrays danced across wild flowers and grasses. It is both beautiful and surreal to be in a place you where you feel a solemn existence. I began silently celebrating the accomplishment of what my body had just done. Before I could exhale deeper sighs and words of relief, my friend pointed to the mountains traversing the clouds, far into the distance. The mountains were iconic. Powerful. Daunting. Formidable. My trance was broken as I remembered the peanut butter sandwich that was now asking to be consumed, before we retraced the switchback terrain back to the parking lot. I was mid-search for the fuel that would get me home when my sweet friend, in all of her hiking passion and glory, cried out, “Do you see it? That’s where we are going!” That mountain top, just barely kissing the clouds in the far distance, was the actual ending point of the day’s hike.

 Dear partner.

There is a reason God doesn’t show us all at once. There is a reason we pause in the meadow, to take in and celebrate a climb we didn’t think we would conquer in the first place. There is a reason we invite our trusted inner circle to help us continue our journey; to celebrate with us at every milestone. And this hike was all of those realizations for me.

 The sandwich was consumed, and I did all the validation seeking to not only pep myself up for the miles ahead, but also conquer a fear of heights as we headed toward the clouds. Unlike the first leg of our hike, covered in evergreens with only glimpses of the aqua lake miles below, this next round was entirely exposed on the edge of a mountain. A single path, narrow enough to accommodate one body with a set of hiking poles. Rocks and loose gravel lined the entire way up and back down. My dear friend, an avid and equipped hiker, a genuine and wise soul, insisted that I go first, so she could stop when I stop, and support me when I needed it. I cannot imagine that experience with anyone else. She believed I would make it to the top of that mountain.

And I did.

 Sometimes healing looks and feels like this. Unattainable. Uneven. Unimaginable. We walk narrow, uncertain roads on our path to healing; not knowing the how and the when.  Healing is not always steady.  Healing is not even terrain. Healing is not a predictable journey.  Healing is not seen all at once. But together, we can take one step further. 

But How Did You Heal?

I held the bouquet close enough to catch the sweet peony scent and feel the vibrant lavender color reflect off my now flush cheeks. I was still in my scrubs and worn from the day, and this moment in the middle of a weekday-crowded grocery store was enough to illicit a few tears that made their way down my cheeks and onto the delicately wrapped pedals. I placed them gently back among their fellow, nested bunches, paused only briefly, and then returned the bouquet to the front seat of my shopping cart. When I got them home to my little, white-walled apartment that was I slowly coating in a few new decorative touches, I placed them on the corner of the kitchen island so I could see the pop of color from every angle. The reminder of life; blooming, changing, returning to the earth. My eyes and brain returning back to the sweetest reminder of you did something kind for yourself. I smiled each time my eyes caught that bouquet. And I continued to pick fresh flowers for the corner of that kitchen island until I moved out nearly two years later.

This is how I heal.

I remember sitting on the couch, staring at the empty wall and announcing I would not be purchasing a television. Family, my dearest friends, all offered to purchase me a television for the new space I would call home. I was just as shocked by my quick and brash declination for such a generous gift. But I was reminded of the many nights I had to alert Netflix I was, in fact, still watching. I was reminded of a bowl of popcorn, a bottle of wine, my sweet girl cuddled in a blanket at my feet and the text messages asking when he would be coming home. I did not need the distraction; the intense rumination. I did not need the painful memories. I chose here for new ones. So for nearly two years, I would instead spend evenings in my apartment bonus room; the den that my momma convinced me I would have a purpose for, despite a slightly higher rent fee. I read scripture, journaled, prayed, participated in virtual yoga classes, and learned the breathwork patterns that would lead me up to and including the day of my divorce. This den became my battle space. It became the new routine. The new neural pathways. My purposeful and intentional place to seek God and return to Self. I invested, and God faithfully provided.

This is how I heal.

I had a call shortly after my divorce with one of my dearest friends to discuss next steps for my retirement and personal savings goals. My financial picture. It was humiliating and humbling all at the same time to be a late 30s adult who needed support to make confident, independent, financial decisions. I was seeping anxiety from vulnerable wounds by the time I had this call. Frankly, what I wanted more than anything was a solid validation that I was financially safe. But as he spoke in a kind tone, with reassurance and confidence, not like a financial advisor but as a trusted friend, my goal for the call shifted from validation to curious. From curious to understanding. I wanted to understand how my money was being invested, and what, if anything, I could do better for investing in my future. I was capable of understanding. And the more I understood, the more bitterness for my prior lack of understanding subsided. The more I understood, the more compassion that surfaced for the wife that once placed trust in a financial picture that was coated in lies, and not in marital, shared financial truth.

This is how I heal.

Beauty.

New.

Education.

Conversation.

Compassion.

This, dear partner, is the process.

Reaching for the beauty that is still blooming among the ashes.

Seeking that which makes you feel good, whole, and new.

Educating yourself on what you may not understand. Confident, goal-oriented, and self-motivated choices.

Having the difficult conversations. Replacing humiliated with humility.

Speaking words of compassion over every day, every choice, and every moment that does, indeed, count as a step in your healing.

I return to younger me, sitting on the screen porch that hot, July summer day. I return to her, as she has mountains ahead and not a drop of assurance that she can climb. I return to her, basking in fear and sitting in a place that will no longer be her home in six months. I return to her, as she dares to even look up from that cold, cup of coffee, the morning she boldly spoke the words with no where to land, I am leaving you. I return to her, as she whispers, but how did you heal?

I chose you. I say.

I chose the mountain.

Pack light. Take only what you need.

Sit when you need to sit.

Stand again, when you can stand.

Pause to celebrate all of the steps you have taken.

Watch the sunset.

Breathe deep. Lean in.

Reach for the trusted souls you will meet along the way.

Follow the light.

Embrace all that you are becoming.

You are not who you once were. You are being made new.

This is how you heal.

Dear Friend of Betrayal Trauma

I had one friend during my betrayal trauma journey, from first disclosure to divorce, who knew my truth in its entirety. It wasn’t an objective or intentionally selective decision on my part to ask one friend to carry the heaviest of my burdens, watch them unfold on repeat, and support me as I vacillated between the worst, to surviving, to thriving versions of myself and back again. She was the one human I saw most consistently during this time period. We worked together. We had been in each other’s lives years prior, lost contact for a bit, and God returned her to me for a season I did not know I would desperately need her unique perspectives from lived experience, calming and nurturing soul, and peaceful presence. She is a gem of a human who showed up in ways I could not possibly sum up in words.

Today’s post is for all of the friends who hold my truth in any capacity.

Today’s post is for the friends who have the honor, and at times, absolute torture, of humbly walking beside us as we navigate one of life’s toughest journeys.

Today’s post is for the hard questions you may ask yourself, if you are a friend supporting someone walking through betrayal trauma.

What should I say, and not say, to a friend who is new in her betrayal trauma healing journey?

What can I say to support a friend who is separating?

What was most helpful to hear from a friend during times of uncertainty?

What can I say to a friend when I am concerned for her safety or well-being?

These are all courageous and well-meaning questions to consider, with having a friend’s experience, safety, and best interest in mind. I reflect back on the personal experience I had with my dear friend. It wasn’t so much what she said. It was perhaps, more importantly, how she made me feel.

Safe. Seen. Heard.

She learned the difference between my wanting her to hold space and listen, and when I wanted or needed advice. She spoke up in times she was concerned for my safety. She encouraged me to consider letting others into my trusted inner circle in whatever capacity felt best. She asked my permission if she could share my story with her husband, so she could have an outlet herself for the complexities and heaviness of the situations at hand. She was great for “checking-in” when I would go dark, pouring myself into our work and forgetting that I was a person with real needs in a situation that warranted time for self care. She picked up the pieces and filled in holes wherever she could, to lighten the load of an otherwise heavy day. She showed up as a real human with her own experiences, concerns, and perspectives, and just loved me. She unconditionally showed me so much love.

We do not need a plethora of sound advice or guidance from a friend. We likely have a team of therapists and a slew of self-help books to guide our healing journey. What we do need, is a friend who says, “This is absolutely terrible…” when our reality is absolutely terrible. A friend who redirects our ruminating brains to a coffee date or yoga class. A friend who calls us out, from a place of love, when we are ignoring obvious red flags that hinder our healing progress. A friend who interjects our rants about our spouse’s therapy and needs, and says, “But what do YOU need?” A friend who validates our lived experiences, and boldly states, “You are not crazy.” A friend who respects our boundaries, and loves us anyway, when a day is just too much for words.

We bring heavy bags to a friendship.

We may be emotionally and physically available one minute, to speechless with no available head space beyond our trauma the next. If we are doing our work, our healing work, we will respect the moments you need to take a pause from supporting a situation that may feel dark, bleak, or hopeless at times. Be sure to take care of yourself, if you are going to invest in supporting a loved one healing from trauma.

Thank you to all of my dearest, who bravely stepped in and stepped up to lighten my load.

Thank you for knowing how to say everything and nothing, all at the same time.

Thank you for restoring the belief that what I bring to the friendship, a genuine relationship, is enough.

Thank you for reminding me that I am brave. I am healing. I am worth fighting for.

Is Sex Addiction Real?

I was sitting in a pizza shop over drinks and fresh mozzarella with a new friend when my story came up. It is not often I am asked so directly, what happened? She was genuinely interested, as our conversations leading up to this question were about my move, job change, and other getting-to-know each other novelties. And naturally, a late 30s woman who picks up and moves to a new town, new job, without knowing a soul, has a story she could tell.

I am used to the hard pauses I take before I share even a superficial layer of my story. I am used to assessing the person’s emotional capacity to receive details beyond anything superficial. But even after a cocktail or two, my hard pause, and sharing the swift plot twist that includes almost a decade of multi-layered infidelity, I am still not entirely used to the question that has, on occasion, followed.

Is sex addiction real?

My new friend was well-meaning and genuinely curious. My hard pause continued as she shared a socially and culturally based perspective on pornography and men cheating on their wives. It happens all the time, perspective. But I could feel the shift in my body and energy. The mozzarella and cocktail no longer tasted like I was on a veranda in southern Italy. I was teleported in the span of 30 seconds to the inpatient stay, to the manipulation, to the lying. To the phone call with the practitioner that all but told me to run from the behaviors my ex husband was choosing, despite his marriage ending. And I asked God, as I swallowed my last bite, what should I reply to this question? What can I say to one soul, whose perspective is curious but otherwise jaded by a society we all live and breath in daily? What can I say, that would be both compassionate and impactful, and representative of the life we as partners have survived?

I could say that sex addiction, in my experience, is very much a spectrum with vast differences in the compulsive behaviors that manifest. That sex addiction isn’t just watching porn. That an entire lifestyle evolves and revolves around behaviors that will continue in spite of adverse consequences. That in spite of losing a job, losing a marriage, losing an entire family, their self dignity and worth, the behaviors continue to roar on at a volume so loud, the brain registers the need for nothing else, but the next high.

I could say that in some cases, sex addiction has nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with trauma.

I could say that living a life of sex addiction is it’s own reality. We, the outsiders, do not exist as humans in this reality. We are fictional characters. Objects, really. Communication, daily routine, “adulting” as we say, is on the back burner. We, the actual reality, are the bread crumbs. The after-thought.

I could say that I believe what manifested in my story was consistent with a diagnosis of sex addiction…and then some. The “then some” wasn’t for me to diagnose. And a bonus diagnosis would not have saved my marriage.

I could say that what happens when one is married to addiction, the devastation of their choices and the aftermath of the consequences, is life-altering.

I could say that the day my chains as a spouse of sex addiction hit the floor, and I walked free, I never looked back.

I could say that my faith grew more in those chains, and in the surviving of those chains, than it would have beyond any measure.

I could say that we all can use to hold a little space and compassion for the things we do not understand. For what we assume is just the way it is, is actually someone’s lived reality, and so much more.

I didn’t say any of this in that conversation in the pizza shop.

I did tell her the readers digest of my lived experiences.

I did tell her there are specialists, facilities, and treatment models, fighting at the front lines of sexual addiction.

And I noticed a subtle change in her energy. A subtle implication this question came from somewhere deep. A questioning. A longing, perhaps, for understanding. And this may have just been how I experienced it; a survivor with the hope that each time my story has a chance to be told, it is for purpose. For awareness. For redemption. For a single moment that my story perhaps mirrors another humans silent battle.

Nightmare on Divorce Street

I was standing in a dimly lit room beside her. Her daughter was there too. I could hear her voice in the distance. It was summer and we were whispering. Why are the lights off? I remember thinking. We stood beside a closet, with doors that looked like an old window shutter. My voice was shaky as I spoke to her. I could hardly hear my own words as they left my mouth and hovered in the tense atmosphere between us. I was then standing on a dirt road outside the home in a long, white summer dress. I was among tall pine trees. Blue sky peaked out between their limbs. The terrain beneath my bare feet was slightly rocky. Loose bits of gravel. And I looked back over my shoulder and saw him. He was a few feet back, and slowly retracing the outline of my footprints. He was coming and I could not run. I opened my mouth to speak and no audible words formed; not even a whisper.

The sound of my 5:30 AM alarm jolts this nightmare into present day reality; the sweaty pajamas and racing-heart reality. This was new. Nightmares of this capacity, with former life characters and fears, were very new.

I drove to work that morning, white knuckling the steering wheel and replaying a now fragmented scene of me in a bedroom with my ex husband’s affair partner. I could not remember the details of our conversation. I remember feeling incredibly tense. And whispering. And then I saw his face. The gravel road moving beneath my feet. The grip on the steering wheel tightening as I nearly run a red light.

My nightmares in the months post divorce ranged from being back in my marital home and wandering the hallways alone, to having a seamlessly ordinary dream and my ex-husband uninvitedly showing up and demanding I needed to come home, to seeing but being unseen in the middle of him and a woman as they laughed over dinner and wine. All of them ended the same. The abrupt coming back to life in a pool of sweat, heart racing, and five minutes of grounding in the physical space that was actually in front of me, and not still sifting about in my memories.

The nightmares would come in waves. Similar themes in recurring episodes would appear, and then disappear as quickly as they came. Surely they were triggered by more challenging days on my healing journey. When I met my now partner and we crossed the intimate bridge of sleeping beside each other, he would witness the aftermath of the nightmares on occasion. My now partner, a therapist by profession and a calming, confident soul by how God made him, introduced a therapeutic exercise one day that can be used to alleviate nightmares. Though he gave a fair warning the exercise may feel unnatural and silly, I was desperate for the haunting to dissipate.

I tore a piece of paper out of my journal, gathered a few highlighters and different-colored pens. He told me to draw my nightmares, and the characters that resided in them, as absolutely absurd as possible. He told me to draw anything and everything that comes out in my nightmares. My old house. Affair partners. Draw all of it as absurd as possible. Over-sized shoes, odd hair, obnoxious physical attributes. The use of color then locks in the experience of seeing that absurd image in the brain. I would look at my drawings before bed, like a child reading their favorite picture book. Sometimes I would laugh out loud. And it worked. Praise God, it worked.

As I move into different phases on my healing journey, the nightmares have resurfaced. I turned to my now partner one evening before bed, half venting but also half eagerly wanting an explanation, and asked, “why didn’t I have these nightmares when I was actually in the story?” He took me in his arms, as he always does in these moments, and said, “Because you were living it, baby…you didn’t need to dream it.”

So much of what I was living then exerted power over me. Power over my cognitive and conscious thoughts. My emotional amygdala all the way up to my reality-seeking frontal cortex. There was no space for the nightmare I was living daily, in 8 hours worth of subconscious dreams. But now, a dramatic shift in my life has occurred. My concerted, conscious baseline is to be regulated, boundary-filled, self-soothing, calm, and trusting, and I suppose my subconscious has shifted to becoming a playground for repressed or unprocessed memories that lie dormant in my DNA. I would need to cleanse my subconscious. I would need a continued reframe for the nightmares.

One of the last drawings I did was a road that ended at the edge of the page, but I decided it wasn’t actually ending. It was just the part of the road where my brain currently had access to. I named it, Divorce Street. The opposite end of Divorce Street twisted and turned as it ended on a hill at the top right corner of the page. The hill was high, resting in the clouds. This hill held my dreams. I labeled the dreams with names, places, and experiences, and placed them inside of closed circles. Each dream had a color. A fence enclosed the top of the hill. The fence enclosed my dreams. I decided my dreams could float up to the clouds and dissipate, but could not leave the fence and travel the road. And at the far opposite end of Divorce Street, the end that wasn’t an actual end but landing at the edge of the page, I drew me. Two faces, morphed into one solid body. One looking up to the hill and the fenced-in dreams, and one looking to the edge of the page. The edge representing more healing is coming, but I just can’t see it yet.

Both faces are smiling.

Because they are no longer nightmares.

They no longer have the power.

They are simply dreams.

A House With No Walls

The following is a continued reflection from an exercise I performed in a post traumatic growth group. This exercise allowed me to process missteps I made in protecting myself; specifically, in the way of setting boundaries. It was a blameless opportunity to reflect on the what happened, what could I have done better, and the how can I improve this in the future. This exercise was presented to me in a season when I was deciding which relationships would survive and thrive beyond divorce. It was the season where I realized I could actually decide who brings value to my newly healing space, my presence, and ultimately, my life.

Describe your house prior to your trauma. What did it look like? What did it feel like?

Describe how your house changed after the trauma.

And last, describe how you want your house to look, in post traumatic growth.*

I sat at my high top table in my barely lived in apartment, over 500 miles from the physical location of the house where my trauma began. I inhaled deeply and on the exhale, my journal pages began to capture a reality I had not tapped into for quite some time. It is both beautiful and haunting what the mind can retain when we give it the space to open.

My house prior to trauma had no walls.

It was a complete and entirely open concept. Not just from the walls we tore down during our first adventure with home renovations; the ceiling unexpectedly caving in and the support beams that would eventually be added. But even after an intense rebuild of new walls and infrastructure, my home remained all-access; as did my soul. The front door, though it locked, always seemed accessible. Often, I did not know who was coming, who was going, or how long they were staying. Changes to my home, big or small, were made without regard for my opinion or consent. There were abrupt moments I thought I was moving from my home, that were quickly overshadowed by plans to stay. And the atmosphere in my home vacillated between extremes. Unnaturally sexual to extreme rejection. Irritability and tension, to eager and promising. Disruptive and busy, to eerily quiet. The lack of walls enabled a range of energy and unhealthy relationships to roam freely.

My house changed dramatically after trauma.

The doors stayed locked. There were many, many walls. Walls from the parking lot to the welcome lobby of my apartment building. Walls between the lobby and the elevators. Walls between the elevators and my-key-fab only apartment. And this was safe. For that season, this was very safe.

I paused after these first two reflections for air and a fresh cup of tea. My shoulders were tense as I reflected back on my boundaryless first few years of marriage. Did I create this, or was it part of the grooming I married? Did I miss crucial developmental steps? Did I leave my inner compass and voice in childhood? Did I never actually find them?

I would need more air…

Dear partner.

Regardless of the how or the why such circumstances have landed in our stories. Regardless of the self-examinations we will inevitably perform with our therapists on our childhood or our adulthood-selves. The prognosis will remain the same. A house without walls will inevitably crumble. Crumble from the weight of carrying others burdens. Crumble from being a person for anyone but yourself. Crumble from taking on emotions, expectations, battles and the experiences of others, and not having any feasible room left for your own.

A house without walls will crumble.

We are not meant to be limitless, boundaryless, humans. When we expose our minds, our souls, our marriages, our most precious relationships to an all-access pass, we end up just that. So where do we begin to heal this? Where do we begin to initiate a life with boundaries, if a life with little to no limits on our emotional capacity or burden-bearing, was once our familiar zone?

We begin at the foundation.

We build our house with walls.

Here are a few considerations for the long term benefits of healthy boundaries:

• Learning to live a life with limits means we will have the ability to say no, and a deep appreciation for our yes. I recently declined an invitation to meet up with a friend after work. My brain was far to overstimulated from a challenging schedule that week, and I knew showing up to this event would likely push my anxiety over the edge and into a potential spiral that could impact how I showed up the next day, or even the remainder of the week. A simple and respectful, no, gave me an immense appreciation for the yes of self care I provided my brain and body instead that evening. Learning to live a life with limits means we prioritize self, which ultimately influences how we show up to the world and our most precious relationships.

• Learning to live a life of value, means we show up to new experiences and relationships with what we will and will not tolerate. What does not align with our values, our moral compass, is no longer given all-access. In fact, we have the ability to grant or deny access entirely. One of the first conversations I had with my now partner, shortly after we began dating, was about sexual integrity and character. Specifically, I asked about his sexual values when it came to pornography and authentic intimacy in a relationship. I went into this conversation on the coattails of new and exciting emotions I had not felt in quite some time. I also went into this conversation firm in my values; specifically, what I valued most for a new, intimate relationship. My wall decided. My boundary permitted or denied access, based on his responses to these questions aligning with my values.

I completed this exercise three months after my divorce. I reflect back on all that I could have chosen for my house in post traumatic growth. I could have granted access to situations and circumstances that were no longer my responsibility. I could have chosen walls of steel that granted absolutely no access; no moments for awe or curiosity.

I inhale deeply and exhale the freedom I have instead created, with my boundaries at the forefront of so much progress.

My house in post traumatic growth has a firm foundation, rooted in God’s truths.

My house in post traumatic growth has walls that echo laughter; a consistent joy and peace.

My house in post traumatic growth holds space for check-ins and deep conversation.

My house in post traumatic growth emulates a mutual respect for the time, love, and energy that moves among these walls.

My house in post traumatic growth, has taught me that I do have the capacity to live emotionally, spiritually, and physically regulated, among the walls I chose to build.

*With credit: Try Softer, by Aundi Kolber, MA LPC and Regeneration Ministries

Not From God

I was out on a walk and catching up with a dear friend. She was sharing the latest raw emotions with me on her own healing journey from betrayal, crying out to me and eventually to God. She asked me why God would allow this to happen to her. Why would God allow this to happen to her family? She is a good person with good moral character, and wanted to know why God would have this be her story.

Dear partner. These are the questions that rip you to your core. Questions that take you back to your own bedroom floor with tear-stained cheeks and anger running through your veins as you also once cried out to God, simply asking, why me? We serve a God who asks us to bring all of it. To bring all of our burdens, questions and anger, so he may pick them up, and carry them for us. But this, dear partner, this is not from God.

God is many things and evil is not one of them. Evil is not from God. And a belief in and serving God does not entitle us as exempt from the evils of this world. But anger is validated. Our anger at the evils of this world is completely validated, seen, heard, and mourned by God.

As we continue our journey, moving toward our 10ft view of healing, I encourage you to reflect on the following. If not from God, then where does it come? From where does the evil of betrayal come?

When I was playing with baby dolls and my sister was learning to French braid my hair, there were children among us who were already in or destined for the throws of sexual addiction. Children, who would eventually become adults, who would eventually become spouses. Children who maybe had an early exposure to pornography, compounded by, in some cases, a significant childhood trauma. Children who learned sexualized pain or numbing, alternative realities to sexual intimacy, as coping mechanisms for emotions they were not free or able to express otherwise. This is not an excuse for the character that walks the earth in adult form. It is not an excuse for the betrayal that ripped our families apart. But such experiences are an impactful foundation. We as partners or ex-partners cannot change what happened in the lives of our spouses, or even the choices and behaviors they exhibit now as functioning adults. But we do have another generation, our offspring and their offspring, and generations to come. Extensions of our stories that could, from exposure to our DNA and the ways of this world, follow in suit for a life of similarly manifested behaviors and choices.

So what can we do with this?

What can we do now, that provides a firm foundation for our children?

What can we do now, that provides opportunities to overcome the evils of this world?

We can be the example.

We can demonstrate a learned ability to sit in and process our discomfort, and not reach for a quick fix or high to replace it.

We can create safe and open environments for children to express difficult emotions, instead of hiding, running, or numbing.

We can share, when age appropriate, the raw truths about pornography. Defining what intimacy is and is not. Defining what authentic love is and is not.

We can demonstrate appropriate boundaries in how we choose to show up in the world, protecting our mind and space from the potential for negative, toxic influence. What we watch. What we expose our brain to, matters. And they are watching. Our littles are always watching.

And perhaps most importantly, we can emulate what is from God.

Love.

Truth.

Humility.

Compassion.

We can be honest that God does allow suffering, when he is a God that can also prevent it.

We can be honest that God is a healer. And he can make all things new.

We can be humble and true to our own healing journeys, and not paint on a face that otherwise says, I have it all together.

We can reflect our faith in the battles we carry, while articulating it is not our children’s job to carry them.

Evil is not from God, dear partner.

Evil is many, many, things. And God is not one of them.

Seventeen

When my nieces turned 17, I stressed for weeks on what to get them for their birthday. Not quite adults, but close enough for milestone moments and impactful decisions. They were youthfully busy preparing for college applications, dating, and traveling with friends. As I soaked up their excitement during our catch-up sessions, small doses of dread would seep into my conscious brain. I would think of 17-year-old me. At 17, I had planned out my life’s trajectory, written it down, prayed it out, and earnestly laid out all of the steps to make it happen. At 17, I was also three years from meeting my ex-husband.

I settled on copies of Boundaries in Dating, by Dr. Henry Cloud & Dr. John Townsend. As I wrapped the book, I envisioned far cooler gifts they would be receiving for their birthday. And I was the aunt sending a paper-back with the subtle (and not so subtle) messages of: Maybe don’t date for a while, or maybe ever? and Guard your heart, your life’s trajectory depends on it! I stared at the now gift-wrapped boxes and thought, how could I make this more personal? How could I make this gift impactful? I wanted to leave them with something they could refer back to on their cusp of adulthood, and well into their seasoned adult years. So I unwrapped the books and on the inside covers, I decided to write them a message. When they find the book one day, years later perhaps, as they are packing up their college dorm or moving into their first home, I wanted them to come back to the words that held my experienced truths. A few impactful lessons learned, and lessons I would have wanted in my bank of wisdom at 17.

As the bulleted thoughts poured out of me, I realized I wasn’t just writing them for my girls. I was also, very much so, writing them for newly single me. Therapeutically returning to 17-year-old me, and to simply say, it’s okay. It is all okay, and we can begin again.

Here are the lessons I captured on the inside cover of their books. I also highly recommend this book for anyone, in any part of their life, exploring dating and settling down to do life with another human.

My Top 17 for Your 17th Year

We are not enough, and God designed it this way. If we were everything, where would the desire to seek God for wholeness land?

Not all love is broken.

If you change your mind, go confidently, and change your mind.

God is so much bigger; God is so much bigger than all of it.

Embrace all of your life until now. All of it. God wastes none of it and He is working it all together for His good.

Admire and seek authenticity. Surround yourself with it.

Be your own Advocate. Ask for what you want. Say what you feel. And don’t be afraid of it.

Name your values. List them. And when you find yourself deviating from them (because we all do), it’s okay to come back. You are always worth coming back to your core values.

Success does not define you. You, define you.

Spiritual discipline + relationship with God. The end.

If you have to change who you are to fit someone’s mold, choose yourself, and not the mold.

Know your people, and tell them they are blessings to you. Your people can be a group of 2 or 25, but seek that point where you value trust and real connection over numbers.

The boyfriend of date nights, gifts, and silly moments will look different than the husband of doing dishes, taking out the trash, and embracing you at your worst. One does not just transform into the other. They choose it, maturely and spiritually. Just like they should choose you, daily. Consider this when considering a life partner.

The magic in relationships happens in the smallest of every day moments. Eye contact. Reaching for your hand. Bringing home your most favorite snack. Praying with you daily. These moments add the value, the good stuff, to intimate and deep, meaningful relationships.

Your past does not define you. Your past does not define you. Your past does not define you. Say it, until you believe it.

An ending relationship. An unforeseen change in career plans. A loss. An injury. A bad choice. These can be a part of your story, and yet, not be your whole story. Don’t allow one thing to be the whole thing.

Seek God honestly. He already knows. He already knows all of it.

We can try our very best to protect our most precious loved ones from the worst of this world. But they are free to be who they are, and who God made them to be. They are free to stumble, fall, and rise again. We can imprint our wisdom and tools, all that we have learned and value, onto their souls. We can hang it freely in their universe, to grab in a season it is most needed. We can leave them with the security of knowing they can always come back.

They can always come home to us.

He Knows My Name

I slid my documents under the window after one last glance. My grip was perhaps too strong, because the woman on the receiving end gave a confused look as she peeled them from my fingers. She glanced over the documents and confusion was immediately replaced by a full face smile as she expressed congratulations were in order. I didn’t even raise my eyes for full contact as I mumbled, “for what?” I knew her misunderstanding. I already knew the response that was coming. ”Marriage!” she eagerly said. A lone tear had already made its way down my cheek. A lone tear remained for the name I would be trading in that day. “Divorce,” I told her. “Divorce is why I am here. Divorce is the reason for my new name…”

I wasn’t emotional or feeling the intensity of this particular decision, because of the loss of my marriage. This loss was different entirely. I made a career with that name. I would now be showing up to my professional world and relationships as…different. From my email signature to the impactful research publications I was included on, I had made a name with that name. He took everything. And now he would be taking this too, I thought, as I climbed back into my car with my adult, professional name left in the hands of a stranger at the social security office.

Dear partner. This was a tough one.

I was a walking divorce decree for months. My certified with a seal document was never far as I navigated the name change process. I did an out-of-state move and job change in the middle of this time as well. Due to the timing of it all, I had to enter my new job under my married name until I had a new drivers license and established address. New colleagues, Human Resources, and email addresses, referring to married-name-me. My often triggered and less-than professional responses of this is who I am! That’s not me anymore!

It was a time of taking many steps forward and at an accelerated rate.

It was also a time for God to hit me with a hard pause for perspective and gratitude.

During this intense time of transition, I could show up in the world with an attitude that reflected demons I was battling, or I could show up reflecting all that which Christ had done and continues to do for me.

My story. My name.

What would I do with this name?

I humbly share this was not an easy shift. Surrendering my worldly relationship with a name that I had made a persona and life out of into a perspective of gratitude for a name I had not carried since I was 28 years old, was not an easy shift.

But, God.

I often ask God to remind me who and whose I am. To remind me that what I do and who I am is not for worldly recognition, a reputable Google search, or Linked In profile. My walk on this Earth is to serve him. To serve his will for my life. And I believe this is another step in our healing journey, dear partner. The stripping down of what was our identity. The release of what once defined us.

This perspective was a choice that I wrestled with, but mostly embraced.

Because I have been the 1 in 99 (Luke 15:3-7). I have been the woman at the well, feeling less than, and unworthy (John 4: 4-26) . I have been the woman on bended knees, washing the feet of Jesus (Luke 7: 37-39).

I have been both lost and found.

And it is not because of my accomplishments or Googled-accolades. God does not seek and continue to heal me, because of the initials before or titles after my name. My true identity rests in the one who sees me. The one who calls me by name. The one who saw a purpose far greater than I could have ever imagined.

Because He knows my name.

Withdrawal

When the phone calls, texts, and emails stopped and my days from start to finish looked entirely new, I experienced a different type of unsettled. That is the best word I can use to describe it. I would end most days reclined on my couch, with a cozy blanket and the latest book I was reading, a cup of tea, and clenched jaw. Multiple times a night, sleepless and hazy, my hand inadvertently would reach from my bed for my phone, turn it over to light the screen, and repeat. I was frequently checking all communication platforms throughout my day. What was I looking for? I was confusingly disappointed and distracted by an empty inbox. The world was suddenly quiet, but my brain and body were not. This was what I wanted. This is what I fought hard to walk through and where I wanted to arrive. So why were my unsettled behaviors saying otherwise?

Withdrawal.

I didn’t know the body can experience withdrawal from a person. More specifically, withdrawal from doing life with someone’s toxic behaviors. I learned about the process of withdrawal, specifically from a trauma bond, shortly after my divorce. It was a new and unsettling experience, and I could have benefited from preparation, knowledge, and resources.

My withdrawal symptoms began seeping out as my brain registered at a new baseline; one that no longer was under the influence of manipulative and toxic behaviors. A racing mind. A fidgeting body. An unsettled nervous system. And perhaps the most confusing and concerning symptom of them all. I had an overwhelming desire for contact. I was inexplicably craving communication with the one human who hurt me beyond measure.

The symptomatic presentation of withdrawing from a trauma bond, an abusive relationship, a narcissistic human, varies person to person. The presentation may include, but is not limited to, emotional dysregulation and distress, sleep disturbances, guilt, self-doubt, panic, and cravings for contact with the person. I can understand and appreciate the vulnerability of this period. The undeniable urge to return to the chaos, and that which was familiar. How easy it would have been to just pick up the phone. To share a sermon I saw and thought he would appreciate. To imagine a life where we were simply old friends who could catch up over coffee. None of this was possible. None of this would ever be possible.

The physical manifestations that strongly correlated with my withdrawal from the trauma bond, at their worst, lasted a few months. And then they dissipated. I humbly reflect on and appreciate how incredibly vulnerable I was during this phase of my healing. Vulnerable to returning to the trauma bond. Vulnerable to seek validation and quick-fixes to release me from the emotional distress and challenging behaviors I was experiencing.

If the unsettling effects of withdrawal are a part of your healing journey, I encourage you to consider the following suggestions to remain focused and stable during this period:

• Maintain open communication with accountability partners to stay grounded in reality.

• Journal your emotions and ruminating thoughts.

• Schedule therapy sessions in advance of needing them.

• Structure your days with constructive & intentional activity outside of your routine responsibilities.

• Go for a walk, have coffee with a friend, do something that brings your brain joy.

• Work with your therapy team to compose of a list of your core values. Reference this list often or as needed.

I share this season of my reality with you from a vulnerable place. In case you can relate. In case you need someone to say, yes, it’s absolutely real what you are experiencing.

Our healing does not end in divorce, separation, or when simply choosing a path to recovery. Each day, each moment, is an opportunity to lay a new and firm foundation. A firm foundation may be laid with a commitment to faith, sound knowledge, trusted resources, and reliable tools. Our brains undoubtedly require the opportunity to adjust to our foundation, as we form new and healthy pathways that are far from that which was familiar.

We can survive this refining period.

Our peace is coming, dear partner. I promise, it is coming.

Dear Affair Partner

Dear affair partner. 

I used to think about you. In the hours to days after D-Day. My mind would briefly wander from the ashes and aftermath to one question. Only one. What happened to you?

I would imagine the worst. You had to have your own story. A woman who chooses a married man for six years has a story. This made my story more palatable. Reason. Purpose behind devastating behaviors and consequences. And I would find myself praying for you. For your redemption. For a divine intervention. A new beginning with God, authentic love, and purpose beyond what you had chosen for yourself and your family. I forgave you. And I pray you forgave yourself.

Dear affair partner.

I knew what happened to you. You didn’t even have to tell me. I was in the therapy and trauma books so deep. The energy and the words you echoed through the phone that night reflected nothing short of a broken human. I hope you found support. I hope you found healing. I hope you go on to break the cycle for your children. I hope you feel loved and free. I forgive you.   

Dear affair partner.

I know you didn’t know. I believe you. And I am sorry.  I am so incredibly sorry this happened to you. Thank you for all your efforts to find me, to confirm I knew the truth.  Thank you for sending the images my heart needed to see. I prayed often for your healing and renewed sense of trust. I prayed for you to experience true, authentic love. I hope you found all of this and more.  

Dear affair partner.

I used to dream about you. Sometimes I see your face. Sometimes it is the shadow of you, moving about my marital home.  Sometimes I see your clothes in my closet, and I run my fingers across the hangars. Dainty. Petite. Sometimes I tell you what you already know to be true.  You can’t hear me. Sometimes I wonder what I would say, if you could hear. I know where you are, because I was there too. And we can’t hear, when we are there. But if there is a day. If there is a day the clouds break free, and the sun hits your face and for a solid second you can hear. I only want to tell you one thing…you are worth more.

To the others.

 To the souls I will never know. To the ones who were swept up by one encounter, months of chaos or years of hanging on to the idea of a life that simply did not exist. The truth of this entire picture, is we all arrived here at the hands of evil that exists in this world. At the hands of another’s brokenness converging with our own. The truth of this entire story, our story, connected by one ending and another beginning, is we are all seeking the same thing. We all desire love, acceptance, to be seen and valued. We will not find the true meaning of this in worldly relationships or things. We will try. We will certainly try. 

Dear affair partner.

In my story, this was your title. But in your story, you may be Mom. Wife. Daughter. Sister. In your story, this is how God sees you.

What if we hold titles that were not ours to bear? Titles cultivated for and given by the evil that exists in this world.

What if for today, you hang up that title.

What if for today, you have the opportunity to break a cycle that has defined you.

What if for today, you create a ripple that inspires change. Change that leads to no more broken homes. Present parents and spouses who own their brokenness and do not let it own them.

What if for today, you are not the affair partner in my story. You are not the affair partner in your story. And we allow God to take this from our hands, and use it for His good.

Curvilinear

One of the first steps of any autopsy is an external examination. We begin at the head, working our way down the body noting normalities and abnormalities. Injuries. And scars. I remember learning in my training all of the different ways you could describe a scar. Well-healed. Puckered. Linear. Each depiction representing the depth and shape of the cut that took place, and the different phases of healing. I remember being at the medical examiner and seeing a wavy scar that rose and fell like the ocean for the first time. I ran through my bank of scar terminology and could not land on any of them. I mustered up the humility to ask a Medical Examiner what he would call this not-so-linear scar. He paused, only briefly, but felt like eternity, as I did a quick permission to forgive myself for not knowing how to describe this scar. And then it melodically rolled off his tongue. Curvilinear, he called it. A type of scar that was not linear due to the location, the intricacy, and the type of closure necessary for healing.

It may be easy to read a blog like this and see a linear progression of events equals a linear path to healing. One post to the next, unfolding a picture of boxes checked, moving from the worst to best versions of your life. But just like the rise and fall of the ocean waves, our scars, our healing journeys, are never the same. They are intricate; never clear cut or well-defined. But our scars do tell a story.

Like the time I was in Austin, standing in a gift shop holding something that caught my eye and a man walked behind me wearing my then husbands cologne. I was traveling solo and wearing a new yoga outfit having just come from a local studio, feeling confident and zen. The scent of this cologne was too painfully strong. Without warning, my tears started embarrassingly and unavoidably flowing down my face. I could not stop them. Grieving had just started to really surface, and the sudden onset of crying in public was a new and uncomfortable experience. I rushed out of the store and back to my hotel room, as the rise and fall of my newly sutured scar whispered: I am so proud of you for getting out today.

Or the times I would sit on my kitchen counter in my little apartment as I heated up my aromatherapy neck wrap that I would routinely take to bed, placing drops of lavender oil behind my ears and on my wrists while swallowing melatonin and asking God for a peaceful night’s sleep. My puckered, healing scar whispering: Thank you for taking care of you today.

The time I was rushing home from work to go see a comedy show with my now partner, and the southern humidity had taken its toll on my natural head of curls. I stripped off my scrubs and into the outfit I had laid out, glanced in the mirror and could not bring myself to open the bathroom door. How could he be seen with me, with my hair like this? How could I have thought this would be okay? A soft knock and the door opened, as he reminds me dinner is getting cold and says, “Wow…you look amazing.” My well-healed scar whispering: You are beautiful, just the way you are.

Our healing is never linear.

There are many days, weeks, lonely nights and walks, drop to your knees crying sessions and faithful breakthroughs in between our scars healing, dear partner. But they do tell a story. What are your scars saying? Whispering?

I survived.

I am heal-ing.

I am here.

7 Minutes

I stared at the shirt on my dresser as I slipped out of bedroom slippers. I took a few sips of my coffee and thought of my mom, altering and ironing it the night before. She is the mom that made our childhood Halloween costumes, stitched on tutus for dance recitals, altered our adult tops and pants to fit our petite frames just right. But I don’t think a divorce-day shirt is ever anticipated in your alterations que as a mom. I had just hit her with the truth months prior. Eight years worth of truth that was still undoubtedly being processed, as I handed her the soft white t-shirt with subtle Script font stitched across the bust line. The words on the shirt now breaking my trance, as I spoke them out loud; my mantra for the day. I No Longer Paint Red Flags Green.

It was the day of my divorce. In a few hours I would earn a new title. Titles. Ex-wife. Divorced. Single. I had heard the saying on my t-shirt months before on a divorce podcast, and it made me laugh and feel strong. It made those titles feel like a badge of honor instead of a shame-filled label. At least for the day. My anxiety was at levels I had never experienced before in my life. I checked my lap top charge for the 15th time, made sure my zoom session was set to login and sat at my desk with minutes to spare while reciting Psalm 91.

Three zoom cameras clicked to life; our attorneys and the magistrate. Zoom court and court in general was unfamiliar territory for me. I had been doing so many things outside my comfort zone in the months leading up to this call. Grey rock communication. Changing my cell phone number. Moving what could be salvaged in one hour out of my marital home. Legal meetings. Bank account withdraws. One would think a zoom call would be a 70s-and-sunny walk in the park. But it wasn’t. By the time I arrived at this call, my emotional state registered at irritable and hypervigilant, with a bit of paranoia. In the months leading up to this call, I had awakened to what actually happened to me as a wife.

My then husband, soon to be ex, was last to join. This was not a surprise to me. What was a surprise, was the very public place he chose to join this call. I had taken the entire day off of work, and was tucked away inside my tiny apartment behind closed doors, with a cleared desk and calendar. My then husband was up high and outside. Tall buildings were in the background and people moved about intermittently behind him. A coffee cup nestled in front of him, likely holding a fresh latte. He wore a crisp button down shirt, his hair was shaped into that tight, hard-part style and his beard freshly trimmed. I was surprised, dear partner, that the usual butterfly dance I would feel in my belly, didn’t happen when I saw his face for the first time in 3 months. I was surprised, that my very first thought, was I have no idea who this person is.

My divorce was 7 minutes. A few questions. A few references to our settlement agreement. 14 years. 8 years of marriage. 2 years post that first disclosure on our back porch. 1 year of separation.

And it was over in 7 minutes.

My divorce was held on the exact date of my first D-Day, at the exact time I was sitting on that porch that hot, July summer day two years prior.

To say God orchestrated my days surviving and leading up to this moment is an understatement.

I bought a new, blue summer dress for that night to have dinner with my family. For some reason, the color made me think of Wendy from the childhood movie, Peter Pan, when I first saw it on the hangar. Wendy, and her beautiful blue dress, as she shifted around the island of the Lost Boys. I hung my t-shirt up and softly smiled as I did a celebratory twirl in the dress in front of my leaning mirror; lost boys and an isolating island were no longer to be my life.

Dear partner. If divorce is, was, or will be a part of your story, I pray it is at the end of a dirt road that was fighting the good fight for your marriage. I pray you can lay your head down at night and know with complete rest, every ounce of your being, that you did the best you could. I pray your support chain doesn’t end with the last casserole dish being dropped off at your door, or text that reads, “I’m thinking about you.” I pray your new days are held for the time to grieve, the time to reclaim, the time for forgiveness, the time for acceptance, and the life-long learning of healing.

You, dear partner, are the hero of your story. And you always will be.

The Ambiguous Loss

The last time I saw my then husband was outside my apartment complex.  His SUV rounded the bend, as I asked my parents to remain inside and on standby.  This wasn’t the first time he was in an emotionally charged state.  It was, however, the first time I would be experiencing it in this capacity in person.  I lost track of how many times he called my phone on his way over; call after call remaining unanswered, as I knew speaking in this state never ended in clarity and closure. As his car was pulling in, I saw the shadow of my sweet girl sitting in the backseat.  This would also be the last time I saw her, with a darkly tinted window between us.  The next several moments are hazy. I remember his window going down. I remember him saying he knew I called an attorney.  I remember him asking if I wanted a divorce. I remember pulling on the locked back door handle, hard, desperate to get to my girl. I remember the front doors of my apartment complex opening as my dad heard my voice escalate. I remember walking back to my building and realizing he was screening my phone calls.  I remember feeling an intense rush of anxiety, followed shortly thereafter by the sluggish state of shock, and eventually overwhelming sadness.

This would be our goodbye.

Dear partner.  Not all stories end like this one.  And if you find today’s post relatable or validating in any capacity, I feel your pain in my bones.  Today’s post is to shed light on stories that do end in loss.  And some of us partners may experience what is known as ambiguous loss.  

Ambiguous loss may be defined as a loss without closure or clear understanding.  There may never be a formal goodbye, or opportunity for an intentional last conversation. An apology may never come.  There may never be a true understanding of their impact, their choices, the consequences of those choices, experienced in the fullest capacity.  Because the truth, dear partner, is it’s nearly impossible to have such experiences with someone who is not grounded in reality. It is not possible with someone who is in radical denial, and not living in truth. And one of our toughest battles, among the many we have already fought and will continue to fight, is our acceptance of ambiguous loss.

Where does one begin to process this kind of loss?

How does one close the loop on a loss that otherwise continues on repeat, with no readily available opportunity for repair?

Much like breaking a trauma bond or the un-gaslighting process, it begins with the support of our therapy team, and unconditional love from our trusted inner circle. I explored writing an undelivered letter to my then husband, sharing what I would have said in our final moments.  Some therapists guide partners through the “empty chair technique,” when a chair is placed in the therapeutic setting and the partner uses the words they never had the chance to say, while imagining the person is present. Ultimately, dear partner, what helped me truly process and eventually overcome my ambiguous loss, was the daily reminder of all that I do have, and consistently choosing to not be defined by what I had lost.

Instead of waiting for a day, a conversation, a moment that may never come, we can choose to see the goodness that is alive and well among us.  I feel it when the orange and purple sun rays traverse early morning clouds on my drive in to work. I feel it when a stranger smiles and says, “How is your day?” I feel it when my favorite worship song (Gratitude, by Brandon Lake) covers me like a cozy blanket. The good that radiates among me, can and will, penetrate the gaping holes of my ambiguous loss.

Choosing in the losing, is a continued commitment to our healing. It may not be readily available to you at first; the ability to see goodness drifting among the loss. But eventually, you may begin to feel that shift.

Eventually, our gain may just become far greater than our deepest loss.