Prologue

I was standing in my attic, staring at my dismantled Christmas tree—the one I'd carried upstairs in a tearful rage two days before Christmas to bury like a corpse, only to have to resurrect it just because my boyfriend Gunther finally texted me back. I was going to have to put Christmas back together like nothing ever happened.

For years, this had been my pattern: cycling between heartbreak and hope, between destroying things and desperately trying to fix them before the damage got out of control, before anyone noticed. I was drowning in debt, hiding my tears from my kids, and praying for relief while simultaneously wondering if it would be easier not to exist at all.

I never imagined that within months, I'd have full clarity on my life’s purpose, access to divine direction on what move to make next, and complete confidence that the openness and passion that made me vulnerable in relationships, the very thing I was constantly trying to “fix” was the best thing about me. And I’d know, without any doubt or hesitation, something about myself that seemed, in that moment, impossible to believe—that there was nothing wrong with me, that everything would be okay, that I was loved and lovable.

But transformation rarely arrives with trumpets and fanfare. Sometimes it finds you in your most broken moments, or while you're simply folding laundry, on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon.

Chapter One: Losing Myself

I used to think heartbreak meant losing someone else—until I lost myself. By the time I noticed the emptiness, the person who once had hopes and dreams was gone. There was a time when I wanted to be a playwright, crafting stories that moved people to tears or laughter.  I studied English in college, wrote stories and poetry and imagined myself living an artistic life, filled with creativity and adventure. 

Instead, I found myself crunching numbers in a cubicle, trying to keep up with an endless flow of deadlines. I was constantly stressed, had horrible anxiety and struggled to make time for friends or fun.  My spare time was spent working in second and third jobs to make ends meet as a single mother of two.  As stressful as my day job was, it still didn't pay the bills.

My romantic life followed the same downward spiral. Once a believer in love, I found myself divorced with a string of heartbreak and painful memories.

No matter how hard I worked, financial security remained just out of reach. Each month, I slipped deeper into debt despite my efforts. I'd check my bank account multiple times a day to make sure there was something left. When it got in the double digits, I'd find something in my house to sell on Facebook Marketplace to bridge the gap. I sold my kids old sporting supplies, old clothes, electronics.  This life—this existence—wasn't what I had planned, but changing course seemed impossible.

Everyone else appeared to navigate their lives with maps I never received. If life came with instructions, mine were missing crucial pages.

Gunther and I met at the Oil Change place on Hwy 17.  He had a Pittsburgh Steelers hat on and the accent to match.  He sounded like home. My friend Molly’s husband, Connor was there too.  He knew us both. 

“You’re both from Pittsburgh! Have you met?” Connor asked, not knowing the path this introduction would take.

Gunther and I introduced ourselves. I reached out to shake his hand. He held it firmly, my own hand got swallowed up in the size of his.  I was drawn to his light blue eyes.  He looked at me like he was trying to figure me out. 

“You going to watch the game today?” he asked.

“I’m not into sports,” I said. 

After that initial introduction, I started to see him everywhere.  He was on the other side of the pump at the gas station, filling up his truck.  He was pushing a grocery cart toward me from the other end of the aisle. He was sitting in the bleachers, our son’s playing on the same lacrosse team. He was recently divorced.  His ex-wife would sit in a different part of the bleachers.  My ex-husband and his second wife would sit near the front.  Gunther and I started to sit together.

I saw nothing but green lights. I was hopeful I'd never have to date again. I was tired of doing everything for myself.

The weekend before Memorial Day he stopped by my house to drop off some herbs he’d been growing in his garden before he went out of town with his kids. 

“These are so good for you,” he said.  You can eat them raw if you want or chop them up and season with them.”  He pulled some leaves off the stems and tossed them in his mouth.

“So good,” he said.  He pulled off some more and fed them to me. His eyes twinkling to see how I’d react.

It tasted earthy and fresh.  “So good.” I replied.

Then he leaned down and kissed me. We were just inside the back door next to the laundry room.  I took a step backwards and he pressed his body against mine against the laundry room door.  His mouth was hot and fresh from the herbs. His hands ran up and down my sides.

“So good,” he said again.

“So good,” I repeated.

Things moved fast after that first kiss. It was easy.  Our kids were already friends. He lived a mile away.  Our routines were similar. School drop-off, sports, cooking. The weather was getting warmer, the days were longer.  Life was blooming.  I was so happy I’d catch myself singing and skipping.  I couldn’t stop myself.  My fairytale had finally come true.

We went fishing together on the surf.  Our fishing poles in front of our chairs.  We’d talk and watch the tips for action.  He seemed to catch fish after fish. I didn’t catch anything, but I didn’t care.  I was just glad to be there with him.

Within months we were inseparable.  It was just assumed we’d be spending time together after work or on weekends. Even our kids got along. All close in age, there was a lot of activity, even chaos but it was fun. They were all busy and had their own personalities. They came over to play Wii sports in my living room, so many kids they filled both couches. Gunther sat on the floor, playing right along with them.  We went to his house to grill out.  Before anyone took a bite we’d drop our heads, and Gunther would lead us in prayer.

He didn’t drink. Neither did I. He loved God. So, did I.

All my hesitation fell away, and I let myself fall head over heels in love, deeper than I ever knew was possible. He did too.

We planned to spend Christmas together.  It was going to feel like we had a big family between his three boys and my boy and girl.  I couldn’t have made it more perfect if I’d designed it all by hand.

Gunther had to travel a lot with work.  I missed him when he was gone but it allowed me to focus on my responsibilities.  It was easy to be consumed.  It was a week before Christmas, and he was packing for a final three-day trip.  I was sitting in his bed watching him pack.  He’d told me recently that he was getting along better with his ex-wife.  He attributed it to me and to our relationship that everything seemed to be going better, including his communication with her.  I was glad to hear it but also wondering why he was telling me that. 

Old insecurities resurfaced.  Is he missing her? Is he hoping to rekindle things?

“I got your gift already,” he said. I was both excited and nervous about this. I hadn’t received a romantic gift for a holiday, birthday, anything, in years.  My ex-husband thought gifts were a waste of money. “Only kids have birthdays and presents.  If you need something, just buy it,” he’d say. Then he’d comb through the bank statements questioning the necessity of anything I bought.

I’d already bought Gunther’s gift too. I bought it in October.

“It was so weird,” Gunther said. “I found something I know you’ll really love. It just looks like something you would love.  But when I was standing there at the register to buy it, I had this surreal experience.  For the last twenty years I’ve bought something for Annie for Christmas.  But this year, I’m buying something for you.”

I felt the saliva pooling in my throat.  Why is he buying a gift for me and thinking about his ex-wife?  I was so tired of hearing her name!

My heart was pounding. Time slowed down.  Then the words tumbled out of my mouth, harsh and uncaring.

“If you bought me something at the same store you bought something for her the past twenty years then I don’t even want it.  I can’t just be a replacement. I’m my own person!”

He turned to look at me, still holding a half-folded tee shirt in his hands.  His eyes went dark.

“Get out.”

I froze.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

I couldn’t move. I didn’t understand what was happening.  I couldn’t remember what I’d said.  I couldn’t remember what had just happened. I knew I said something about not wanting the present, and his wife. I must have said something else also.  The room felt cold.

He threw the shirt on the bed and walked over to me. Like I was under a spell, I stood up. I couldn’t breathe.  He followed me to the front door, opened it and threw me out. I wasn’t even wearing my shoes.

Chapter Two: Talking to God

I cried for three days.  I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t sleep. I called him. It went straight to voicemail. I texted. No reply. I drove past his house. His car was gone.

Would he be back for Christmas? Or was he going to spend the holiday with his adult daughter out of state?  For every question, my mind made up answers. None of them good.

My kids were with their dad. The house was quiet, my thoughts anything but. I kept refreshing my phone, scrolling back through our texts, humiliated by the sheer number of messages I’d sent. Paragraphs.

I called friends, hoping someone could explain what I couldn’t. They said what I said was hurtful. They also said his reaction was extreme.

But none of that helped. I couldn’t take it back.

I called my cousin Jae. She didn't take a side. She didn't read into it. She just said, "All I know is God takes knee-mail. Take your worries to God. That's going to be your best bet."

Jae and I had been each other's lifelines for years, connected by blood but bonded through shared disappointments. While I was dealing with financial struggles and relationship disasters, she was navigating her own heavy burdens. She had lost both her parents.  Her mother passed on Jae's own birthday, a cruel twist of fate that left a permanent mark on what should have been a day of celebration.

Despite the physical distance between us—she in New York, me in North Carolina—we maintained a connection that sustained us both. Our friendship survived through late-night phone calls, lengthy text exchanges, and the rare visit.

In many ways, we were mirrors for each other, both dealing with men who couldn't or wouldn't meet our needs. Her husband slept in a separate room, emotionally disconnected, while she put her own dreams on indefinite hold to raise their children and support his career.

We recognized in each other the familiar pattern of giving too much and receiving too little. She never pushed her advice on me or judged my choices, even when they were obviously self-destructive. Instead, she offered unwavering support. When everyone else was telling me what to do about Gunther, she simply reminded me she would be there for me, no matter what.

In those days after being thrown out of Gunther’s house, I listened to her guidance. Every time the grief crept in, I hit the floor. I prayed.

Sometimes in reverence, showing great faith and trust in His will.  Then within minutes, I was yelling at God, pleading with Him to fix it.

My bowels were a wreck. Everything I ate went right through me. My head hurt.

I had to distract myself, so I rearranged my bedroom. Then when that was done, I went into the living room and saw my tree staring back at me with all its glittery ornaments and twinkly lights.

“Fuck Christmas anyway,” I thought.  It had been five days since the incident. It was two days until Christmas. I hadn’t heard from Gunther. I guess I was going to spend it alone after all. Once again. 

I decided to take down my tree.  Christmas was officially over.  I removed all the stupid cheap shiny plastic balls and then the dumb K-Mart ornaments and threw them away. No use saving them. Christmas was dead to me. I took the strings of lights off and threw them back in the Tupperware crate I stored them in. I imagined myself lifting the entire tree and launching it into the sky like a javelin, having it land right on Gunther’s house, piercing his roof. 

It was a fake tree.  It cost almost four hundred dollars. As much as I wanted to get rid of it, even in my tantrum, I was financially practical. I disassembled it, piece by piece, and carried it to the attic like a burial.

All signs of Christmas were deleted from my house.  I didn’t feel good, but I did feel better, temporarily.

I kept going back to my phone to see if there was a message from Gunther.

The grief over losing the relationship hit me in waves. When it hit again, again I hit the ground on my knees, praying to God.

This time, I pleaded with God to help me understand. If he’s not for me, I will accept that but why the silence? Why won’t he even talk to me God? I’m trying so hard to reach out to him and he doesn’t even reply.  He’s not even listening! Why God! Why won’t he talk to me!?

God spoke to me in my grief.  I felt his words inside my head, “Why don’t you talk to me?” He asked back, convicting me.  I knew exactly what He meant in those words.

What holds me back from talking to God in all those times I “forget about Him?”  When I’m not suffering, when I’m not asking for something. When life is good? Why do I only show up at God’s feet to plead and pray when I want something from Him?

Gunther’s reasons for not talking to me were the same as my reason for not talking to God: selfishness, stubbornness, thinking I knew what was best, entitlement, lack of integrity.

I was both humbled by His answer and in awe that I actually got an answer.  Surely God had more important things to worry about than me and my midlife heartbreak. 

“Thank you,” I prayed, humbled. I vowed to turn to God instead of turning to Gunther. All I needed was God. I’d been told that a million times.  I just needed live it.

Chapter Three: Relief

I finally slept.  When I heard God’s voice, the delirium finally broke like a fever, and I started to breathe again.  I took a shower, got back into bed and slept.  I finally woke up in a daze and made coffee without even looking at my phone.  I had been acting like a maniac after being hurtful. I didn’t deserve forgiveness. I needed to work on myself. I was in the wrong and that was too bad for me, but no one owed me anything.

I thought of God all morning and how His words were so brief but held so much clarity. And while I felt corrected, I didn’t feel punished or judged.  I was helped.  I was comforted. I was guided.

I fed the chickens and the dog.  I texted my kids to tell them how much I loved them. I prayed for my kids and my parents and my cousin and everyone I could think of that they could feel the peace I was feeling in that moment.  I even prayed for Gunther to have peace in his heart. 

When I finally looked at my phone, there was a text on the notification screen. 

It was from Gunther. I sat on the floor and opened the message.

“Hey.”

That’s all he said.  Just “hey.”

“Hey,” I texted back.

“What are you doing?” he replied.

“Just sitting here,” I texted back.

“Lol.”

“I’m sorry,” I texted.

“I’m sorry too,” he replied. My eyes filled with tears.

“Are you home?” I asked

“I get home tonight,” he texted.

Then I dared to ask, “Are you still coming over for Christmas tomorrow?”

“Yes. That’s what we planned.”

The relief flooded over me. Everything seemed normal, like nothing had ever happened. Had I overreacted? I’d spent almost a week crying, completely incapacitated. But for him, he was still planning to follow through on our plans.

Then I remembered… the tree!

I ran up to the attic in my pajamas and hauled the tree back downstairs. 

“Why am I like this?” I admonished myself.  Once the tree was standing, I threw on my clothes and drove into town.  What was even going to be open on Christmas eve!? 

Hobby Lobby was open.  I pushed my cart to the decorations section, passing other shoppers like I was driving in the fast lane. 

I didn’t even know how many ornaments to buy.  I tried to visualize the same amount I’d thrown away.  I only needed to fill the front.  The back of a tree was in the corner.  I chose some pretty white and gold ornaments.  They came in boxes of six.  The gold ones glittered; the white ones were pearly.  I bought some thick wired gold ribbon to cut and tie bows on the branches.  I checked out less than fifteen minutes before the store closed. 

When I got home, I put on Christmas music and decorated my tree, for the second time.

The next morning, I made sausage links, hash browns, pancakes and cinnamon rolls.  Gunther and his boys filled the house with noise and laughter.  I had presents for his kids that they opened and compared with each other, thanking me warmly.

I gave Gunther his gift.

“I don’t have a gift for you,” he said. “I returned it last week.  You said you didn’t want it.”

“I know,” I said.  “I understand.”

“Those aren’t the same ornaments you had last time we were here,” his son announced. His brothers dismissed him. “I swear!” he exclaimed! They were red and gold before. These are totally different! I swear!” He turned to me, “Did you change them?”

“Of course she didn’t change them,” his brother interjected. “That’s totally crazy.  We were just here last week. People don’t just change their ornaments.”

“They look nice,” Gunther chimed in. “They look the same to me.”

I wondered if he noticed and was protecting me by letting it slide, or was it all the same to him? Life just moving forward like any old day, while I felt like I’d been trapped in a tornado and just got spit back out.

Chapter Four: The Grind

Life slipped back into place. The holidays passed, and we moved into spring like nothing had happened. We didn’t talk much about the rupture—we just agreed we were both wrong and both sorry. That was enough.

We had pizza nights with Wii sports and board games.  The kids made a family play list on Spotify.  None of them knew that this bliss had nearly shattered irreparably.  It all happened in the background, while they were with their other parents.  I was so grateful to have been given this second chance, but it did feel different.  I was afraid of messing up again. Everything was tenuous.

Gunther was still traveling with work, but we talked on the phone while he was driving or from his hotel.  Then the world suddenly shut down. Covid hit.  The world was afraid, me especially.

Gunther was trying to get his work complete, but I kept calling and telling him that schools would be cancelled. 

"It’s going to happen," I said. 

“How do you know?” he challenged.

“I just know. And it's on the news.”

“It’s under control,” he assured me.

“I hope it is, but I don’t think it is," I was doubtful.

I was buying extra food at the store.  I was afraid for my kids.  The news announced a case in Washington. Then another case.  I was glued to twitter, day and night.

I told my ex-husband to get extra food. I told my parents to get extra food. I told my friends to get extra food.  I told Gunther to get extra food. He wasn’t as concerned as I was, so I got enough food for him and his boys if it came to that.

“Did you see there is a case without a source?” I mentioned on the phone.

“What’s that even mean?” he asked.

“It means it’s not contained. It’s going to spread.”

“I can’t deal with you. All this Chicken Little shit.” he said. “Leave me alone.”

He hung up.  It had happened again.

Chapter Five: Shutting Down

Then everything shut down.  My already stressful job became exponentially harder. The pressure was mounting.  Supply chains were breaking, nerves were fraying.  People started hoarding toilet paper.  Schools closed and suddenly we became teachers to our kids on top of everything else.

Who was I to prioritize sleep, rest, personal time, eating when there were people dying?

My standard issue anxiety went into full blown panic, and I existed in this highly alert, very frightened, over exerted state for weeks. 

I cancelled plans, became obsessed with hand washing and worried over every cough or throat clearing.  I even cancelled my son’s birthday. Worse, instead of spending the day with him, I worked late and went to bed in tears.

My son, thoughtful and sensitive, hid his disappointment. Instead of thinking of himself, he worried over me.  He wanted to help. He wanted me to take a break. Watching me struggle has given him an inner drive to work hard to avoid the kind of stress he's grown up with. He doesn’t ever want to feel the fear of a missed bill, the disappointment of not being able to participate because of money or the anguish of survival mode.  In short, he wants a life very different from the one I've given him.  I didn’t want my kids to live like this, anymore.  I didn’t want to live like this either.

Chapter Six: Therapy

My therapist, Joe was a kind, older man with an office decorated like a library. We met on Zoom because everything was shut down from Covid. He had a light brown beard and a perpetually askew collar that resisted his otherwise orderly demeanor. He sat in a wingback chair, flanked by tall bookshelves filled with serious-looking books. No matter what I said, Joe greeted me with a warm smile and compassionate eyes.

Joe wanted to know why I was in therapy. "What's brought you here?" he asked, like I'd just wandered into his little shop of wholesome advice while passing by.

It was embarrassing. I was a college-educated mother of two with a good job who loved to write and had friends who loved her, but I couldn't get over a breakup. And now I was hoping this stranger could fix me.

Joe listened thoughtfully as I admitted, "I think I'm controlling. My expectations are unreasonable, and I get upset when things don't go my way."

"Are you controlling?"

"I don't know. I guess..."

"Give me an example of controlling."

"Sometimes we make plans," I offered, "and when he changes his mind, I can't let it go. It's like I can't shake it. Last week we were going to get breakfast. We get breakfast together often on Sundays, and I was looking forward to it, but he never came by to pick me up. I texted to see if he was running late, but he didn't respond. Then I told him I felt hurt because he should have told me if the plans were changing, but he says he doesn't have to tell me everything. And then I get really upset."

"Describe 'really upset.'"

"I cry. I tell him he's being hurtful. I tell him he should have communicated if the plans were changing because I was looking forward to it."

"What does he say to that?"

"He says I have too many expectations."

"Do you?"

"Yes, it sounds like I do."

"And what else is going on?"

"I just can't stop thinking about him. I get so jealous that he's talking to other women. It's obsessive. I think about him all the time. He says I'm stalking him."

"Are you?"

"Kind of."

"Tell me about this."

"I noticed he was adding all these half-dressed girls on Instagram. I told him it hurt my feelings to see him commenting on their pictures, but he never commented on mine. He said I was insecure, and it was just Instagram."

This was so hard to say. I felt like I was really exposing myself but if I couldn't be honest in therapy, then why even go?

"Then, he blocked me. He said it wouldn't bother me anymore if I couldn't see his account. So, I created a fake account, and I would log into my fake account and see he was still adding those girls. It's like I go looking for things to hurt my own feelings. Then, I bring it up to him. I try not to but then it just comes out and it upsets him. He wants me to drop it, but I can't. I said if he was with me, he shouldn't be messaging them."

"How do you know he was messaging them? Did you go into his phone?"

"I asked him. I asked if he was talking to them. He said he only messaged them to share the gospel."

"Do you believe that?"

I could feel myself shrinking. My shoulders curled inward. My breath went shallow. I was trying to disappear. I was aware how insane I sounded. I'd always just felt all my feelings. Saying them out loud made them sound different. I'd have to be a moron to believe a fifty-year-old man was messaging half-naked twenty-something girls on social media because he wanted to save them by sharing the gospel.

I was a moron.

I believed him. At least I tried to. I didn't have a choice not to. If I didn't believe him, I'd have to consider that he was blatantly lying to me, that he was intentionally disrespecting me, that he was hurtful on purpose. And that would mean the relationship was over. Worse, that it was never real to begin with, and I'd lost two more years of my life catering to a man who didn't care about me.

Which would mean I hadn't loved and lost, I'd just lost and lost.

"He's got really strong faith in God," I said. "He goes to church every Sunday and stands right in the front with his hands held all the way up to the heavens and sings his heart out. He prays constantly. He'll even put his hands on strangers to pray for them."

"So, you believe him," Joe wanted me to clarify.

"I want to," I said.

Chapter Seven: Going Back

Social activities were still limited from the pandemic. The kids were learning remotely, I was working remotely. Church was telecast. We could go weeks without seeing anyone in person besides each other. Before we broke up the third time (or was it the fourth?), Gunther had built a chicken coop for me in my back yard. Before it was completed, I’d done something to upset him and then I had to finish it myself.

Becoming more self-sufficient seemed as good a distraction as any. I got a circular saw from Home Depot. I learned how to cut straight lines and angles. With each hardware screw I drove into the wood, I developed a stronger sense of autonomy. I painted the coop inside and outside, surrounded it with hardware cloth to keep out the predators, screwed hinges on the doors. But when it came to finishing the roof, I knew I would need help, expert help.

My kids were at their dad’s house for the week and a storm was coming.  I needed Gunther. It had been months since I'd spoken with him. I wasn't sure if Gunther was the only one who could help me or if I was finding an excuse to reach out to him. But after months of therapy with Joe, I wanted to believe I was stronger, smarter and healed enough to move into something better with Gunther. Something like friendship.

Maybe there was a way of staying connected without the attachment. Like adults.

“Hi Gunther,” I texted in my professional, mature, healed tone. “I hope you are doing well.  I need some help with this roof and was wondering if you might be available to help any time in the next week.”

Within fifteen minutes, he was at my house with his tools. Ten minutes after that, we were in my bed.

We spent the rest of the day together. He told me about all the chickens he had hatched. He’d leased ten acres of pasture to start a poultry farm. He was so excited telling me, and I was hanging on every word.

“I got an industrial size incubator.” His eyes were twinkling. “I’ve been hatching hundreds of chicks.”

"Baby chickens? You have hundreds of baby chickens?" I had to see them. I had to know everything about them. I was jealous of those chickens getting to spend all that time with him, getting all his attention. But I also understood it. How can you not love chickens?

The metal pieces for the roof were already at my house, and the frame was solid, but I needed help getting them lifted up and placed. And I didn’t know how to fasten them.

He brought his big ladder with him and together we got the metal roofing layed out over the frame.  He talked me through it from below, telling me exactly how much overlap I needed. 

“Now drill in the holes! You’ve got to really lean into it!” he shouted, encouraging me.

I leaned my whole body into in and the screw pushed down with a final squeal as it tightened on the roof. It was secure in the wood behind it.

When the roof was done, I roared with pride and satisfaction.

“I did it!” I shouted. I held my arms up and shook my fists in victory. 

Gunther took a picture of me. I looked strong, happy and capable.

After that, we grabbed something to eat. Then he asked if I wanted to go look at all his baby chickens.  You know I wanted to! And just like that, we were back together. Back to our old banter, back in love as if the past four months of separation and pain never happened.

"You can sell those baby chicks and get some money coming in to cover feed costs," I said. "I can build you a website."

"I don't know about that," he said. "I'm so busy."

"I can help."

The next week, I created a Shopify website and developed a logo with someone on Fiverr. Then, I finished the website, made a list of shipping supplies to buy, and ordered business cards.

When the business cards arrived with his name on them, I gave them to him.

He loved them.

And with that our romance took on a new level. We were friends, lovers, and business partners. He built the coops, I handled marketing. I couldn't have imagined a better life. I was in heaven.

Then, Gunther fired me and dumped me. He accused me of being too controlling.

"It's my business, not yours," he said.

The ground fell out from under me. This was supposed to be our dream, our shared passion, but suddenly it was just his. Once again, I wanted to believe the fantasy, but the truth crashed down. I'd ignored the warnings, free-falling into heartbreak, blindsided by the reality I'd refused to see.

I couldn't do it anymore. The cycle was draining me. I was hiding from my kids in my room so I could cry for hours. I had to stop. It was time to try something different.

Chapter Eight: Breakthroughs with Natalie

I went back to therapy, this time with a new therapist named Natalie. Just like with Joe, I was hoping she could fix me. Unlike Joe, she didn't ask why I acted the way I did. She didn't dwell on why or ask the history of the relationship. She wanted to know my goals. She wanted me to envision a future where I was happy. She told me about neuroplasticity and gave me homework.

"Where do you want to see yourself in three months and a year?"

The pandemic was lifting. There were more opportunities to go out and do things.  I made an effort to see her in person.  The forty-five minute drive to her office felt important, a break from the isolation of working from home. I balanced Zoom appointments with in-person visits, sometimes taking the day off to run errands and clear my head.

Leaving the house felt liberating. The convenience of working at home plus the pandemic meant that I would sometimes go weeks without leaving my house for more than groceries.

Her office, nestled in a growing arts district, reminded me of Portland in the late nineties. The building had a co-working space with exposed brick walls and a small coffee bar. Natalie's office was simple yet eclectic, with quirky lamps that added to its charm.

"It's a classic dilemma," she said, reviewing my homework. "You have conflicting values. Your loyalty and compassion are compromising your self-respect."

No judgment, just a fact. Before I could even feel defensive, she moved on.

"One thing I've noticed during our sessions is that you're deeply committed. When you invest yourself, you go all in."

"Is that bad?" I asked.

"Of course not!" she replied. "It's great!"

"Then why am I miserable? Why am I stuck in these cycles?"

"First of all, it really doesn't matter why. The important thing is to recognize that this is a core trait. It's who you are. You can't change who you are."

"True," I agreed, "I've tried, and it never works."

"But what you can do is adjust how you express these traits, and where you direct them."

"I'm not following," I felt anxious. What was she saying?

"Acknowledge who you are and redirect that energy toward people and things that value you."

"Who? Where?" I was frustrated. I'd tried to move on. I went on dates, even had a fling, but always ran back to Gunther. It felt impossible.

"You."

"Me?"

"Yes," she said, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "What if," she tried again, "you took all these great characteristics of yours," she picked up my values and traits homework pages, "and used them on yourself?"

I felt like I'd heard this before. "Love yourself." But how? I didn't need platitudes, I needed help. I needed action. I needed a to-do list.

"Everything you did for Gunther—the way you always saw the best in him, the way you forgave him for everything big and small, the way you believed in him—those are your traits. Those traits belong to you. You can choose where you direct them. What if all that faith and grace and patience you give to others, you give in yourself instead?

"What if," she continued as I tried to take it all in. "What if the best thing you can give to the people you love is the best version of yourself?"

It had never occurred to me that my constant sacrifice wasn’t what other people wanted from me. What they really wanted was for me to be happy and whole. For them, I was willing to try.

Chapter Nine: Investing in Myself

What did I love before I loved Gunther? I hadn't asked myself that question in so long, and the answer didn't come easily at first. But as I sat with it, the memories came back. I made a list.

I loved to write. I loved to be in nature. I loved spending time with my kids and with friends. I loved live music. I loved live performance of any kind, especially theater. I loved to read.

Then, I tasked myself with finding ways to re-engage with these things.

I joined a writing workshop and resumed work on the novel I'd started in 2017, before I met Gunther. The workshop, which met online weekly, became a space where I could share my work and offer feedback to others. Connecting via Zoom felt almost as natural as meeting in person, and it reminded me that living in a small, remote location didn't limit my access to creative communities like it used to. There were writers from all over the US and Canada in the workshop.

I also found ways to be more active and explore the local area. When my kids were with their dad, I'd drive north to New Bern, rent a kayak, and paddle for hours, feeling the wind on my skin, watching the sunlight rippling on the water.

The sounds of birds diving and fish jumping brought me back to myself, reminding me of the beauty I'd seen in places like Mount Hood in Oregon, and Wind River Wilderness, the Boundary Waters of Minnesota and Canada. I hadn't been able to travel since my divorce but that didn't mean I wouldn't do it again. Even just an hour up the road was an opportunity to see something different. I could explore all kinds of places within a couple hours’ drive and be back at home to sleep by dark. It reminded me of how big, promising, and full of opportunity the world was outside the four walls of my house where I'd been hiding. In those quiet moments, I started to believe I could reclaim that beauty in my own life.

Meanwhile, I continued therapy with Natalie. I found myself thinking less about Gunther and more about the life I could build on my own. Even though I still thought about him and had the urge to contact him, I didn't act on it. I was sleeping better, crying less, and things were genuinely improving. I felt good.

One evening, while helping my daughter with her college applications, I kept getting redirected to the graduate school page for University of North Carolina in Wilmington. At first, I was frustrated. She was applying for undergrad, and not even at UNCW. She wanted to go to NC State. But after it happened again, I decided to read the page.

Graduate classes were starting on a rolling basis. “Apply Now and start classes in a couple weeks!” The banner kept popping up, impossible to close.

I’d considered going to grad school years ago, it felt like lifetimes ago.  I was accepted into the Information Sciences program at University of Washington in Seattle. I never enrolled. Instead, I moved to California and married my ex-husband. I remembered how good it felt to be accepted into grad school with the promise of specializing in something, getting deep into the details. But I was too old now, too broke and didn't even know what I would do with a graduate degree. I scolded myself for even lingering. I was supposed to be helping my daughter, not getting lost in daydreams for myself.

I navigated away from the page and found the information my daughter needed, but the thought of applying lingered. Would I ever go back to school? Could it help me gain the skills to get a better job? I looked up the costs for the test and study materials, and it was far too expensive. The books alone were several hundred dollars and then there was the fee to take the test. What a ridiculous idea. I put the thought, and the possibility, aside. Then I remembered, entrance exams had been waived for undergraduates due to COVID and still hadn’t been reinstated. My daughter wasn’t required to submit hers she applied to college. Many kids never even took the test. What if they were waived for grad school too? I brought up a browser on my phone, gazing at the too bright glow of the screen and confirmed it. There was no GRE requirement. All I needed were two references, an application, and a $75 fee.

"If I apply to grad school, will you write a reference letter for me?" I texted my cousin Jae. It was 11pm.

"You're applying to grad school?"

"Let's not get sidetracked. Will you?"

"Of course."

I filled out the application on my phone. This was crazy! I didn't have $75 to spare, and I definitely couldn't afford grad school! But for once, I wanted a good feeling just for me. I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the "submit" button. Was it reckless? Maybe. But in that moment, I craved the feeling of possibility more than I feared the risk. So, I hit submit.

The next week, the admissions counselor called me. I was in. The acceptance letter was in my inbox. I was accepted. I was chosen. I had value. If I wanted to attend, I could start as soon as three weeks.  But of course, I wasn’t going to do that.

Chapter Ten: Embracing Change

"I did something crazy," I told Natalie.

"I'll be the judge of crazy," she joked.

"Right." I laughed. "That's your job."

"What did you do?"

"Well, it felt reckless and irresponsible, but also good. Nothing will come of it, though. It was just a good ego boost!"

"What was it?" she asked with excitement, enjoying my enthusiasm.

"I filled out an application to grad school."

"And?"

"I got in!"

"Congratulations!" she exclaimed. "I had no idea you were looking into grad school."

"I didn't either," I confessed. "I applied on a whim."

"This is wonderful news! What will your degree be?”

“It’s an online degree program for an MBA, but I'm not going to actually go," I replied, thinking it should have been obvious.

"Why not?"

The most obvious reason was money. But underneath that was the heavier truth: I didn't believe I would do well. I had always struggled under pressure, and the thought of facing exams, deadlines, and the possibility of failure sent my stomach into knots. It was safer not to try.

"I can't afford it," I said, hoping that would put the idea to rest.

"If you could afford to go, would you go?"

The thought of having the money to attend school was so wildly impossible that it felt safe to say yes, even though money wouldn't erase my insecurities about my academic abilities.

"I guess. Yeah, probably."

"Your employer will probably pay for it," she said. "See if you can find out."

I hadn't considered that. Natalie had simultaneously called my bluff and ignited a flicker of hope. What if it was possible? Would it make a difference in my career? Would it make a difference in my finances? Would it make a difference in my life?

I told myself once I got my kids launched successfully into adulthood, I'd figure it out. I'd sell my house, live in my car, move in with my parents. I'd scale back to almost nothing so I could put everything into paying off my debt. I joked with my kids about living in a tent in their back yards when they have their own homes. "It will be just me and a couple chickens. You'll barely notice us!" It would have been funnier if I wasn't serious. But maybe there was another path. Maybe I should try?