2020

It’s the perfect day for a drive. Seventy-three degrees. Partly cloudy. The sun is high but merciful—just out of my eyes. In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of my sweet girl, fast asleep, blissfully unaware… Tennessee stretched behind her like a soft watercolor. For the first time in a long, long time, I feel free.

Crossing that state line, something in me unclenches. I can feel it in my chest, the tightness I’ve carried giving way to air. I sigh with relief—an honest, heavy, soul-deep sigh. I let go of the anger. The forced strength. The pretending. I let it all fall away, and I finally cry.

There’s something particularly hellish about quiet misery. It’s not loud or dramatic; it doesn’t bruise the skin. But it eats you slowly—every day, in every small way. You live in constant worry that one wrong word will send him spinning. Smiles and laughs so rare when they appear, you doubt your own sanity. It’s a dull, steady ache instead of a sharp wound. And when people ask why you left, it almost sounds petty.

“At least no one had an affair,” someone actually said to me.

As if that was supposed to make it easier.

Honestly, I almost wish he had. Then I’d know how to feel.

But instead, I just feel broken. Not shattered—just ground down. I wouldn’t say I’ve had a hard life, but I’ve been through some shit. And this… this was the worst of it. The kind of story you see in a movie or hear through a friend of a friend—but never imagine being your own. It’s humiliating, really. Painful in a way that seeps into your bones.

How did I have so little self-respect?

Why couldn’t I stand up for myself?

Was I scared of nothing, or was he really that much of a prick?

He managed to both smother me and leave me utterly alone. His neglect filled every corner of my mind until there was no space left for me. I could never understand why he didn’t love me, and I obsessed over how to make him. Every good thing I tried turned sour. Everything I did was wrong; everything he did was right. He took me from everything familiar and trapped me in his cold, lonely hell.

But I’m free now.

And I will never, ever go back.

I know I can’t control everything, but I refuse to let my pain come from what I could’ve prevented. I have to be better—for her. I want to show her that she deserves more. That she deserves everything. That if she ever feels small, she has the power to rise, to rebuild, to reach for the life she dreams of.

So I’ll lead by example. No more shrinking. No more settling. Life will throw its punches, but I won’t be the one swinging at myself anymore. This is my chance to begin again, and I won’t waste it.

I’m calling this my one-and-done.

No more quarter-life crises, please.

I’m free of the weight of what was. I’m moving on.

By the time the tears dry, I feel lighter—like peace might actually be real. I exhale. For the first time, I mean it. The realization hits, and I weep again, this time from the bottom of my heart. I cry until there’s nothing left and the sobs fade into a smile with hope for what’s to come.

That’s how I spend the rest of the drive: sigh, sob, smile.

Sigh, sob, smile.

For three hours.

Isn’t that just how life works? You finally get your footing, and then the ground shifts. Everything falls apart. You hit bottom, convinced you’ll never climb out. You sob, you sulk, you ache. Life can be brutal. But then—somehow—it softens. Something happens. A tiny flicker of good breaks through the fog. A song. A memory. A dollar on the sidewalk. It doesn’t take much. The valleys feel so wide and endless until someone comes along and reminds you it was never as deep as you thought. And suddenly, it’s all alright.

Notice I said someone.

“Someone will come around.”

That’s always been my way of thinking. Everything’s about someone.

When I look back on my life, I don’t think about how I treated people, or if I was kind, or if I made myself proud. I think about relationships. About lovers and almost-lovers. From the meaningless and mundane to the passionate and messy. I don’t remember how they made me feel; I remember where we went, what we did, the places we saw. I’ve spent so much of my life romanticizing moments that were never truly mine—pouring everything into relationships that kept running dry. Each time, I swore it was the one.

I don’t think about the years I fought depression or the seasons I thrived. I don’t think about career milestones or family memories. I think about love—and when I’ll find it again.

Why am I so consumed by it? Why does the state of my heart control the state of my soul? It’s both depressing and strangely motivating. At the end of a terrible week, if my relationship is thriving, I convince myself the week was good. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s purpose. It feels good to love. It feels damn good to care for someone. But so do a lot of things. So why this? Why love?

Everyone’s put here for something. Some are meant to climb, to build empires out of grit. Some are meant to lead, others to follow.

Me?

I was meant to love—deeply, fiercely, fully—and this time, I’m starting with myself.