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.