Sabrina Michele

It still doesn’t feel real, you know? 40. I know that’s probably the most overused statement, but it really doesn’t. I have spent so much time thinking about this birthday. Reflecting on my life, the past ten years, everything that’s led me to where I am now, and the words I wanted to say about it all just felt elusive and, admittedly, just not quite right. I did try to write all of the words I’ve been feeling leading up to my birthday, and while these words were true, they also weren’t what I really wanted to say. Not really. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about this blog. This medium. Who I am writing this for. Who my audience is. And when I really thought about it, the truth is that these words have always been for me. With that said, I also acknowledge that these words have resonated with so many, and they also offer a glimpse into my life, behind the beautiful pictures and stories I share on Instagram; that, while true, are only a small part of the bigger picture that is my life. So, even if these words are for me, I believe there is value in my sharing them, and that there are those who (still) want to read them—who want me to share them, and I feel less of an egoist in the sharing. 

When I think about turning 40 it’s almost impossible to not think about each of my forty years on this planet, but especially the last ten, as they have been the biggest, most life changing years of my life thus far. While I loved my thirties, they weren’t without considerable hardship, loss, and pain. I think about all of it and I am stuck on the word growth. I think because it’s what I’ve done. Almost perpetually. I feel, just in the last nine years alone there have existed at least three separate versions of me, ending with the one I am now, and who I believe is the best version of myself. I say it because I still can’t comprehend that I have continued to grow and change so much. And this version of me? It’s honestly everything I ever wanted. When my ex left me, I was…well, it tore my life up, and I was left with so much to process, to grieve, to move on from. But it also woke me up. For the eleven years I was married I felt like I had been ‘stuck’—sleepwalking. And I hated that. I started to really live again afterwards. To find ‘me’ again. And as part of that I intentionally made up my life the way I would want it to look. The person I wanted to become. And while I don’t think I’ll ever arrive, I feel so much closer to that woman today than ever before and I am so damn proud of me for getting here. Despite all of it—all the pain, the heartbreak, the excruciating change and hardship—I am here, writing these words. 

In thinking about how I have changed in the last year, the words that come to mind are ‘peace’ and ‘release’. I feel that I’ve finally come to a place of peace with both my life and with myself. Not that I still don’t have things that I want to do, or to someday have a life partner, but that I am at peace with my life—just as it is now. Even as I feel the constant restlessness in my bones, pushing me to do more, to have more, I am also leaning into the peace of, “I am okay just here. I am enough, just me—here.” There is peace in having grace for yourself, and while I haven’t fully arrived, I am getting more and more comfortable in the discomfort life sometimes brings in the ‘in-between spaces’. 

As to the second word, ‘release’—I feel I am releasing so many things as I enter my 40s. Expectations being a big part of that. The expectations others have of me. Especially when it comes to familial expectations; the expectations, spoken or unspoken of having been raised in the church. But especially the expectations I have had for myself. So many things I have carried with me; things a younger version of me hoped and dreamed and longed for. A loving marriage. Children with a loving and supportive partner in a home that overflowed with so much love and support that our kids would grow sick of it (not really, but they definitely would act like it *laughs*). Expectations and dreams that, as I’ve changed, I finally recognize that it’s okay for these things to change too. So much discomfort in letting these things go, but I find, with each day, more comfort, and more peace knowing that I have and am building a beautiful life; even it doesn’t look the way my 16-year-old, or 25-year-old, or 30-year-old self thought that it would look like. And that’s okay. Because, maybe—just maybe—this life is better than anything I could have planned or dreamed of when I was younger. And yes, I recognize that this life, my life, will make a lot of people uncomfortable. But here’s the thing—I frankly don’t fucking care. My life isn’t meant to make people comfortable. I have a big heart, and a big voice, and I won’t allow others opinions or expectations of me stop me from pursuing and living the most amazing and authentic life I was meant to live. For this I am damn proud and unapologetic. 

There are other things of course that come to mind when thinking about this birthday. The relationships—at least the big and meaningful ones since my divorce—are hard to not think about. I know I shouldn’t dwell on it (and I honestly don’t), but the fact that every single major relationship/love I’ve had over the last nine years, is now married(??)—it’s an exceptionally hard pill to swallow. Coupled closely with the fact that it has been nine years. And, as those closest to me know, my being single is not for a lack of trying, of putting myself out there, for keeping my heart open, or having hope—one more time. I know it’s not because of me. The simple truth is that I have fallen in love five times in the last nine years. And every time it’s ended. I don’t even want to get into the “whys” here—they feel superfluous and beside the point. With all of that said, I do feel it worth acknowledging that I know I put myself out there, with my whole heart, in a really terrifying and vulnerable way. And when I loved someone, I made sure that they knew. Because I am a big believer in not leaving anything important left unsaid, particularly when it comes to love. The thing is—I acknowledge that I love intensely, and I feel intensely, and, to some (I think) that kind of love is terrifying and overwhelming. It wasn’t to all, but I think, to most of these men they either couldn’t match my feelings or they recognized that they didn’t know what to do with a love like that. I once had one of my exes intimate that to me when we were having a very candid conversation about our relationship a couple of years post-mortem. He told me that I loved in this incredibly big and overwhelming way—and he didn’t know that he could receive that kind of love. My memory and subsequent paraphrase of his words isn’t perfect, but the painful truth of his words still rings true. 

With all of that said, the truth is there is still one person who I can’t quite let go of. There are unspoken words there, for him, that have been rising up within me for a while now, and that I knew I had to write and to share here now. For whatever reason, I felt that I needed to say them now, as I say goodbye to my thirties—and, to finally find a peace about him, about us, in leaving these words on the page. He was the first big love for me. A love that made me believe that all of the pain of my divorce may have been worth it, because I felt so keenly that we were right, in so many ways. And he has been there ever since—the impossible measuring stick that I unconsciously measure someone against. Because so many things were just right. And, in my heart of hearts, I believe are still right. Despite all of the pain, my heart believes I need to leave these words here now. If for no other reason, to know that I am leaving it all on the page. And I will walk away knowing I live that kind of love. The big and crazy kind I have spent my life looking for. Bold and big words. Not afraid of what other people think. Because you’re not willing to let that person go ’til they know how you feel—come what may. And I truly have no expectations following these words. But I know the only way that I can finally let him go, to face my forties, and my next chapters, is to leave it all here. So I am. And damn it feels good—to finally have these words out (albeit terrifying, too). But I also know I wouldn’t have it any other way. I intend to continue to live a very big life. Even if I don’t exactly know what that life will look like, I know it will be one full of love, of belonging, and many, many adventures. I know this because I finally know me. And that is the life I plan on living. 

To my forties—I’m still not quite sure about you, and I’m definitely not quite ready to concede I am 40. But I am here, and I am ready for what’s next. Here’s to the next decade. To leaning far into all of the things I know I am called to do from here. And to finally not letting my fear keeping me from wholeheartedly doing them. 

To the amazing people I am blessed to call my friends—who merit the word—and who also just keep showing up, endlessly. “I love you.” Thank you for believing in me, even when I stopped, and then some. I couldn’t do this life without you, and I hope I never have to. 

And to everyone else reading this—Thank you for reading. I hope that something here inspires you, or makes you smile, or encourages you in some other way. We are all doing our best in this journey that is life and I am genuinely grateful for you taking the time to listen to a part of mine. 

And with that, I will leave you with this letter. To him, your name isn’t here, but you will know this is for you. 

Love always, 

Sabrina 

Dear A.,

You once told me that words have power. It’s something I have kept and I know has shaped so many big conversations I have had since then, but it’s also meant I haven’t always said all of the words, to you. As I look forward to this next birthday, to the next decade, and the next chapter of my life, I can’t help but reflect on the past nine years, but especially you. The simple truth is that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since you reached out to me a little over a year ago, now. Thinking about all of the words we shared with each other—a time for so many truths, for forgiveness, for validation, for realizations (I think)—for both of us. As I face my future, it seems appropriate to try to leave you here, in Sacramento, as I look to move forward (in more ways than one), and to try now to tell you all of my truths. Whether you ever see this, as scary and big and as powerful as sharing these words here is, I will leave them on the page knowing I will have left nothing left unsaid as it relates to you. 

I think something I have always known, and maybe you finally realized when you texted me last year, is the connection we have, that I feel every single time; whether you text, or I see you in person—it’s unreal how powerful it is. You have always made me feel this way, from the moment I first saw you so many years ago. I have never felt anything like it, A. Nothing before or after can compare to it. It’s special and it is rare. But it’s more than just attraction, as crazy and powerful as that aspect of our relationship has always been, I have to believe you know it’s so much more this that. The way we talk. How it has always felt like we finish each other’s sentences. It has always just felt easy, and so unbelievably natural. Falling in love with you was so easy because I absolutely loved every single part of you. But, of course, that scared the shit out of me. Because it was so fast, and I think it scared you too. So unsure how to tell you. Especially when just being around you made me so nervous to begin with, in a good way. The best way, honestly. When you like someone so much it makes you shy. And trust me, “shy” is so atypical for me. Honestly, you might laugh at this, but it took someone else who knew me well to tell me that he saw it first. I was telling him the story of the time we were at my place and you had pointed out my favorite book first in my bookshelf, The Book Thief. Without hearing anything else, he told me, “And that’s the moment you fell in love with him.” I was so scared of that word, A, after so much heartbreak. But I did realize it. I did fall in love with you. With all of you. But unfortunately not before you left, and the story, our story, gets so hard and painful. I am glad we finally have answers now, we have closure now, we have forgiveness now, but,…but I still wonder just how different life might have been had we made different choices.  

When we were first seeing each other I took a trip to San Francisco to see an old friend who had reached out. I’m sure a part of you wondered about that. The truth is I couldn’t stop talking about you. I think he had hoped something might happen between us, but instead the Sabrina he saw had already fallen for you. He saw it. He saw how I lit up just talking about you. It makes me laugh just thinking about it. I don’t think anyone has ever made me act like that. To light me up like the fourth of July. To wake up next to you already so unbelievably, ridiculously happy. For no other reason than I was with you. He saw it and he teased me for it, of course. He told me, “You’re going to get married to this man and have three kids with him.” And I blushed probably three shades of red at that, but I couldn’t disagree with him, either. As scary as that feeling was, I knew I could see it. With you. All of it. And I wanted to risk it, all of it, with you. It’s why, at the risk of pride/however it might look, I wrote you that seven page letter. I couldn’t imagine or understand how you couldn’t feel what I did. How anyone would throw something so amazing away. And I had to be sure you knew how I felt. I have thought about this so much over the years. While I am grateful you never thought that me writing you that letter was dumb or overly emotional, I feel no shame for sending that to you, nor for writing all of these words now. The truth is that I want to have that kind of love. To be that kind of person who sends the seven page letter. Who writes vulnerable words to you, eight years later. Because I still have that crazy love. I love you. And while that love has obviously changed, it hasn’t gone away. A part of me will always love you. Even if I don’t love what you did, or how much you hurt me, the love for what we had, what we still have, even all these years later, is there. And I want to be the kind of person who is brave enough to say it. Even if we never get to find out what that could look like together, I want you to know there will always be a part of me that hopes to find out. You once said that it was always going to be complicated with us—that I deserve a “simple love.” And while I truly don’t understand that—why you never saw how much I just wanted you—I do disagree, respectfully. I think love is complicated, and rarely straightforward. Because we aren’t simple. We are, each of us, imperfect and we each have our own traumas that we bring with us. With all of that said, and even acknowledging there would be work, and I would need you to work to regain and rebuild my trust in you to not hurt me again, I can’t imagine anyone else, thus far, I would rather work to be with and share a life with. 

It is so hard, leaving this here, and in so many ways, leaving all of this here. You. The thoughts. All of the words shared. But I also feel it is all I can do. To finally have a way to move forward. To find, maybe one day, a love and a connection as big as the one we have. I feel so many mixed emotions about you reading this. I hope that you read this, but I also hope you do not. I know you are with someone else now. I am sad, so unbelievably sad that you are, but I also hope you are happy. More than anything else, I hope you find the happiness within yourself that has eluded you all of these years. I hope you stop trying to fill it with all of the other things. I hope you find you, just as I have these past nine years. I hope that one day you and I get another chance, but even if we don’t, I will be grateful for the insanely big and amazing love we had—for all the moments and the memories. I love you. And I still miss you. But I am leaving you here now. I meant everything I said, and I still meant what I said, if you ever find yourself single again…but I also know you wouldn’t want me to not live my life in the waiting. I am living a very big life, A. One that makes me think of you, still. One that I know you’d be proud of. Here’s to words having power. And here’s to sharing them anyway. I know I won’t ever regret leaving it all here. And here’s to seeing what surprises life has in store for us yet.

All my love,

(i.e., 2022 was really fucking hard, and 2023 wasn’t much better)

It has taken me such a long time to get here. “Here” representing so many things for me, but we’ll start with finally feeling like me again. To feel happy, to feel peace, to feel something past the hurt and grief that I inevitably feel when something has ended and that, this time around, represents not one, but two relationships ending in the past year (for good), as well as the end of one of the most trying and stressful situations I’ve experienced with the loss of the place I called home—time and time, and time again. Throw in an unexpected job loss and you’ll have a sense of what 2022 and 2023 had in store for me. It’s one thing to go through all of those stressful, hard situations, but it’s also another navigating the incredible empty space left in its wake. Something I have had a lot of since then is time and peace, which I have learned is especially uncomfortable when you realize your normal has been chaos for so long. Both of which I have been learning to lean into, to find ‘me’ again in what I can only say feels like a new chapter. As cliché as that expression is, it feels fitting after so much heartache, loss, and change. And when I say loss, I don’t mean just romantic relationships, but unfortunately friendships as well. 

Something I have realized recently in the time and space left for me to process everything is how much of my writing has been focused on the relationships and their endings. I don’t think I’ve ever spent time dwelling on or talking about the grieving, the healing, and, hopefully at some point, the closure that comes after something ends. I think, in so many ways, the reason is because I didn’t know how to. All I knew how to do was feel—all the raw emotions, hoping that at one point it would stop or I would have someone (new) to help me forget the hurt and pain the last person caused me. I think it’s only now, in the absence of chaos and distractions, that I’ve been forced to face it: the grieving of a relationship. And processing all of it—the good, the bad, what you need to take away from it, and what you need to truly, finally, let that person go, for good. I’m grateful for the humans who have showed up for me in this space of life. It’s hard for me to talk about it—any of it, because the last few years have felt…well, it feels like I have been scrubbed raw in so many parts of my life. I have had two big, big loves; both broke my heart, each in their own way, but I think the biggest and hardest part for me was that I could see it. “It” being a life with him. It was the longest and the closest thing to the relationship I have been looking and longing for—and yet, also not what I deserved or needed. In each of the loves I have felt in the past eight years, I cannot regret falling for either of these two men either; but with that said, the hurt that each one inflicted—it’s the kind of pain I wouldn’t wish on anyone. As hard as it is for me to admit here, it’s a pain I feel even more keenly as I identify as a highly sensitive person. It’s not something I have ever felt comfortable sharing before, but as I openly talk about grief, loss, and healing it feels only appropriate to share this. I don’t just ‘bounce back.’ I don’t date or love casually. I never have. I love and feel deeply, and the magnitude of the pain I feel when it ends is commensurate to the love or feelings that I felt for that person. Every loss is a bit different, the pain feels a bit different, but I will say, this most recent loss, it gutted me. There really isn’t much more I can or want to say about the man or the relationship, but I want to at least acknowledge its existence. I want to say this, and then no more: 

I got to feel what it is to feel love beyond the beginning stages. I got to feel cared for in a way I never imagined possible in a world full of selfish, and unsafe love. I got to imagine a life spent with this person. And as amazing as all that felt, it was all the more devastating when it came crashing down. Despite all that happened, and all that was said, he burned us to the fucking ground, and as hard as that was, I am at least left with the knowledge, and the undeniable truth, that I deserve so much more. I deserve better. And as hard as it has been, I can now grieve. I can heal. And I can move on. And I am. I have. I’m just doing it alone, and that’s okay. 

I think a big reason why I feel I want to write about it—not just the hurt, but also the grieving, the healing, the moving on, is because, 1) I want to acknowledge this space; it’s not just a gap in my writing—hard shit has happened and I haven’t been okay, but also, 2) It’s only now that I can finally write about it because I do (finally) feel like I can. I can’t write about a hard break-up when I’m still “in it.” It’s far too triggering trying to and it can even put me in a dark place mentally just trying to write about it too quickly. Even here, writing these words, it has been fucking hard. Thinking about it has brought these feelings back, and with them tears, but I do truly feel like I have grieved; I have moved on and I have closure, so I feel safe to finally go there now. 

— — —

Picking these words up again, months later, it all feels exactly as it did when I first wrote them, and yet, also so much farther away, but in a good way. It’s been almost exactly a year since one of these relationships blew up, and while that pain is still there (even now), when I think about him, about us, with each month that has passed, with it has been healing, and I do finally feel good again—like ‘me’ again. While that closure and space hasn’t brought with it a new relationship, it has left me with the knowledge and confidence that I am ready for all that I am wanting. I don’t know the when, or the where, but me—who I am today—is ready for a different kind of relationship, a different kind of love. And I can’t tell you how good that feels. Am I never going to make mistakes again? No. Am I going to easily navigate dating someone new for the first time in a very long time? I honestly don’t know. I’d like to think and hope that I will do so better with each time I attempt to. But I also know that I am going to navigate it as me. I’m going to keep communicating. And with each person, be more honest (clear is kind, unclear is unkind). And continue practicing the hard things for me, namely, asking for what I need. And I already know this version of me is already the best version of me that’s ever been, and I love that. I’m so fucking proud of that. 

— — —

I suppose it’s safe to say that with it taking me this long to write this—across three separate writing sessions, now—it is a testament to how hard it has been for me to write about this. Initially I didn’t know how to speak to a relationship that, on its head, was complicated and never public knowledge. Then, following me finally finding the words to start talking about it, “Okay, how do I actually end writing about this?” Not that every story has to be prettily wrapped up—to essentially “put a bow on it.” But, to still find a meaningful way to close this. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and how I want to speak to it, but the completely honest truth is that I feel there is an expectation from the people who read this (for lack of a better expression) to hear a “happy ending.” “The girl in our story has her heart broken, time and time again, but she’s finally met someone. She finally has someone who lights her up. Who feels safe. Who when she talks about him, she lights up like the fourth of July.” But the hard truth is that this still hasn’t happened. To steal a quote from a dear friend, every time I have a glimpse of something, every time I have hope, water gets poured all over it. I still think this may be an entirely different post—that I have dated, mostly unsuccessfully, for close to nine years. I repeat, “Nine years.” In this space I have fallen in love, and I have had my heart broken, five times now. Which doesn’t even include all of the other men I dated that I wanted to feel safe to fall for, but never did. So how do I speak to all of this? I will speak my truth. Even when it’s painful and inconvenient. I am still just me. I am still so unbelievably strong, resilient, and to add a new word a new friend recently shared with me, “brave.” And this last word feels fitting as being strong for so long feels so incredibly exhausting. I can’t tell you how long I have craved to have someone to lean on in these hard moments and seasons that life has dealt me. But it hasn’t. Life hasn’t given me that, for some reason that I can’t begin to comprehend right now, because I know all that I am and all that I have to offer. I know how amazing and deserving I am. So I am brave. I am brave every day that I get out of bed and face what life has to throw at me that day. I am brave when I go on that date (again). And I am brave for (somehow) not letting all of the bullshit harden me. For not becoming jaded. For somehow still having this incredibly big, soft heart. But, with all that said, it’s a heart that has zero fucks left to give, who will kick anyone to the curb who disrespects her, her time, or is a shitty fucking communicator, or who doesn’t match my effort, so fucking fast. (And no, I am totally not venting about how shitty the men of Sacramento are right now.) laughs I am proud of the woman I am today. Even if I never imagined, nine years later, that I would still be single, I see all the versions of me that have come into being in these nine years—each one stronger, more secure, more confident, more owning all that she fucking is than ever before—and I am so proud of this woman. Even if, and maybe especially because, she is alone. And while I still hope for and want a partner in my life, I feel very proud of the life I’ve created, just me. 

Going back to where this all began, nine years ago—me finding myself again post my ex leaving/my divorce, I wanted to create a life I was excited and proud of. I knew in this rare moment, I have the capacity for real change. And I fully embraced it. For the better. What I couldn’t comprehend then, but what I’ve witnessed is continual growth. An evolution into the best version of me that I could have ever hoped for. With all of that said, I recognize that this doesn’t make finding someone easier—if anything, it’s much harder—because I know myself, I know what I want/deserve, and I abso-fucking-lutely will not accept anyone’s bullshit or shitty behavior any longer. So yeah, the bar is set high. But I also wouldn’t have it any other way. When I think of how best to put this, I think of what we tell our children to aim for in life: 

Aim high. Go all in. Shoot for the stars! Because you can do anything, baby. The sky’s the limit!

Cliché? Maybe. But I’m being me. And I’m aiming high. I feel blessed to have gotten to experience and feel each of these loves, as hard as each fall was; I still felt that. And there’s no coming back from that. There’s no replacing true connection. True chemistry. The person you can talk to for hours. Who feels like home when you’re with them. I don’t know why life has been so cruel these past nine years but I have to trust there is a reason. And as I stare down my next birthday, a new decade, I can’t help but believe it’s the beginning of another new chapter for me. Frankly, this particular chapter has been so bad I almost want to call it a new book. Whatever I call it, I sense big changes are in store, and I am actively willing them into being, even if life seems dead set at laughing at my attempts to speed up her timing for my life. Even so, I still believe big and beautiful things are in store. And yes, there is my seemingly never ending optimism to wrap this up. Yes, I do laugh at myself a little for it, but to that I can only say, I have to hold onto hope. Hope that this hasn’t all been in vain. Hope that ‘it’ still exists. Can exist. Just as I exist here, writing these words. So that one day a different kind of story can be written. Until then, I promise to keep being the painfully honest Sabrina you know me to be. And I promise to share more soon. Currently just trying to make it out of what has been an incredibly long, hard, sad season. But with the arrival of Spring, and the promise of a beautiful Summer, I feel that I am coming back into myself. And I will continue to keep showing up. To keep being brave. And to keep trusting: There is so much more in store. And it will get better. Soon.

Until then, sending my love. Always.

Sabrina 

The “In-between” space

It’s hard, talking about it—it feels like the white elephant in not just the room, but every single one of my relationships, and it’s just exhausting—my dating life, or the glaringly absence of one, as it were. Because it’s how we are wired, in our society, to think and to see people. You “should” be with someone. A half of “a whole,” a couple, a relationship, and god forbid you’re not, because then you’re, well, you’re not, and we need to “fix you.” Granted, no one actually says this to your face, but it’s felt. No matter what you’re doing, or have done, somehow your singleness is “your fault,” or there’s something you’re “not doing right.” It can’t be anything else now can it? Frankly, I’m very tired of the conversation, and I’m VERY over the completely unwelcome and unhelpful “advice” people give me like that will somehow be the key to “fix me.” To be clear, I am in love with the person I have become and grown into these past nine years I’ve spent finding myself being newly single. I am NOT broken, and I am NOT “less than” by being not part of a relationship. With that said, I’m not willing to settle (not any more—I settled, without meaning to, in my marriage for eleven years, and I don’t intend to spend another day of my life doing so), which is the biggest reason I am still single. I am self aware, and I have spent half of my life going through some incredibly hard shit, and then some, so this woman isn’t willing to accept anything less than the genuine article, so that just means it’s harder to find, and I’ve tried my best to make my peace with the fact that this means more time spent alone. And I am, and I’m learning to find peace here in the “in between.” My life right now feels like I’m in the waiting room, for so many things, that I am waiting and hoping will come to pass, sooner rather than later, but in the meantime, trying my damndest to not go crazy in the waiting. (Apologies as that sentence alone was insane itself.)

I know I haven’t written in a very long time, and I still have a very vulnerable, difficult post I need to share (soon), but as I sit here in this moment, these words find themselves needing to come to the surface, so I will make space for them now. I find myself grieving right now; not even a person, so much, as “what could have been” with a new person I met. In the almost nine years I have been dating, it’s given me so many opportunities to meet people, and so many “what ifs,” if you will, with some incredible humans (and, the flip side of that coin, some not so incredible humans). Thankfully, the first list is much longer than the latter. With that said, I feel like there’s no space for the “what ifs” in life. And maybe it’s the romantic in me that’s even pausing to think about it now, but I do think about this, especially as I’m getting older and the amount of times life allows you to meet someone and have an absolutely incredible moment with them and find genuine true connection, how do we not then take a moment to grieve the “what if” of what could have been with that person? It feels that we’ve become so quick to brush it away, to tell the person who’s grieving, “well they weren’t meant for you, then,” but do we ever pause and stop and say, “It sounds like there could have been something there with this person. I’m sorry that didn’t turn into something more.” I don’t know anymore. How to think about dating, how to talk about dating. But I am tired of hearing the same bullshit. If one more person tells me I need to lower my standards, i.e., settling, I will fucking scream. So, if you’re reading this, and you are “an offender,” or have told your friend “what to do” to “help them,” please stop. Please just be empathetic and listen. And say, “I’m sorry. That must be so hard.” That’s it. We don’t need you to “fix it.” We don’t need your advice (we already get an ear-full). We need you to just be there. That’s it.

As I’m coming out of a disappointing weekend, and a disappointing trip, I find, even here, despite another person disappointing me, I am hopeful. Against all odds. And grateful. So incredibly grateful to the human beings who have showed up for me these past few months. It’s been an incredibly difficult transitionary period for me, coming out of what has felt like never ending hard shit and chaos for the past three years since I was told I was losing my townhouse, and even before that. But in the few months I have found some calm following the storm, I have found a new and exciting new direction and goal, and it’s both scary and exciting, but it’s also helping me to find my way in this hard space that is the “in-between.” I promise to share more when I’m ready to, but for now, I wanted to share this.

When I think about these words, and how they’re perceived/taken by my reader, I know there’s nothing I can say that will change the way that these words are taken, or how people will continue to see me, or other single people like me. What I want, more than anything, to leave you with is this—Do not pity me. Yes, it is sad, and there has been so much loss and hard shit along this journey. But it has also come with so much growth, and so much love, even with each loss, such love. I have lived more in these nine years than so many get to in a lifetime. And I am so damn proud of the woman who’s writing these words today. No, I am not in a relationship. And no, I don’t have it all figured out. But please don’t find me sad. Please, see me as the strong, resilient woman who hasn’t let life keep her down and who still, unyieldingly, believes in love. And believes she will one day find a partner worthy of said love. Because that is the woman I am. Single, yes. Sad, sometimes. But not “sad”—not sad for reinventing her life after her husband walked out nine years ago. I believe I stand in this in between space representing all that can exist outside of what society would like to tell us is, “all there is,” and still finding a beautiful and fulfilled existence, even here. There is more.

All that said, this is still hard. And it takes a toll as I am, as Brené Brown wrote, “wired for belonging and connection.” I still long for connection and love, so I am grieving someone, or the “what could have been” with this person. And as small as that is in the grand scheme, it feels like the moment I needed to finally share some of the things that have been weighing on my heart lately.

For those here with me in this season of singleness, I hope you feel seen and comfort in these words, even if our experiences aren’t the same.

For those who are not, I hope you read these words with maybe a different appreciation for the single experience, and I hope a different approach to how you talk to your single friends going forward.

And to my dear friends who keep showing up, I love you. I couldn’t do this without you. And I hope I never have to. ❤️

Here’s to the hard moments in life, even the sad moments. As unfortunate as they are, I also know they are temporary, and they are the other side of the coin that is some of life’s sweetest moments. Here’s to all of the as of yet unknown, sweet, happy, joyful moments of life (and love) I still have ahead. I’m here, and I’m ready.

Love always,

Dear you,

You were supposed to be here for this. I honestly thought you would be here by now. Six and a half years now, and it certainly hasn’t been for lack of trying…and yet—you’re not here. God I wish you were. I consider myself one of the strongest, most resilient people I know, and yet I still feel like this will take me to my breaking point. I know I will get through this—I will face it just like I’ve faced every other difficult thing I’ve had to deal with thus far—but I wish you were here with me, to face this together. 

I am having to decide whether to buy the place I have lived in for the past nine years (a decision that was thrust upon me recently), or face moving out in less than two month’s time. This decision, no matter what I decide, puts me in a very tight place financially, and in this current market I feel I’m in a “damned if I do, damned if I don’t” situation. And I hate it. I hate feeling forced into a decision I wasn’t ready for, and frankly, never thought I’d be doing by myself. Do not get me wrong, I am so damn proud by the mere fact that I can. On my own. BUT, that doesn’t mean that I’m not also incredibly sad about it too. Because it means I’m not doing this with you. And maybe that doesn’t make sense to you. I often wonder if men and women imagine their future financial decisions differently. For me, I have always imagined that I simply couldn’t, not by myself anyway, and certainly not in Sacramento, CA. But it is also breaking my heart because, in many ways, if I do buy my place, I fear I am cutting myself off from being able to relocate, should you not live here—and I’m just going to say it, I have thought for a long time now that you aren’t here, because I feel I have probably already met all of the men who I could potentially date by now. And yes, I’m sure someone, somewhere is yelling, “That’s not true!!” *laughs* Sure, I get that it’s probably not statistically true, but it doesn’t change the fact that it certainly feels true to me. And let’s be honest, a global pandemic certainly didn’t help matters any. *dramatic eye roll*

Regardless, I wish you were here. I know that all of this, even this, is shaping me into the person I’m supposed to be (and damn it, I’m proud of who that person is so far), but I wish sometimes, especially in the hard times, that you were here to lean on. To tell you how scared I am, to have you listen, to have you hold me. But ultimately, to help make this decision with me. 

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In your absence I feel I am doing pretty damn well navigating this, all things considered. Unfortunately things took a recent turn, and the opportunity I thought I had to buy my place may be getting swept out from under me now, which, after being a perfect tenant for over nine years feels royally shitty. But I am still moving forward, and I’m still going to try. Just knowing I have already been pre-approved feels so huge. Even if this ultimately isn’t meant for me, I can be, and am, proud of that.

Even though you aren’t here, I don’t feel alone in this, which has honestly gotten me through all of this so far. I feel so much love and support from the people I am blessed to call my family and friends. In all of the ups and downs of this past year (and there have been a lot of those), I have always felt I had people I could turn to, and feel supported by, even if that hasn’t looked like the relationship I’ve always wanted to have. If I think about it all, though—if I zoom out on all of this and the decisions I’ve made in my life so far, I feel like I’m making the absolute best ones I can for me each step of the way. 

I was recently driving to work and, while at a stoplight, I noticed a little girl in the car next to me looking over at me and smiling. Looking at her I thought about the woman she must be seeing. I thought about the life that I’ve created, the amazing friendships I have, and all the elements that make me who I am today—that make me, ‘me’—and that I decided were important to who I wanted to be, now, six-and-a-half years later. In that moment I realized that I am creating and living a life to be proud of, and one I would hope might inspire a young girl looking at me from her car window, and maybe even one day my child(ren). And, hopefully, a life that someday aligns with yours. I don’t know if or when it’ll happen, but I hope that it does. And that when you look at me, you will smile too. 

Until then, I’m going to keep doing me, navigating this insane thing we call life, as best I can. I have so many things that I hope for, but I find myself just shy of wanting to say them here. Because it’s hard. Hard to still hope for a person, a partner, a relationship that seems to be an almost impossibility. In a world of compromise, of ‘good enough,’ I often feel like I am the hold out. The one who simply isn’t willing to. There are so many reasons not to compromise, but chief among them is because I have already, when I was married. Maybe without meaning to, but I did all the same. I settled for “good enough,” for the comfort and security of it. Even when it wasn’t good, and especially when it was awful. Having gone through that, and having come out the other side, I won’t ever settle again. Having fallen in love in the subsequent years, and more than once, I feel equal measures of grief and gratitude for each of the loves I have had. Gratitude that I got to experience that, even if it is mixed with the grief of each loss. All that is to say that you will never have to worry that I have (or will) settle. I may date, and that may mean dating more than one person from now, but I refuse to settle on my person. My partner. You. I just hope that whatever it is that has kept us from being together already, resolves itself soon. Because I am ready. For you. More than ready. 

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Sometime in May, 1 month later

So, sometimes things just have to fall apart. At least that’s how it feels right now. It has been such a rollercoaster of emotions these past two weeks. I have gone from renter, to potential first-time home buyer, to…well, to someone who now doesn’t know where she will be living in two month’s time. Succinctly put, after nine years, my landlord decided more money was more important than standing by your word. I’m walking away. And as hard and as scary as that is, it feels right. I have felt called lately to truly listen to what my gut is telling me, and the moment I learned my landlord wanted (significantly) more money, it all became clear that this no longer felt right to me; even if I didn’t know what that would look like, I needed to walk away. And so I am. I know that this will test me, and it will be hard—harder than many may even realize—but it also feels like it’s something I am being called to face. To finally let go of all remnants of my former life, including the skeletons in my proverbial closet, and maybe a very literal attic *laughs*, that I am finally having to face and put to rest. This is just forcing me to finally deal with it. And I am. One (sometimes painful) day at a time. 

In many ways tonight I have thought about what this move will mean, and not so much in some secret hidden meaning, because I am never going to give you some cereal box tag line for how this is a “blessing in disguise,” or some other generic, one-size-fits-all platitude that people who don’t know you are fond of giving, which just ends up sounding disingenuous. *insert both a groan and eye roll here* What I will tell you is this: It does feel like I’m leaving behind the last remaining thing that tied me to my ex—that life that feels like a lifetime ago—and I feel, or maybe I hope, that this is all opening me up for something better, and (dare I say it, dare I hope it), hopefully a life with you. And as hard as the thought of all of this is, thinking it is opening up my life to a new chapter, to something better, to a life with you one day, well, it makes this pill just a bit easier to swallow. Maybe that’s foolish, but I have to try to see something good in this. Because if I am facing having to drastically uproot my life, potentially liquidating half (or more) of all that I own, and facing all the uncertainty that goes with renting with/from someone again, I have to believe it is all going to be worth it—at least hopefully one day. I have to hope that it will be, and that this is temporary. 

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End of July to the end of August, 2 to 3 months later…

So, it’s the end of July now, months later from when I began writing this post, and life feels so vastly different than it did then. So many things, in hindsight, that I took for granted that I once had, and that I am still mourning the loss of. I suppose I should start with the simple fact that I didn’t buy my place. In retrospect, it feels like I wasn’t meant to, for so many reasons, but it didn’t make it any easier walking away from it. It was my home, my safe space in a sea of so much uncertainty, and I felt unmoored and lost when I left her. I am still grieving the loss of my home, because that’s what she was. While I found my new place to move into, it doesn’t mean it was automatically “home” for me. It has, frankly, been a nightmare: with a new roommate, two moves as opposed to the typical one, and landlords who, going into it, made me realize I would only be staying there for 6 months, and not a day longer, because of how awful and shitty they were (and have subsequently only gotten somehow worse)…well, I suppose I will summarize it all and just say this: There has only been one other time in my life that was this hard, and it was the period of time following when my ex-husband left me. This…this was just as hard, but in some ways it has felt even harder because I have (lately) felt almost completely alone in it. Almost exactly the same feeling, but for very different reasons—I was experiencing disenfranchised grief, which, if you don’t know this term yet, disenfranchised grief is grieving the loss of something, someone, or, even, of one’s norm, but the loss is not widely acknowledged or recognized as a loss by those outside of it. Examples of this are a relationship ending, divorce, the loss of a job, or, as I’m sure we all can relate to now, the life we knew and had prior to COVID-19. This can leave the individual feeling isolated—like they are alone in their experience of this loss. And for many, this experience can be just as painful as other widely acknowledged losses. The acknowledgement of said loss and the support someone receives in this loss, then, being the key differentiator between grief and disenfranchised grief. 

For me this period of my life was particularly painful. And, as I’m typing these words a month later, it admittedly still is. I have felt so unsettled, in so many aspects of my life. In my housing; in my new job; in my love life; in some of my closest friendships, even. This loss of “home” has left me feeling more depressed and lost than I have in years. I haven’t felt a period of my life has been as hard since my ex-husband left, seven years ago. With that said, having lost it all, again, I find myself feeling so incredibly grateful for the people who are showing up; who are here. I have gone through hell these past six months, and I can’t but help thinking that at the end of this incredibly fucking hard road, you will be there…at the end of it. Waiting. And not just for me, but for us. To show me just how fucking good this life can be. Even after, or before, or even in the hard shit. To show me how different life can be, with you. I’m not going to lie, I crave and long for it. To have you at the end of it all—at the end of the really hard days, at the end of the really hard talks, the disappointments, but also at the end of all the good and beautiful days and moments, too. I feel like it has been so long, but I know they are there, waiting…and I’m so ready for all of them. With you.

It’s bizarre to me, writing this, now…because there is a chance, a very real possibility, that I will be in a relationship in the near future. Writing these words, with that being a possibility, it’s hard to not wonder…to hope. And I anticipate these words could be read with you filling in the blanks. The honest truth is, I don’t know. And that’s not to say I don’t see you/him in this way. It’s more because, in this new year/chapter of life, I realize that life isn’t as perfectly organized or structured as I once maybe thought it was. Life and love isn’t always, or ever, that black and white. And, maybe, instead…there is gray. I have found myself living in the gray, the unexpected, recently, and I don’t know how else to really speak to it. Other than to say, that life is never what you expect it to be. But it is here. Now, and now, and now. And while I may not have the life I, or others, ever expected, it is a fully lived life. And I know that may not make sense; how is a 38-year-old woman saying this? Here’s what I will say to this: I recently was preparing for a trip, and as we were preparing for takeoff, my thoughts turned where they sometimes do before flying, which to many might sound morbid, but I honestly thought about the “What ifs?” Which all seems to come back to one singular question for me, which is, “If I were to die today, would the people that I love know that I love them?” But I also stopped to ask myself, “If I were to die today, how would I feel about the life I have lived?” And it came to me—I was overwhelmed with how sure I felt about it—I knew that I would be good. Not that I wanted to die, because I certainly don’t, but if I were to, I would die knowing that I had really lived. Fully. And I loved knowing that. And I still do. I am so fucking proud of the life that I have created in the wake of my divorce. I am both nervous and excited about this potential relationship…something I have craved and wanted for so long. But I’m also confident knowing that, no matter what, I am me. And I am going to be okay, even it returns to being just me again. But I am also confident, because I know that I really (really, really) am ready for this. After so many missteps, and start-stops: I am ready. I know who I am. I know what I have to offer. The love I have to give. But I also know, with all of that—that my scars, my hurts will come right to the surface. And I am so scared to have you see them; but I’m also so ready to work through each of them, with the right person. 

God, I am so hopeful. Hopeful that this is you. That you and I finally get to be, here and now. But I also write this knowing that I don’t know, I won’t know, and that’s okay too. I write this in the blind hope that, in the unknowing, there will be beautiful moments too. That I will love again. I will trust someone with my heart, again. And that I will, maybe, know what it is to finally connect with someone, while also having something beautiful, reciprocal, safe, secure and emotionally healthy with them. To truly find a partner. (Which would honestly be the first time I’ve had all of that.) 

There are so many things that I don’t know. But I do know this: I am here, and I am ready. And here, in the waiting, I am committing this to you: I will try to stop thinking five steps ahead. I will be present—to witness the magic in the here and now. I will try to stop holding things so tightly. And when it finally happens, and you are here: I promise to love you fiercely, wholeheartedly and without abandon; to show you all of me, even the parts I’m ashamed and scared to show you; and to never, ever (god willing and the creek don’t rise) take you, or us for granted. 

Love always, 

me

One of the things I would never have expected, would be me looking at this photo of me yesterday, taken four years ago to the day, and feel the overwhelming love and grace for my thirty-four year old self that I did. While I meant to write this yesterday, in true belated fashion, I’m writing it today. So, here it is, my letter to my thirty-four year old self. 

First, I have to just say, damn. You spent so much time worrying about your body; I wish you could see you the way that I do now. You are going to look back and you’re going to realize this was the best you probably ever looked, and even so, you’re learning to love you, ALL of you, in each year of life, especially as you realize just how much this beautiful, strong body has allowed you to do over the years.  When I look at you, at this smile, I remember the reason for it, the person who made you smile like that…and while it still smarts, this person who couldn’t give you what you thought you wanted/needed…who couldn’t say the three words back to you that you found the courage to first say to him…oh babe, I wish you could see what I do now. Your big beautiful heart was broken, so many times, but you found the courage to let him go (finally), and, in hindsight, we can finally see just how beautiful it still was, all of those moments—all of those highs, even when it meant there would be lows. You loved. Your big heart fell in love, and that’s so fucking beautiful. I know it’s been hard, opening yourself up, time and time again. Waiting, always waiting…to feel this way again. I just want you to know that I love your fire, your heart, and your ability to never let it allow you to not still hope that, one day, it would be different. If I could tell you one thing that I wish I knew then, that I am finally starting to appreciate now, it is this: life is here, in this moment. It is this moment, and this moment, and this moment. It’s not dwelling in the past, or stressing about the future, but it’s happening, right here, right now. 

Dear you,

I’ve meant to write you, so many times…and yet it hasn’t felt right, until now. I want to write to you, before I meet you, as I feel there’s so much I want you to know. About the girl before, the girl that was, before the woman you will one day meet. Tonight finally feels like a good time to at least start. Because tonight I just learned my last living grandparent, my grandma Mae, passed away today. My heart breaks tonight, not just because she is gone, but because you will never meet her, nor any of the amazing people who were a part of that generation, who helped raise me, helped make me who I am today. My heart aches with all that loss. The love, the life, the laughter…a familiarity so comfortable that there is almost a physical ache in the knowledge that it is forever gone. I hope one day to tell you about each of them, to hopefully give you an idea of who they were, at least to me, even if I know I will never do it fully justice. I think that’s why I want to start writing you now. Full well knowing how it must sound, and how it will look, I’m doing this for you, and I’m doing this for me.

I’ve known for just a little over a week now that my grandma had just about a week left. It wasn’t even that surprising; I have known deep down that this was probably coming— resolved myself to it, told myself all of the rational things, “this happens,” “she’s older,” etc., etc. But even still, hearing it out loud, it hit me…harder than I expected it to. And I knew that I needed to see her. I knew this was important. More than work, or the mundane day-to-day things that seem to matter so much—until they don’t. So I went, and I saw her. Even though her body didn’t seem to be hers anymore, and her mind was no longer serving her as it should, it was still her, and she knew who I was, and that was all that I could ask for. To see her, to say I loved her—and to hear her say it back—it was everything. My heart still aches for my parent and aunt and uncle who have been with her non-stop since this started, and the grief I know that they must be feeling too. Grandma Mae had just turned ninety years old. A small woman, but she had a spark. So much spunk and personality there. They lived humbly, my grandpa Vance and her—but you’d never hear her ever in a negative spirit. She always seemed to have a positive thing to say; usually it was some funny story she would be hearing about this, that or the other. “About whichmajigger” was a pretty common saying, because the name of the person would escape her. Mae and Vance lived on a farm about an hour north of the small town I grew up in, in Oregon, in an even tinier town named Halsey. There were many summers when my younger brother and I would get shipped off to our grandparents for a month (or at least it felt like a month). So many memories: That little ramshackle house, the barn, the feral cats that lived under the house—there were always kittens, which I was always chasing in the hopes of catching one to just love on it, to be inevitably scratched up mercilessly by it, drop it, and the cycle would start all over again. The old white, deep clawfoot bathtub that scratched our bottoms raw from the roughness of the tub. Hundreds of VHS tapes meticulously organized and labeled, three moves to a tape, which we spent hours watching in front of their tv in their living room. The dozens of old clocks, that you would hear in their varying chiming, dings, cuckoos, and even bird calls (yes, bird calls) at the top of every hour. I can remember being very young one night, sleeping in the living room at their farmhouse, waking up and just hearing all of those clocks—their ticking so loud in the dead of night that I just sat there and listened. I remember the stories. Oh the stories they would tell us of us “hoodlum children.” Ha! I don’t actually remember this personally, I must have been too young, but I loved hearing my grandma tell it. Both my grandparents had previous marriages, so there were often times I would come to visit that my grandpa Vance’s other grandchildren would be visiting them as well. I think there must have been four of us, all boys, save for me. My grandparents would often take us to the coast in their trailer, all of us kids sleeping on one small kitchen table, converted into a bed come night. Apparently the boys were “little terrors,” the entire time—or so the story goes, according to Grandma Mae—but, even so, they treated me like, “a little lady.” It still shocks me, thinking about it now (especially knowing how incredibly cold the ocean is off the Oregon Coast), but apparently whenever they would take us to the beach, we wouldn’t be there but five minutes before we were all of us, all four boys and Sabrina, tearing our clothes off and running pell-mell for the ocean to get in. *laughs* I think about that now, and I can’t help but laugh. We must have come out of that water completely sopping wet, sandy, and shivering from the cold—probably a complete mess and utter handful—but all Grandma Mae did was laugh when she told the story. I love thinking about her laughing. I will always remember her that way—happy, and just so easy to be around. And I remember she used to sing. I

wish my memory was better, but I think I remember she used to sing to me at night before I fell asleep. I’ve always thought it was my grandma Mae that got me singing when I was a child. Something that so many people didn’t know I could do for years, because I was so terrified of getting up on a stage in front of people and singing. And even now, it seems to be a secret I have kept, yet again—one that breaks my heart. Oh how I secretly long and wish to sing again. I hope to find a way to do so again. My heart feels so big and full when I do. I hope one day to share it with you.

There are so many memories, and so many more I could share. Thank you for listening to these ones. More than anything, though…I have to admit, I hate that you’re not here. I hate it. Six years—for six years I have been navigating being single and dating, and it’s been gut wrenching. I know it’s weird—talking about it, even just acknowledging it—but I make no apologies for it. I only wish I hadn’t had to experience so much heartbreak. I wish I had already met you. I have been looking for you, this entire time—every time hoping it would be you. I do not know why I wasn’t meant to meet you yet, nor why I still haven’t met you, but I find a small measure of comfort knowing I may not have been ready to (yet). But I am now. I am so ready. With that said, I am sorry you will not ever know the girl I was, before. The strong-willed, headstrong, stubborn, full of life girl that I was. She’s still there, I promise. She still has her moments. Haha! I’m sorry you will not meet a girl with the naïveté of youth, or wanting a romantic, “fairy-tale” wedding. I’m afraid I have already been there, done that, and come out the other end. While I may have lost some of that, the girl who wants to be treated special, like she’s the most important, most beautiful woman in the room—she’s still in there. I still have a romantic heart, that still beats, even after having been broken a few times. I just don’t know how much more I can take, to be perfectly honest. I want to find you, I want it more than I can even say…but I also have to protect this heart of mine. She’s so incredibly tired—of being stomped on, of being passed by, of not being taken care of—that I don’t think I can take it another time. So, I’ve stopped looking. And especially here—Sacramento is the worst, or at least it has been for me. That’s not to say I’ve entirely given up…at least not on the idea of you. The hope of you. That somehow you exist—as hard as that is to imagine, well-meaning people continue to tell me that you do. Here’s the thing: I will not settle. I have not settled. I’m here, living my best life, waiting for you to join me in it. I hope that you will. But even if you don’t? I will just keep on living my dreams out—with every adventure, every trip…I just sometimes wish I could have you in my life to share all of them with you. I want that so bad. I hope that one day we can share all of the stories, all of the adventures in life that led to us finally meeting. I also hope that you don’t let the strong woman you meet one day intimidate you too much; at least not enough to not approach me. I hope that you do. I hope you make the first move. I hope you aren’t afraid to ask me on a date, and the next date, and the next. I hope that, no matter when you meet me, you pursue me. And I hope you don’t ever let me go.

Until that day, I know I am going to keep loving the hell out of me, wishing you were here, but continuing on—the strong, resilient, independent woman that I am. I have so much more that I could say, but I think that’s probably enough for tonight.

So with that I will say goodnight.

     I know it’s time. Time to finally open up and talk about what’s been happening in my life. I know that I don’t have to share, but every time I try to move past it, I continue to feel drawn to share this. I know that in sharing this, like the countless times I have shared before, I will find myself better for having opened up. So, to be clear—this is not a completely selfless act—but it doesn’t make sharing it any easier. So, I’m ready to talk about dating, about love, and the heart break that 2019 brought me. I feel strongly that I need to preface this piece with the understanding that these words, thoughts and feelings, while they are mine, I know that by sharing them I may hurt someone. My intention is not to be mean or to hurt someone, but by being so candid, and by sharing my truth, I recognize that I very well might. I think there will always be that risk, and if you are on the receiving end of that, I am sorry. With that said, I want to be as honest and real as I can, because this isn’t the space for fakeness, or for pretense. This is where real truths, even when they’re hard, come out and vulnerability is found. So, in the spirit of sharing, *takes a breath* here goes...

     While I have dated for the past five years, I have, for the most part, remained pretty mum on the details. This hasn’t been done because I didn’t want to share, but, more or less, because I frankly didn’t know how to. My dating/love life has often, in hindsight, felt like learning how to drive a car: definitely with its starts and stops, plenty of awkwardness, some wrong turns made, and so much to learn. (Yes, this analogy truly describes how dating as an adult for the first time in your thirties after being married for eleven years truly feels like. *laughs*) Needless to say, I did not know how to navigate it very well, let alone to start opening up about topics like dating, sex, love, and heartbreak. So, after five years later, I think I’m finally ready to share. To be clear—I absolutely do not have it all figured out. I am not perfect, and I definitely have made my fair share of mistakes (yup, still human). But I also finally acknowledge that that doesn’t mean I don’t have something valuable to share. I don’t know, frankly, what the sharing is going to look like, but I am ready to start. As I have with every single thing I have written here up until now, I share with the hope and intention that in doing so it might help someone else. I truly believe it’s this shared humanity—the realness and vulnerability that exists in sharing what is real in our lives, and often times hidden away—that this is so incredibly attractive, because it is so rare, and it’s also where real connection takes place. So, with that intention, I promise to be real, honest, and vulnerable as hell.

“The mark of a wild heart is living out the paradox of love in our lives. It’s the ability to be tough and tender, excited and scared, brave and afraid—all in the same moment.”

— Brené Brown, Braving the Wilderness

     When I think about the past five years, and trying to navigate dating, this quote feels so incredibly true and relevant in my life. The ability to, despite everything that has happened in your life up to this moment, meet the next moment and person with fresh optimism and hope for what might be. The ever-optimistic question of, “What if?”  Trust me when I say I know all too well what it is to be equal parts excited and scared. That is where I was a little over one year ago: Trying to date...again. Despite the heartache and the disappointment, and all the frustrations that go along with online dating—I was willing to try again because, deep down, I genuinely wanted to find someone, even if all my previous attempts had failed not ended the way I had hoped. Can I just take a moment to commiserate with anyone that’s reading this (male or female) who has also felt the pain and frustration of online dating? Yes, it can suck—and yes, people can suck—so you’re not alone in having mixed feelings about it (yes, I’m making some assumptions here, but I feel safe in making them). Goodness knows that I have had enough iterations with the dating apps, both love/hate, and moments where I swear “Never again!!” With that said, I think we can all—okay, fine—most of us can agree that they are a tool, and in today’s society of disconnection, they are a very helpful tool for connecting people; so, if you can get past the crap and frustration, they can be a positive. (Notice the emphasis on can here; I didn’t say they always are! *laughs*) This is at least the reason (and justification) for their reappearance in my life last year.

     This is how I started dating again, and how I met him—the man who would become my boyfriend last year. (Trying hard to not use names here—ever.) By and large, he was the most significant event last year—significant in many ways, but I think context helps to clarify why he was a significant event in my life. To back up a bit—dating has been incredibly hard for me in the wake of my divorce—there have been many men I have “dated,” in a sense, but often times I have, in the early stages of dating been too afraid of the labels, and the commitment, to even consider calling it a relationship, let alone calling someone my “boyfriend.” Before him, I have only had two relationships I could truly classify as truly “dating,” and only one I think would agree that we were boyfriend/girlfriend—exclusive, at the very least. Trust me—so many labels, so many new hurdles to navigate—so dating him was significant in that we both jumped in rather quickly, and also fell pretty quickly for each other. It was the first person, post my ex-husband, to tell me that he loved me, and to also ask me to be his girlfriend. I’m aware that, to many, that may sound cheesy, even juvenile, but here’s the truth: despite all the hurt and frustrations I’ve had with the opposite sex—deep down, I am a romantic at heart. A romantic with an insanely big heart who wants to fall in love again. (Yeah, I just admitted that.)

     So, I fell hard. I fell in love with all the firsts: the way it felt when I was around him—it felt exactly how it had, falling when you are young—the way you get excited to hear someone’s voice over the phone for the first time, the first time they hold your hand, the first kiss, the way they look at you...we were like two kids, and it felt incredibly special. I share all of this because I think it’s important to reflect—to look back and smile knowing I got to have that again, to experience having love, and a boyfriend, again...I want to be intentional in saying that because, if you’re like me, when something like that ends, it is incredibly easy to demonize someone, to focus on only the hurts, and to forget all of the good parts. I hope that you don’t.

     Suffice it to say, we did not last. Much like a candle that burns hard and bright, then just as quickly burns out...that was how we seemed to be, unfortunately. The man I fell in love with...well, I don’t know what happened to him, honestly. All the emotion, the vulnerability, and amazing connection I felt in the beginning, just...disappeared. I felt it most acutely on our first trip away together. I had been trying to communicate with him about it, without much success—and then the night before our trip, when I tried to talk to him about it again, the message I got back was, basically, “I don’t know what to tell you. This is how it’s going to be,” In my head, what I heard was something to the effect of, “Tough shit.” I was dumbfounded. I was trying to connect with him on this lack of connection, to discover the “why,” and met with, well, nothing. It was incredibly hard hearing that as we were about to go away for our first trip together. Trying to have a romantic weekend with someone who is not emotionally connected with you, or even trying to be, well...it’s a good recipe for a disaster, which is what that weekend was. I tried to make the best of it, but I found myself reminded of how disengaged my ex was with me and it, frankly, scared the shit out of me. In hindsight I wish I had had more courage. Courage to have a real conversation on the real disconnect we were having that weekend. But it felt like every time I tried, it was like trying to talk to someone who spoke Greek, and there was no place for understanding or vulnerability there. I came back not really knowing how to proceed, but knowing we definitely still needed to talk about it. After I made multiple attempts to initiate talking about it with him, I was met with only short texts back, and several blow offs instead of actually talking to me in the week following our trip. I felt miserable, sick to my stomach, and only an escalating sense of desperation to have this awful feeling end. I felt like I had been taken to this incredible high in our relationship, to then be dropped off the edge of an emotional cliff. Without a partner willing to communicate, who literally just disappeared after an uncomfortable first weekend away, I just felt desperate to have my pain end. Less than a week from my birthday, desperate to do what I thought was best, I ended it—after which I promptly bawled my eyes out. (Yeah. I’m being painfully honest here.) In hindsight, I can see that we weren’t meant to be, but the truth is, it, and he, still meant a lot to me. I have had well-meaning girlfriends even try to convince me that I didn’t actually love him, “No, not really.” Well I am here to say that I did love him, and that I don’t regret it. Any of it. As hard as that breakup was for me, I will always be grateful for loving him. I will always be grateful to have him show me what it should really look like...even if it didn’t last. To have someone show you that you are worthy of pursuing, worthy of going on romantic dates with, worthy of romance, and, ultimately, worthy of love...I am honestly grateful for all of it.

     With all of that said, the end of “us” left me in a very dark place for a time. I felt betrayed and I felt rejected. Rejection’s sting is something I am far, far too familiar with these past five years, but it always hurts more when I’ve invested more. I am not necessarily proud of how I chose to handle my hurt and pain this time, but I embraced that I was in a “dark and twisty place,” as I called it, and I set my intentions with men accordingly. I didn’t want anything more than something of a casual nature, which suited my needs, and my heart, just fine during this time. I don’t look back and applaud this; it was simply the way I chose to handle the hurt I was feeling at the time, and I want to be honest about that.

     If you’re still reading, I applaud you. My dating/love life is not for the faint of heart or those only inclined to read short stories. Without further ado, this is when someone new came into my life. I feel the need to pause and say that I do feel badly—he met me smack dab in the beginning of my “dark and twisty” phase—right as I had intended to not be with anyone in a romantic way, is when he met me. I told him as much the night we met, but the message still got filtered a bit through the lens of someone who I think, deep down, was hopeful for more. He and I were not friends, per se, but we were also not dating—because I was not interested in dating anyone in the dark place I was currently in—but I also found the previously used label of “friends with benefits” didn’t quite seem to fit either, so we found a label we could both agree upon, which was “lovers.” And we honestly enjoyed as much time as we could with each other in this space. For me, it was exactly what I needed in that moment. We enjoyed each other’s company, and we enjoyed many of the same things; we found a safety with each other—both in the sharing of our past, but also simply just by being together. I recognize this title implicitly says more than I ever have shared before about a relationship, and I’m okay with that. I am thirty-six years old and incredibly tired of living in the fear of talking about or not talking about sex. I was married eleven years, so I think it’s safe to say I am aware of what sex is—and it’s something I still engage in to this day. *laughing* I know that by sharing this, there will be some of my family/friends who are probably disappointed, but frankly? I’m not interested in filtering my writing anymore for fear of what you, or others may think (or not think). Enough said.

     I am a firm believer that people come in and out of our lives for a reason. With that said, I genuinely believe I was meant to have this man in my life. Even if it was unconventional and didn’t look like other relationships—it was still meaningful, even it if wasn’t meant to be for forever. I was very up front and honest with him about where I was at, day one, but it doesn’t mean that feelings didn’t get involved. If I’ve learned anything in my years of dating—it’s that it’s incredibly easy and natural for emotions and feelings to get involved where sex is concerned. I think we both knew that this was always a possibility, and we were both very honest with each other about what that would mean. I knew he was potentially moving out of the area soon, so it felt safe. Safe to let my guard down; safe to just be me; safe also because it was just so easy to be around him. But, with all of that said, I never felt that way about him. Even when I found feelings creeping in, I pushed them down not wanting to go there—we weren't supposed to go there, right? But, before I knew it, we were facing a point of no return—I had agreed to go out of state to a wedding as his plus one—and subsequently had made plans to go to Paris the day after we were to get back. The trip was going great, but somehow, without really seeing it coming, I found myself hearing him tell me that he was falling in love with me, and that he needed more. My heart ached in that moment. My heart ached because I knew I couldn’t say the words he would have liked to hear me say next, and that I couldn’t give him more. I have never taken those words lightly, and I didn’t then either.  The next day we flew back, and I had to face one of the hardest goodbyes I have ever had. It was hard because not only was it over, but I was also losing a friend—he couldn’t stay friends with me—and we had truly become close over those few months—my heart ached knowing I was losing that, but also for all the unspoken words I felt between us in that moment, “I’m sorry I can’t give you more. I’m sorry you met me here, in this dark place I’m at right now. I’m sorry I am not where you are at, at least not today.” So, I said goodbye, and I flew to Paris two days later.

     So, Paris. I flew to Paris, kind of spontaneously, with a man I had dated earlier in the year, and who I really liked. If I’m being honest, he was someone I had hoped (deep down) to have something more with someday. In hindsight it all feels like it was wishful thinking, but, at the time, I couldn’t help but feel excited and hopeful. A handsome man who I was interested in had invited me to join him in Paris and, on a whim, I had decided to say yes. I mean, how do you say no to that? Our first date was one of the most romantic I’ve ever been on, honestly. I was about to go to Paris for the first time earlier in the year and he had invited me to a French themed charity dinner, and the night ended with slow dancing (yes—slow dancing) in his living room. I know, it all sounds a bit hard to believe, maybe even a little nonsensical, but I genuinely believe that a big part of love is truly that—nonsensical. So, seven months later, I went to Paris for a second time, but this time, with him. I went to Paris, and I tried hard to keep my expectations in check, but it was hard for me to not find myself hopeful...for a spark, for more... I do not want to dwell on the details, but I will say that my overwhelming feeling from this trip was one of disappointment. I know that it’s not fair to compare, but for me, there was no way I couldn’t not compare them, having both trips so close in proximity to one another. While one man was so incredibly attentive, emotionally connected, and engaged—the other was the exact opposite. Perhaps, not at first...but as the trip went on, I was incredibly aware of it. It makes me sad, in hindsight—I was in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and I felt more alone than ever being there with him. I felt like he didn’t emotionally connect with me most of our time together, which was a little surprising, but also left me at a bit of a loss, as I’m incredibly empathic to the people I’m around. I often felt a bit like I was walking around on eggshells being with him, unsure how to “just be” around him. It was not romantic. It was not about me. And my heart turned in on itself with the juxtaposition it found between my travel companions. I had hoped, foolishly so, to fall in love in Paris, and instead I was with someone who I realized was still in love someone else. I don’t say all of this to be hurtful, but to simply be honest. It was a painful and incredibly emotional week for me.

     But, somehow, even after all of this, my emotional week wasn’t complete. There was more waiting for me. Sitting in the Paris airport, waiting to come home, I was sitting next to my travel companion, filling the time while we waited to board the plane by mindlessly scrolling through Instagram when my eyes caught on two words, a name. His name. A man I have written about here before—the first man I fell in love with after my ex-husband. My brain was still registering seeing these two words again as my brain finally assimilated what it was I was seeing. It was a picture of the man I had fallen in love with proposing. My heart dropped. I sat there in shock, absorbing these pictures, these words—then I quickly closed the app—my brain’s obvious attempt at self-preservation. I sat there for about ten minutes before finally starting to cry—my partner sitting next to me completely oblivious to my tears or my pain. I have been asked, since then, why I cried...and it still baffles me how anyone could ask me “why?” But I will try to convey to you the “why,” even if it’s completely irrelevant.

     I cried because the man I fell in love with was proposing to someone else. I cried because he was, in every single way, exactly what I wanted—at least in that moment of my life. And even though I can look back on us and see just how much he didn’t deserve the love I had for him, it is irrelevant to the simple fact that I did...love him. I loved him in a way that I have never known before...connected with him in a way I had never known before. I cried because this hurt me—seeing this, as it should. But it was also necessary. I knew this was the moment I had to let it all go. To finally, somehow, find a way to forgive him—to let go of all the pain that had been inside me for far too long. That is one thing I will always be very grateful for. To the man that I would call my boyfriend, and the man I would call my lover—I realized just how much pain I had been living with, not just from my breakup, but from the men I had loved, but who, ultimately, hadn’t been right for me. I finally recognized this in moments I had been with my friend, my lover, and he would be asking me simple questions, and I would be reduced to tears in a matter of moments. It was embarrassing, but he also never made me feel bad or ashamed for it. I also had a moment of clarity, a few months later, in a conversation with my last boyfriend, finally talking about our breakup and how much his actions had hurt me. He said to me, “Don’t let me be the cause of your pain.” Those words resonated with me because of just how true they were for me. While I had done such a good job of not letting my divorce not define my life, to keep me from moving on and dating again, I had allowed these men, each heartbreak, to carry on in my heart—each hurt still there, right beneath the surface. I realized then and there I owed it to myself to finally forgive them, and to move on.

     While I haven’t figured it all out exactly since then (read: I’m still figuring so much out in this crazy life, especially now), I am proud to say that I came back from Paris and I finally forgave the man who broke my heart more than most. In writing this, I recognize that there is still room for forgiveness, for letting go, which I completely acknowledge. I am not perfect, and I’m still figuring this life out as I go, but I’m also incredibly proud of just how far I have come.

     I have loved, deeply. I have had my heart broken, and, sadly, I have hurt some hearts along the way. I am here, sharing this, to hopefully normalize that dating may not look the way you expect it to—it may be messy and unconventional—and you may make some mistakes (or a lot), and you may have your heart broken...but here’s also a beautiful truth: you get to decide what happens next. You.

So, in this moment, I am creating something new and I am trying to have a wild heart in dating. I am both hopeful, excited and scared...but above all, ready. I know what I bring, and I also know what I want. Dating is hard, but it’s also so much harder if you’re not ready.

When I wrote these words, almost a year ago now, I was in such a different place. I was actually ready to try to start dating again. Unfortunately, this year has not been the year for trying to date, at all. It’s been incredibly hard trying to pick this piece back up, to try and talk about something that’s happened so long ago now, but I also feel like I needed to. To give these words voice, even if I find myself in a space where I’m not optimistic about love or dating, as I was earlier in the year, pre-global pandemic. With that said, I still want to write about love. I still want to talk about what dating has taught me, even as I find myself in a particularly weird year for it.

With that said, the best advice I can offer, for the years of dating I have experienced, is this:

•    Know who you are, but also be comfortable, just as you are. You don’t need anyone to complete you or to make you happy. Trying to have someone fill this role won’t make you happy, ultimately.

•    Know that it’s okay to want someone—but not to “need” them to feel okay. You have to be okay, just you. You also have to love you, first, before anyone else can love you. Any attempts to shortcut this will leave you disappointed.

•    Try really hard to not grasp for someone or something, or to chase someone who has left of their own accord. I’ve had to learn this the hard way, and sometimes I’ve needed to be reminded, but it is a powerful truth. If they want to talk to you, they will. If they want to see you, they will ask. Try to not read between lines that aren’t there. Sometimes it really is that simple. You deserve someone that pursues you. Pure and simple.

•    Be honest and be kind. I think I’ve said this very yearly on in my writing, but it begs repeating. It does no one a service to tell them what you think they want to hear, let alone yourself. Always be honest (even when it is hard). And try to do so with kindness. Enough said.

•    Grace. If I had to leave you with one word, it would be this one. Have grace, and not just for others, but also for yourself. I know, for me, I need to have equal parts grace, both for others and for myself. It is so easy to allow my expectations of myself and others to put people on a pedestal. Pedestals are unrealistic, though, and people aren’t meant to be on them. Have grace for when people disappoint you, or for when you disappoint yourself. This beautiful adventure is called life. It’s going to surprise you and challenge you—and it’s not going to look how you had expected it to—ever! And that’s okay. Get comfortable in the uncomfortable—the not knowing.