You know.
I wrote this two years ago. I re-read it this morning and thought, STILL true. And two years out, truer YET. And - the best part - I noticed there, hidden in this essay, a reference to the very first night of my Michigan Girl bike group, something that was just a passing idea at the time that turned out to be a lifeline. My heart ❤️ realizes now how brilliant I was to put myself in the way of outdoorsy people.
On the other hand, it’s hard to read this again. I remember these days as some of the most painful, if not the most painful of my life. But it’s also a reminder of how far I’ve come, when many days it felt like I wasn’t moving at all.
One day at a time, as they say. Or in my case, one bike ride at a time, one King of the Hill at a time, one funny story at a time…
You know.
You know your truth. You know the minutes that turned into hours days weeks months where you held on and held your line. You know what it cost you. You know that peace, for a while, means conflict.
You know that it’s been coming for years. You know how many months ago you ended it - to the day. You know how much of everything you've done. The healing the processing the giving up the giving in the starting over the standing up. You know the exact thing that was said, when you knew it was the end. You know the exact thing that was done, when you realized you knew nothing about the real end.
You know the friends who showed up when it was only friends you told. You know the family who was there - and always will be. You know how your husband stood with you through it all, offering love and much-needed laughs, but never, not once, letting you talk yourself out of the truth again.
You watched your boys be there for you in quiet ways. Like watching King of the Hill with you and walking the dog with you. You talked with them about self-worth and truth and how maybe things will work out... You heard their father shout from the kitchen, eff that, you’re done! You laughed and shushed him. He knew before you knew.
But, as more time has passed, you know that and even more now.
You know you’re sleeping better at night. You know you found yourself singing in the car. You know your husband and you tussled over a towel in the kitchen, and he said, between snaps, “You’re playful tonight!” You know you stopped and looked at each other, relieved that you were on your way back.
You know that he sat with you while you read the comments and texts and messages of support. You know he cheered out loud. You know you stayed quiet. You know how it felt when someone wrote, “Look at the sisterhood surrounding you now.”
Then.
Just a few days after it got worse - when you didn’t think it could get any worse - you went out with new friends, a bike group you decided to start on a whim. You laughed. You shared. You talked about something besides the current story. You told good stories, funny stories. You realized how long it's been since you told the funny stories.
You came home. That's the night you sang in the car. You ate a decent meal followed by an indecent dessert. You still felt fear and anger and helplessness. But, somehow, you felt better. You know you felt a shift. A knowing that YOU are still YOU.
That even as things are breaking, you are, at the very same time, building.
You know.