I should be devastated. I should be curled up in a ball, drowning in my own tears. Yet I wake up every day, not only wake up but wake up at my core warmly happy.
I walked away from a gorgeous four bedroom walk-out on the lake to a tiny 2-bedroom apartment in the heart of town, and I couldn’t be happier.
I left a brand new big screen TV and fully furnished living room, my dog, Buddy, and unknowingly at the time, my kids for over 80% of the time. That last part destroys my heart each week, but I’m hopeful someday they will want more. I’m quietly fighting and praying for that and will never ever stop. In the void of the things I gave up, I’ve found something I had been missing for so long. Me. The me of a lifetime of learning and growing and failing and loving. The me that knows how to care for me and say no and balance her life.
For all the losses this last year, that which hurts the most, more than any other hurt in this life, is to feel rejected by your children. But perhaps it’s the opposite too, to feel rejected by a parent, rejected by a spouse? I don’t know the latter. I did the rejecting. I left, gave up, threw in the towel, put my hands up in surrender. I didn’t stick. I didn’t know how to without destroying myself.
Gently Rise, Softly Call 