Looking back, and forward

It's incredibly strange (and a touch embarassing) to stumble onto the musings and dallyings of your twenty-something self.

So young, so naive. So much time. I thought there was so much time to be had in life. Actually, no - that's not true. I didn't even give it any thought. I lived like there were always going to be tomorrows. I lived like I could always start tomorrow, start learning that instrument or writing that book. Start that life I really wanted.  

This side of forty, with forty-one just weeks away, I am in a strange crossroads of slowing down and speeding up. As I get older life comes faster and faster. I have a clear sense of being halfway through the journey and I can see the less-distant endpoint, something I never gave thought to as a younger woman. At the same time, I feel like I am finally learning to slow down and be present in the moment.

I've made a lot of mistakes. As a perfectionist, it is hard for me to start again, feeling like I've already muddied the waters. When I was a child, if I messed up on a drawing, I was that kid who would crumple the page up and start all over again on a fresh sheet of paper. I can't do that in life, and being forced to live with my past as I try to build a future is a wonderful exercise in growth. Sometimes it feels like a scratchy tag in the neck of my t-shirt, periodically creating little moments of discomfort. But I'm learning to be still with my dis-ease, let it exist. For so much of my life I swam against the current of anxiety and didn't realise how exhausting it was. I pushed and splashed and made things harder for myself. By letting go, I have more control than I ever did when I was trying to exert some. I can't control anything else, but I can control me. I'm working on it. 

Anti-status updates

I logged into Blogger for what appears to have been the first time in about 16 months. This is the last post I'd written, back in January of 2019. Thought I'd click publish just for grins.

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Apparently I’ve always presented a fairly polished exterior, even before the world of social media. It’s only recently I learned how much people assumed that I have my shit together. I don’t. I’m a hot mess as much as anyone, maybe more.
I look back at my Facebook and Instagram from the past couple of months since my separation, and it sure does sound like everything is ducky. I am sure and peaceful in my decision, and I know in the long run I will be happier, more peaceful, hopefully more mindful and more kind. But it is a journey, and I have largely shared the ups but seldom the downs.
So, on that note, here is a list of divorce social media "status updates" that have come across my mind in the past months:


I can do anything alone. Except put the leaf in my dining room table.

They say that motherhood is like having your heart live outside of your chest. Divorced motherhood is that, except that you only get to be with it half of the time.

It’s disorienting, not having anyone to check in with.

Spending more time than nurses usually do, crying in the bathroom at work. Mostly triggered by little old couples who grew old together and take such tender care of one another.