I haven’t written publicly in some time because—once again, and much differently than I might’ve drawn it up if I could’ve—I’ve been going through some stuff. So has almost everyone else I know (mad props to ’em), so I know I’m not special, even though my mom and dad laughingly proclaim I have had the year of all years, but here’s some of my latest meanderings nonetheless…
Embarking on a hardcore regimen of weekly therapy for several months. I wanted to revisit the landmarks I blew past in my sprint to survival following the separation. I retraced my steps. I looked at everything I missed. My therapist encouraged me to “sit with my feelings” rather than immediately look for the silver lining that would make sense of stuff that made no sense. I saw and felt things I can’t believe I dismissed as I was dashing to make all the pieces of my new life fit together. It was painful as eff. But I finally came to the finish line, a freer, more grounded, wiser person.
Navigating an evolving social circle. Assimilating to the glaring void of raucous social gatherings with couples and families was a thing for me. With the change in marital status, one or two of my social circles changed drastically. It was a little lonely sometimes. Not just for me, but for my boys. Thankfully, my dearest friends never left my side and I discovered new ways to be social.
Searching hungrily for single moms who’d “get it.” Couples and families comfortable enough to hang out with just me and my boys while my life looked heaps different than theirs…that was hard to come by.
Working very un-summery hours. Not ideal, but my Kindle peops show me deeper layers of their awesomeness daily. Someday I’ll write an entire blog post on that.
Reconnecting with my first love, for whom I’d longed over the course of my lifetime, only to discover that once we candidly revisited all our long-lost feelings as well as those that lingered, our connection was much bigger, much purer, much more powerful and much more about lifelong divine friendship than about meeting at a California beach house for a steamy weekend rendezvous.
Deciding to end my frivolous yearlong dating bender. I intended to create space for something bigger. (The dating life couldn’t have been more indulgent and fun, but it was time, almost exactly one year to the day.)
Meeting Clive. Sure enough, I met someone bigger—so much bigger—approximately one very intense, self-reflexive, heated-conversations-with-the-Universe month after I asked for it.
Falling in love. And clearing myself for reals of some major blocks to true intimacy.
Finalizing my divorce. Even though we hugged before, during and after the proceedings, that shit sucked. Super ouchie.
Embracing the unicorn. Opening my heart, mind, life and family to a wonderful man and his wonderful son was a big, big deal. (Note: He’s even better than I hoped he’d be—and thank goodness he doesn’t own a yacht or a hedge fund. Soon after I wished for that in the Bahamas, I discovered first hand on a few persistent dinners with ostentatious bottles of wine and bombast to beat the band that those dudes are insufferable.)
Leaving the house. Moving out of the home in which I became a mother, fought hard for a marriage, surrendered the marriage, and struck out on my own as a single, working mom… Tough.
Apartment living. Moving into a two-bedroom apartment with window a/c units and coin laundry in the basement.
Never fucking having enough quarters.
Also, becoming pregnant.
Boy, does life surprise me sometimes.
I’ll spare you the details, but the baby all up in my uterus courtesy of my beloved is one determined human. I’ll be honest, it felt downright biblical at first. I could almost hear God’s (really deep, booming) voice saying “Emily, you thought you would never do this again, but you are going to have a child. My will be done.”
The weekend before I found out, I said a special, very intentional prayer:
“Please give me the courage and the wildness to embrace the magnitude of unknown blessings on their way to me now.”
I knew something big was coming and, sight unseen, I knew I wanted the strength to receive it. That’s what I get, I suppose. Nonetheless, I spent a couple months agonizing very ungraciously in what I call Freak Out Town. I had some furious, incredulous, bargaining words with God; I pushed Clive away; I retreated into my own self-reliant world; my tummy was always upset; I was exhausted and withdrawn; I cried a LOT.
Then something clicked and…
- I allowed my enthusiastic, supportive, delighted, in-countless-ways-magnificent, prayerful, tuned-in, awesome father, top-of-the-line-luxury-model babydaddy more completely into my heart, into my life, into my sons’ lives and onto the path we are now unconventionally forging together with our conglomeration of children.
- Second, I stopped trying to understand God’s plan and simply concede to it.
With both of these moves came joy and contentment like I can’t describe.
Like any recently divorced, pregnant, yet unwed, flying-by-the-seat-of-her-pants woman and mother, I have my moments—for example I would really like to give fewer fucks about what people think about me over here, but the creepy hard stares at my belly and the mouth-agape responses to my unexpected news sometimes do bother me.
Nonetheless, the prevailing sensation in all of this—and in my family, coworkers and close friends—is marvel.
Also love. So much love.