Maybe I'll Write a Book About It

I was thinking the other day about an argument my ex and I had towards the end of our relationship. You know the kind—where the same fight plays out on repeat, and you could practically mouth each other’s lines before they’re even spoken. I was “throwing his constant infidelity in his face” (his words, not mine), and he got all puffed up and said:

“You know, when I worked at Academy Sports, I had several opportunities to go out with women and didn’t take them.”

Um… congratulations? Do you want a medal for that? Should I have baked him a cake? Because excuse me, but not cheating when you’re in a committed relationship is the absolute bare minimum. That’s not heroic. That’s just called being a decent human being.

Fast forward, and it’s been almost two years since I packed him up and pushed him out. People like to say, “You’ll get over it with time.” Well, here I am, still carrying the weight of all that betrayal. Some days I think I’ll never really get over it. And honestly? I’m okay admitting that. Healing isn’t linear, and sometimes the anger just sticks around like an unwanted houseguest.

I’m angry at him for treating me (and the kids) the way he did. I’m angry at myself for putting up with it as long as I did. And then—just to twist the knife a little deeper—I see examples of what love and responsibility actually look like.

Like last weekend. my son's girlfriend’s dad came over to fix the deck in front of our house. Why? Not because he had to, not because he owed me anything, but simply because he cares about his daughter. And in doing so, he cares about us. That’s what family looks like. That’s what showing up looks like.

Meanwhile, my own husband wouldn’t lift a finger. Not even with me begging. It’s almost laughable now—if it weren’t still so raw.

Lately, I’ve caught myself making mental lists of all the things he did (and didn’t do). At first, I thought about writing them all down. But then I stopped. Why give him that space? Why let him live rent-free in my head any longer? I don’t want him at my table anymore.

Maybe instead, I’ll write books. Not to publish, not to get rich, but just to write for me. To tell stories. To carve out an hour or two each morning and let the words tumble out. Writing could be my way of processing, of reclaiming the parts of myself that he chipped away.

I hope he’s out there living his best life—probably still fighting the temptation to hit on coworkers, because apparently that was his big struggle. That’s his problem now. Not mine.

As for me? I think it’s finally time. Time to do something special with my life. Time to make myself proud for once. Maybe I’ll write. Maybe I’ll travel. Maybe I’ll just sit on the porch with a cup of coffee and remember that I’m free.

Whatever it is, it’ll be mine. And it’ll be enough.

Almost 30 Years......But Not Really

Tomorrow would have been the 29th anniversary of my first date with my ex.

At first, I thought, Wow, we almost made it to 30 years.
But then it hit me — No, we really didn’t.

That little realization sent my mind spinning, and naturally, I ended up doing some digging on divorce rates (because what else do you do when you're feeling reflective, right?).

Turns out, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention — yeah, I know, kind of weird that they track that — about 42% of all marriages end in divorce. And most of those fall apart within the first 8 years.

One thing that caught my eye? Divorce rates are actually climbing for Gen X couples, especially once their kids move out. About 1 in 3 couples split after the empty nest hits.

And here’s a not-so-shocking detail: most of those divorces? Instigated by women.

So what does that tell you?
To me, it says a lot of women stuck it out for the sake of their kids. And once the kids were grown and gone, they finally had the freedom to say, "You know what? I’m not spending my golden years raising a grown man."

For me, personally, I stayed way longer than I should have.
I stayed even when I felt invisible, unappreciated, disrespected.
The idea of sitting in an empty house with someone I couldn't even stand to look at anymore? No thank you.

Curious, I also looked up remarriage rates.
Apparently, only 40% of women remarry, compared to 75% of men.

Again… what does that tell you?
Women would rather take care of themselves than babysit another adult.
Meanwhile, men seem to be looking for their next mom.

Interestingly, remarriage rates for women are even lower if they have a college degree.
(Shocker: educated women would rather be alone than miserable.)

I recently stumbled across this old clip of Carol Burnett — a comedian from the ‘70s — and she said if she ever got married again, she’d have the guy live next door so she could still have her peace.
Honestly? That’s exactly where I’m at too.
(Here's the clip if you want to watch it.)

---

I actually wrote that part a few days ago, and tonight I came back to it after scrolling through some old texts from him.
It’s crazy looking back.

I let a lot of things slide that I shouldn’t have.
I remember him calling me ignorant — so condescending, so ready to tear me down anytime he got the chance.

And he still tells people I "threw him out."
But I have the texts. I have the proof.
He wanted to leave. He planned to leave — because he thought he was moving in with her.
When I said he'd have to tell the kids he left for another woman, that’s when he suddenly wanted to stay.

But by then?
It was too late.
I was done.

I said no.

---

Here’s the thing: I don’t have this love stuff all figured out.
Maybe I never will.

But I do know one thing:
If I ever meet someone again, I will never — and I mean never — settle for less than I deserve.

Not ever again.

From Panic to Power: My Journey of Reclaiming Myself

So let me take you back about a decade. Life was… messy. Somewhere between juggling kids, keeping it together on the outside, and spiraling on the inside, I found myself diagnosed with severe panic disorder and depression.

Fun times, right?

Cue the prescriptions: Prozac and Xanax. (Side note: I always feel like those names should come with dramatic theme music.) The Prozac didn’t vibe with me at all. After a few weeks, I felt more uneasy than I’d ever felt before — so I quit taking it. The Xanax? That stuff worked too well. I’d take it when I needed to calm down or sleep, and I’m not gonna lie — it helped. But then I noticed something... off.

One night I was laying in bed, jittery and on edge because I hadn’t taken it. I wanted to get up and grab a pill so badly. That’s when I realized what was happening. I was relying on it. And as a mom with kids? That scared me more than any panic attack ever could. I stopped taking it regularly after that night. I didn’t want to go down a road I couldn’t come back from.

What’s wild is that I had never struggled with mental health before. I should’ve seen that as a red flag. But I didn’t. It’s heartbreaking, honestly — realizing someone you loved and trusted could put you through so much that your brain just… breaks.

But here’s where the story takes a turn.

The other day, I had a win.

A real, personal, I-felt-it-in-my-soul kind of win. And let me tell you — those have been few and far between lately.

Since he left, it’s been a financial scramble. I’ve been applying for jobs like it’s my second full-time job, trying to make up for the income that walked out the door. I’ve been scraping by for over a year and a half. (Single-income life is not for the faint of heart, by the way.)

Then — plot twist! — a friend of mine, someone I’ve been writing with since my early days, mentioned her company was hiring a copywriter. I applied. And guess what? They brought me on as a freelance writer!

Now, it’s not a full-time gig yet, but they did say they’re still hiring for that role. So I’m looking at this as my foot-in-the-door moment. My little crack in the wall of “maybe this is how it all changes.”

Of course, life being life, the person who hired me is out for two weeks, and her fill-in is super pregnant and understandably swamped. So I’m over here trying not to refresh my inbox every ten minutes. In the meantime, I’m grading standardized tests to keep some cash coming in. (Because bills don’t care about your dream job timeline, unfortunately.)

Oh, and the company I normally work with? We just lost a major client. Possibly two. So this new writing gig? Let’s just say it showed up right on time.

I’ve been praying. Hoping. Whispering little wishes to the universe like, “Hey… I could really use a break here.”

If I’m being brutally honest, finances were one of the big reasons I didn’t leave sooner. Trying to survive on one income is no joke. It’s skipping over that cute shirt you like because your kid needs $20 for something again. It’s saying “no” to yourself over and over until you forget what “yes” even feels like.

But if this job becomes permanent? Everything changes. It would mean stability. It would mean freedom. It would prove I never needed him to begin with. And maybe — just maybe — I could buy myself something just because. Maybe fix up the house. Maybe breathe.

But anyway — back to the win.

I felt it. That little surge of finally. That flicker of “maybe I’m not stuck anymore.” And yeah, I’ll admit it — it has felt good seeing him flounder. Not because I wish him harm, but because for so long I was the one paying for his bad decisions. And now? He gets to face them. I get to start again.

That tiny win gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

If your daily life feels like a never-ending uphill battle, maybe it’s time to stop and ask yourself — “Am I on the right path?” Because I’m starting to believe that constant struggle isn’t a badge of honor. It’s a red flashing sign that something needs to change.

Einstein once said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” I get it now. If you're feeling nervous and scared about trying something new, that probably means it’s exactly what you need to do.

So jump. Headfirst. Scared and shaking if you have to.

You never know what’s waiting on the other side of that leap.

When a Health Scare Reveals the Truth About Your Partner

If you’ve ever had a health scare, you know how terrifying it is. One minute, you’re going about your life, and the next, you’re drowning in uncertainty, fear, and pain. When that happens, you need a partner who will be there—not to fix everything, but to hold your hand, ease your fears, and simply show they care.

For me, that wasn’t my reality.

The year my son graduated from high school, I started experiencing ovary pain. At first, it felt like mild ovulation discomfort—nothing an ibuprofen couldn’t handle. I brushed it off. But over the next few months, the pain became more frequent, creeping into my mornings and worsening after meals. I started feeling bloated, uncomfortable, and uneasy. Still, I ignored it.

Then, it got worse.

Over-the-counter meds stopped working. The pain became unbearable. I wasn’t eating. I was sleeping all the time, drained of energy, lying in bed and just wishing for relief—any kind of relief. My ex? Nowhere to be found. He didn’t check on me, didn’t seem to care. It was my middle daughter who stepped up, bringing me water and pain meds, making sure I was still breathing.

Eventually, I went in for my physical and mentioned the pain to my doctor. He sent me for a CT scan. My ex wouldn’t even go with me. Not that I was surprised—he was too busy having an affair with some girl from work.

Later that night, I got the call.

There was a mass on my left ovary. “Call your GYN immediately,” they said. If it ruptured, it could be bad. I was terrified.

A few days later, my GYN reviewed my scans, did an ultrasound, and confirmed it: a solid, 6cm mass. Not a functional cyst. It had to come out. They ran a CA125 blood test to check for cancer. The waiting was unbearable. Days passed before I finally got the results—negative. No cancer. Though they wouldn't be sure until they did surgery.

A month later, I had surgery. My ex took me to the hospital, but not because he wanted to. They told me someone had to be with me.

Post-surgery, as the nurse wheeled me out, I saw him speeding by, completely oblivious to me sitting there, fresh out of surgery. He was too busy chatting with a couple he knew—because apparently, whatever was going on with them was more important than his wife who just had a tumor removed.

I managed to get home, feeling more annoyed than anything. The mass turned out to be endometrial, not cancerous, but I was diagnosed with endometriosis. Through it all, my ex never once showed concern, never held my hand, never reassured me. My kids and my mother worried more about me than he ever did.

Looking back, maybe he was hoping he could get rid of me.

Here’s the truth: how your partner treats you in a medical crisis tells you everything you need to know about how they really feel about you.

Believe them.

Reflections

We moved into my childhood home when I was just 18 months old. It’s wild to think about, but I actually have a memory from moving day—a quick flash, like a snapshot in my mind. I was sitting on my wooden rocking horse, back and forth, back and forth, right under the kitchen window where our table would always sit. I watched as my mom and dad carried things inside, my tiny world shifting around me.

There’s this thing called childhood amnesia, the idea that most people can’t remember anything from before they were about three or four. Supposedly, only about 15% of people have memories from that early. But I do. I remember that moment. I was wearing a little light-colored dress. I don’t remember the exact shade, just that it was soft and familiar. Oddly enough, I don’t recall my sisters being there, even though they would have been around 9 and 14 at the time.

We lived in that house until I graduated high school. I didn’t realize it then, but my parents stayed there so I could grow up with the same friends, the same school, the same sense of stability. And that’s something I’ve come to appreciate more than ever.

After high school, before I started college, we moved about 30 minutes north. A bigger place. Older. A house with more space for my dad to garden, which made him so happy. I adored that house. There was a walking path through the woods, a quiet little loop about a fourth of a mile long, and I’d try to walk a mile a day. It became my sanctuary. There was even a small bench nestled between two trees where I’d bring a book and just exist in the moment.

I lived there until 1996. Then life started shifting faster than I was used to. I met my ex, and we moved into an apartment.

I had grown up with stability. I wasn’t used to moving around. But suddenly, I found myself in a cycle I never thought I’d be in. I struggled to pay bills. We were evicted. Forced to move again and again. In five years, we lived in six different places. Twice, we had to move in with my mom because she couldn’t stand to see me struggle. Eventually, she suggested we find a place together—somewhere with an in-law suite so we could split the bills and have a sense of security.

That’s how we ended up in the house I’m in now. Almost 24 years. Crazy. It’s probably the only home my three youngest even remember. And at least, despite everything, they had that stability.

I’ve always been responsible. I worked hard. Got my first job in a pharmacy during college. They even tried to convince me to go to pharmacy school. I took the entrance exam, got accepted—but it wasn’t what I wanted. I stayed at the pharmacy for three years, moved up to a service assistant (basically an assistant manager). Then I left, though I don’t even remember why. Maybe it was because I planned to move to Athens for school.

After that, I worked at a bank. I was there for almost four years, even while pregnant with my oldest. Later, when we moved to the apartment, I became an office manager at a yacht company. Stayed a year. Had a few other stable jobs before going back to college for my Master’s. That’s when I found writing. Built a career. Almost 18 years now.

Through all of it, I tried to provide my kids with stability. I always worked. Sometimes, I paid the bills alone.

He made our lives so hard.

From the moment we started dating, his job history was a whirlwind. An auto body shop. An equipment rental place. A boat broker. Manufacturing. Four different sign companies. Roofing. An electric company. Three car lots. A sporting goods store. An embroidery shop. A gym. A carpet cleaning business. A furniture store. A patio furniture company. A gun store.

Oh, and let’s not forget the time he tried to start his own sign business—only to quit before it even had a chance.

Out of all those jobs, he was fired from nearly every single one. Stole from four. 

As far as our relationship, he cheated seven times—three of those were full-blown relationships. The first five years, he drank heavily. And the kids? He was neglectful more times than I can count.

I sit with that sometimes. The guilt. The weight of knowing I stayed in a loveless relationship, hoping things would get better. Hoping I was doing the right thing.

He always gave me just enough love to keep me there. Just enough to make me believe.

I was surviving. And now, as a mother, I wonder if I should have done more.

But I can’t change the past. And looking back now, the picture is so much clearer. I wasn’t the problem. I never was.

Heartbreak, Healing, and the Beautiful Chaos of Motherhood

 

I’m not going to lie—when I was younger, I swore I’d never have kids. I had my fair share of babysitting horror stories, and honestly, they were great birth control. I just didn’t see myself as a mom. Maybe deep down, I thought it wouldn’t even be an option for me.

But life has a funny way of surprising you.

I was 22 when I found out I was pregnant with Allison. Looking back, I truly believe she came into my life exactly when she was meant to—because God knew we would all need her when my daddy got sick. I don’t know if I could have gotten through that time without her. I don’t know if any of us could have.

She was just six months old when everything changed.

The day after Christmas, my dad went to the hospital. He’d been hurting for a while, but he refused to go before the holiday. “I don’t want to ruin Christmas,” he had said. We thought it might be a heart attack. It wasn’t.

Cancer.

At first, they told us it might be tuberculosis. We had to wear masks, waiting for more tests. Then, they found it—the cancer in his lungs was so advanced it had eaten a hole straight through. The doctors told us he wouldn’t be coming home. That we should say our goodbyes.

But we prayed. Everyone prayed.

Then, a miracle.

They ran scans again, and the cancer had disappeared. It was gone.

God gave us more time.

My dad went through chemo and radiation, and for a while, we believed he had beaten it. Allison became his little sidekick, crawling into “Pop Pop’s” lap while he read to her. She had no idea what was happening, but her presence gave him joy. Gave all of us joy.

But cancer is cruel.

A year and a half later, it came back with a vengeance. This time, there was no stopping it.

My dad passed away in April of 1995. Just days before, I had taken Allison to get Easter pictures. They were beautiful. I prayed he would get to see them.

They arrived in the mail the day we buried him.

Heartbreak.

But that little girl? She kept me going. Her smile, her innocence—I had to keep moving forward for her.

The Babies Who Made Me

Before my son Graham was born, I had a miscarriage. Another heartbreak.

But then, Graham came into the world, full of life and energy. He loved Jar Jar Binks, Mighty Joe Young, and Teletubbies. He played with Hot Wheels and was always on the move. Then, at just six months old, he got RSV.

I had faith. But we almost lost him.

Heartbreak. I like to think my dad was up there telling God, no throw him back....not yet.

And then, Julianna. My light. She had the sweetest smile, a giggle that could melt any bad day away. She and Graham were inseparable. She loved The Wiggles and Barbies, had the curliest little ringlets, and always stole my Big Macs.

When we called home to announce her birth, Graham tried to say "Julianna," but what came out was "Noonienana." And just like that, her nickname was born.

After Julianna, my ex was supposed to get a vasectomy. I even made the appointment.

He didn’t show.

Two years and two months later, Maggie was born.

Maggie, Stubborn. Headstrong. Loved spaghetti and ice cream for breakfast. Boo Bah and also the Wiggles. A personality all of her own. Definitely the "youngest child syndrome"

Finally, our family was complete.

Surviving Motherhood and Heartbreak

I won’t sugarcoat it—parenting was hard. And I did most of it alone.

While I was raising our kids, he was out drinking, partying, cheating. I remember those nights. Him gone. Me and the kids piled on the couch, watching Disney movies, eating cookies, brownies, and popcorn. Some nights, we’d stay at Nana’s so we wouldn’t have to be alone.

Nana was always there. My ex’s mom? Not so much. She chose not to be part of their lives. I never understood why.

But you know what?

They didn’t miss her.

Through every struggle, through every moment I felt like I was drowning, my kids were my constant.

There were hard times. Parenting is hard.

But now, looking at the people they’ve become—strong, kind, resilient—I know that if I do nothing else in this life, I’ve done this one thing right.

They are my greatest accomplishment.

A Word of Advice

Be careful who you choose as your partner. That person will also be the father or mother of your children.

There’s a lot of heartbreak in my story. But in spite of it all, my kids turned out amazing.

And that is healing.

It's OK To Be Alone

 

When I was in high school, I had a two-year relationship. We were so in love—at least, we thought we were. He was a year younger than me, and we were convinced we’d graduate, get married, and live happily ever after. Life had other plans.

We’re still friends. He’s married now with two kids, and we’ve joked over the years that maybe it should have been us. But honestly? I have no regrets. He went into the Navy, built a successful career, owns a home, has a boat, and takes care of his family. He made something of himself.

And then there was my ex-husband. The red flags were waving from the beginning. He was selfish and irresponsible in ways that should have made me run. I remember once my mom lent me $10, giving me a $20 and asking for the change back. I left the $10 on the counter, planning to bring it to her when we went over later. But when I went to grab it—it was gone. I searched everywhere, confused, until he told me to “just forget about it.” Turns out, he took it.

That was just the beginning. Over the years, he pawned things constantly—sometimes even my things. A small radio my mom gave me? Gone. Childhood rings I actually wore? Gone. The class ring my dad took me to pick out, something that meant the world to me? Gone. Even a tennis bracelet he had given me.

I should have left.

But I stayed. Because I was afraid of being alone.

When his daughter from a previous relationship was little, we had her every other weekend. But remember when I said he was an alcoholic? That meant I took care of her while he slept off his drinking. When I was pregnant with Maggie, I finally put my foot down. We are not getting her unless YOU take care of her. At least help me. I refused to do it alone anymore.

His response? He signed away his parental rights. We never saw her again.

Looking back, I can see all the ways I was taken advantage of. All the ways I was unhappy. But I was terrified of being alone. Terrified of raising the kids by myself.

It’s okay to be alone.

Since he left, I’ve learned some things:

• Being alone gives you time to connect with your own thoughts and feelings. To figure out who you really are—what you want, what you value.

• It gives you the freedom to do what you enjoy, without needing permission or worrying about someone else’s expectations.

• Alone time can be peaceful. It’s a chance to recharge, de-stress, and just be without carrying the weight of someone else’s problems.

• Being alone doesn’t mean being lonely. It means choosing your own company and enjoying it instead of feeling trapped or unwanted.

I’ve learned that I like my solitude. And I will never again be in a relationship that makes me feel alone. Never.

Whether you’re celebrating a birthday solo or curling up in bed with snacks and a movie, never regret being alone. You don’t need another person to validate you.

Don’t get me wrong—I do get lonely. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll die alone, and yeah, that thought makes me sad.

I don’t know what the future holds. But for now, I’m enjoying the quiet. No one belittling me. No one criticizing me.

Someone asked me recently if I ever feel lonely enough to wonder what my ex is doing.

The answer? No.

I did plenty of wondering when he was still here.

Now, I just focus on me. And it’s the most peaceful feeling in the world.