You guys, I love my story.
It is no better or worse than yours; I don’t say this to elevate myself. But it’s the truth: I love my story and I love that it’s mine. I love the details that are etched in my heart; details that dug my heart deeper, hurting like hell as they cut in, but leaving more room for more love, ultimately. I love the sleepless nights that led to another morning, strengthening my faith that dawn truly does follow the darkest hour, and that no pain lasts forever in its present form.
I love the painful good-byes I’ve had to say. The huge one that felt like such a great loss, surely it’d take my whole ship down. Surely one cannot sail on after a husband has left and a home has broken; after a dream has died and life has lost whatever it was that made you excited to be part of it.
But I love those details, because I learned vibrantly–viscerally, even–that one can sail on. I learned that my story had more chapters–that my story always does. That if I don’t like the scenery, that’s okay, but I need to just do my job: to just walk forward, and the scenery changes. I’ve seen this; I’m indebted to this. I have a daughter because of this. I have a beautiful, precious relationship with my husband because of this.
I love my story. It’s a good one. It’s too precious to waste; I’ve given too much to lose my voice now, to let the prose dull or the themes fade.