Two Years

In the silent aftermath of upheaval, I count the days: two years and two months since I uprooted my life, leaving behind the neatly arranged expectations of society. Time unfolds like a map of transformation—each crease a moment of pain, each fold a pocket of grace.

The world doesn't prepare you for the small devastations: the muscle memory of reaching for bananas in the grocery store, forgetting there's no one in the new living space that actually eats them. The ghost of little shoes by the door, the eerie stillness of children's rooms when they're at their other home. You wonder if the new walls you've chosen will ever whisper "home" to them, or if they'll always feel like visiting hours in your life's waiting room.

For months, I wore my grief like contact lenses—everything tinged with the pink of too many tears and glossy eyes. I remember the first night in the new place, how the floor caught me when my legs couldn't, how sobs racked my body with the fear that I'd failed my children. Not myself—them.

But exceptionalism is a heavy crown, and I learned to set it down. Grace and calluses grew in equal measure as I found my tribe—in yoga mats and cold showers, in mindful bites and uncomfortable challenges. While others trembled at the thought of dining alone or singing karaoke, I laughed. My everyday was an exercise in discomfort, years of self-betrayal condensed into each breath. I could have danced naked through a Sunday sermon and felt less exposed than I did underneath my own skin.

This was the inflection point—the moment where the graph of my life pivoted sharply upward. Reshaping. Rethinking. Surrendering. Moving from HERE, this crucible of change, to THERE, a place I couldn't yet see but could feel forming like a promise on the horizon.

A photograph captures more than just a moment—it holds the weight of a life turned inside out, a heart learning to beat in a new rhythm. The image, taken during my "discomfort activity" for yoga teacher training, shows me sitting on the floor of what would become our home. At the time, I couldn't see past the transitory nature of the space, couldn't imagine it as anything more than a waystation on the journey to some mythical "other side" where pain would cease and answers would bloom like perennials. Where I would prove something - to who, I’m not quite sure. Prove that the pain was all worth it.

But life, in its ongoing wisdom, rarely offers clean breaks or tidy resolutions. Instead, it gives us inflection points—moments where the graph of our existence pivots sharply, where the dim light of intuition we've kept hidden beneath layers of "supposed to's" suddenly flares bright enough to illuminate the path forward.

Over these past few years, I've been excavating the self that was always there, buried beneath the sediment of ease and expectation. I've unearthed a love so deep it startles me—for myself, for my children, for partners and friends who see me clearly. I've discovered that living in truth is both more difficult and more rewarding than I ever imagined. I should say, only more difficult by societies standards - we don’t live in a world that celebrates less being more. Living in stripped away truth is actually the simplest of things once you learn to address your own awareness and mindset.

There's no manual for this kind of rebuilding, no step-by-step guide for turning your life upside down and shaking out all the pieces you no longer need. It's a practice in awareness, in letting curiosity and hope outweigh the gravity of fear. It's messy and grimy, soft and broken. It's dissociative and illuminating in equal measure.

And then, at some point, it simply is. Nothing more, nothing less. From that nothingness, you begin to build. You interrogate your biases and thought patterns, developing an intimacy with them that allows you to challenge their hold on you. You pay attention to what feels momentous, not what others suggest should matter. One foot in front of the other, you carve out a path with the machete of your newfound resolve.

This is how we rebuild a life aligned with our truth and inner peace—not in grand gestures, but in small, courageous steps forward, even when the way ahead is obscured by the undergrowth of uncertainty.

In the alchemy of transformation, rock bottom becomes the fertile soil from which new life grows. Sixteen months in, I found myself clinging to the notion of homeownership like a life raft, as if a deed could prove I'd made the right choice, that my children and I would flourish despite the upheaval. I white-knuckled a plan, fixated on down payments and equity, while life conspired to teach me the futility of such rigid thinking.

It was only when I surrendered to the present that the future began to unfold. I hung curtains in rooms I'd been afraid to claim, painted walls I'd been hesitant to touch. I learned to let this temporary space hold me—alone, without a partner or lover—and in that solitude, I bloomed. My resolve strengthened, rooted in the soil of acceptance rather than the shifting sands of fear.

Rituals became my anchors: curating playlists that scored the soundtrack of my rebirth, arranging flowers that mirrored my own slow unfurling. These acts of intentionality connected me to my space, to existence as it was (is), a surrender to the present that paradoxically opened doors to the future.

In the cartography of the heart, home isn't plotted by square footage or marked by modern conveniences. It isn't defined by the absence of a dishwasher or the presence of dated laminate floors. Home, I've come to understand, is a resonance—a frequency of belonging that vibrates through the walls, echoing the laughter of unguarded moments and the whispers of raw, honest emotion.

Home is the gravitational center we orbit when the world tilts off its axis, the place we return to when illness drapes itself over our shoulders or loneliness threatens to swallow us whole. It's a crucible of safety and inspiration, where we are simultaneously held and challenged to grow beyond our current boundaries. In this space, messy meals become sacraments, shared over a communion table of laughter and tears, where friends and family gather to break bread and break open their hearts.

It's the alchemy that transforms a simple threshold into an open arm, inviting others to step into a pocket of comfort carved out of the chaos of the world. The grandest mansion, with its manicured lawns and gleaming fixtures, cannot manufacture this peace. That, I've learned, is the work of the human spirit living in courageous alignment with its truth.

In these years of upheaval and rebuilding, I've discovered that home isn't a destination but a journey inward. It's the inflection point where our outer circumstances bend to meet our inner truth, where we learn to inhabit not just a physical space, but the fullness of our authentic selves. And in that honest habitation, we find a peace that no amount of square footage could ever contain.

When the right condo appeared, it wasn't through frantic searching but through a quiet inner knowing. The ease of the process felt like a benediction after years of struggle, a confirmation that I had finally aligned with a new transition. Above is a photo right after I signed the paperwork for our next chapter - not naive enough to call it permanent as all things move and shift over time, but clear enough to call it our new home.

Now, as I stand on the threshold of this new chapter, I marvel at the difference time can make. The lightness, the levity, the ease that a few years can birth. The woman who once struggled to find her footing amidst seismic shifts now moving with a bit more grace and purpose. This transition feels fresh, celebrated, unburdened by guilt or punishment. It's a gift, wrapped in gratitude and tied with the ribbon of hard-won peace.

I will grieve the space that cradled my metamorphosis, the walls that witnessed the rekindling of my true self. But grief, too, is a form of gratitude. And so, I move forward, carrying the flame of that self into new rooms, new stories. Life, after all, is a continual process of becoming. Onward we go, into the next verse of our ever-unfolding song.

I recall how the season of moving and separating felt a little over two years ago. It felt like trying to find physical balance in the midst of a shock wave. This transition feels different. I feel different. I am different now, frankly. It’s fresh. It’s new. It’s celebrated, not punishing or guilt ridden. It’s peaceful. It’s a gift. I am so damn grateful to have made it to this place in my journey. I will grieve leaving the place that held so much of the raw me, the true me that was not only found but stoked like a flame. And now she goes on, to the next chapter, just like life. Death and rebirth. Death and rebirth. Moment to moment. We can’t be where we want to be before our time. Onward.