Monday evening I laid on my bedroom floor’s white rug in a pile of pathetic-feeling-pity and stared at the empty suitcase that was originally my friend Kat’s. How was I supposed to pack for a trip I didn’t even have plans for? What kinds of things do I take to wear? What will I even do on this trip? Was this a mistake? Should I just not go? That’s a lot of days in a row without Sage and Ira. How will I survive this grief?

When I looked ahead at the Californian days in front of me, they were so empty and ready to swallow me up whole.

I was sure that all the space the coming days held might kill me because I would have to sit in all of my pain.

I have started and drafted dozens of blog posts since August 2018.

They’ve been about motherhood, about race and racism, about marriage and divorce, about healing and wholeness, about self-love, about foster care and the perils of working with DHS…

But only a small few have made it to the published side of this little space I call mine.

2018 exploded a whole world of pain that was hidden from even myself…or at least I was working extremely hard to keep it hidden from myself. Because what happens when we stare unspeakable damage in its face?

How do we rise from such depths of brokenness?

Here it is
…. I am in the middle of a divorce.

I feel like I can finally breathe putting this out here in my small corner of the internet…. while at the same time I feel suffocated from what I expect to be some people’s reactions, assumptions, criticism, and responses.

In the grand scheme of life, it hasn’t been very long since the abruption of my marriage, though it feels like it’s been ages.

It is a nice idea to not say anything at all — on the internet anyways — and let the fact that I was married for six years just kind of slip quietly away into the archives of the internet.