Our Dark Teachers

I call these experiences our dark teachers. The lessons that hurt, scare, scar, wound, and almost destroy us are very often the things that make us who we are because they require us to muster what we thought we could not muster—courage, compassion, kindness, forgiveness, love, resilience, strength, generosity of spirit, ferocity of heart. The times we feel lost are the times that require us to find our way. The deepest losses often lead us to our most profound gains. 

–Cheryl Strayed, from: It’s From Darkness That Everything Grows, Dear Sugar Letter #2. Originally published on December 31, 2020

I don't blame you if you want to reach into your computer screen and punch me in the nose. It can be infuriating to hear that old chestnut "what doesn't kill you makes you strong" when you don't want to be strong or nearly dead or half alive. When you just want your life back before you learned that the person you trusted most with your heart had shattered it. 

But bear with me. Because whether or not you're ready to hear this, I want you to store it somewhere in your exhausted brain to pull out on those days when you don't think you can stand another second of this pain. I want you to know that, as Cheryl Strayed puts it, "it's from darkness that everything grows." 

Well, maybe not everything. But many, many good things. Like courage and compassion and kindness and forgiveness. Love, strength, ferocity of heart. 

Here I am, just weeks past my 28th wedding anniversary, 18 years past my D-Day. I have the long view. And whether or not you stay with your partner or leave, whether or not you rebuild your relationship with him or stick to rebuilding your relationship with yourself, you will — as long as you work through the pain and don't let it fester and rot your soul — come to the day when you, too, have the long view and can see the beauty of what you built in the ashes. 

My kids are adults now. They have friends who've been cheated on, friends who've done the cheating. And they are utterly certain that they will never stay with someone who cheats. That they will never cheat. 

I was that certain, once. 

I have a hunch we all were.

But now we know. 

That life isn't always so clear. That there are circumstances that keep us in place even if every part of our being wants to flee. Or circumstances that cause us to flee when every part of our being wants to stay. 

I hope my children never do have to experience infidelity in any way, though I know that statistically, one or more of them likely will. 

And if not infidelity, I know that life will bring them to their knees one way or the other. A sick child, a job loss, a terrible diagnosis. None of us emerges without our scars.

But let's note again just what is forged in that darkness if we let it: courage, compassion, kindness, forgiveness. Love, resilience, strength, generosity of spirit, ferocity of heart.

May that be yours.

Maybe not today. But soon. 

When the war is happening inside

Most people haven’t even noticed their strength. They’re so focussed on their pain.

~ Rachel Naomi Remen, author Kitchen Table Wisdom

Our household has recently welcomed a family of Ukrainians, fleeing the war. It's a mother and two daughters – the husband and 18-year-old son remain in their country to defend it. 

I just returned from walking the youngest to the school bus, where she climbed on with a dozen other kids for the ride to her new elementary school. It's been just nine days since she got off a plane from Poland. 

This family is weaving itself into our day-to-day lives. Their dog plays with our dogs and cats. We all sit down to dinner together. We grocery shop together. We jokingly call ourselves "one big happy family." But I notice how often they check their phones and then exchange glances with each other. The other day, they shared with us a photo of a magnificent church in a village near to their own, the turret engulfed in flames. 

"I don't know how to talk to you about this," my husband said to them, his voice deep with sadness. "But I am so sorry for what you're going through." 

They smiled. Those words, for the moment, were enough. Someone saw their pain. Someone recognized their loss. Someone acknowledged that none of this fair.

I'm awed by their courage. To pack up everything into two large suitcases and a couple of backpacks. To leave their family business, their home, their friends, their husband and father and brother. But they've heard the stories of what's happening to those who stay. They know the stories. And so they roll the dice on a family they'd never heard of before, who lives across the world in a country they'd never been to. They took the chance that they would be welcomed. That they would be safe. That what they didn't know in another country was better than what they knew in their own.

Any time our lives are turned upside down thanks to the actions of a madman, we are thrown into a fight for our survival. Infidelity might not be war but it can sure feel like it. Our bodies don't discern between threats, they only know that the bright alarm is flashing red. And so they fight. Or flee. Or freeze.

But though it might not feel like it, we have choices beyond fight, flee, or freeze. And though you might not recognize it as you're living through it, you have a deep well of strength that you're drawing on even as you're curled up weeping on the floor. It's a strength that will serve you. It's the strength that gets you to work more days than not. It's the strength that parents your children, that comforts them. It's greater than your pain. 

Rachel Naomi Remen, the provider of the quote at the top of this post, was diagnosed with Crohn's Disease in her early teens. She spent a decade, she says, "angry". And of course, she was. It wasn't fair that she had a disease that, she was told, would cut her life short, would cause pain and discomfort. It's not fair that Ukrainians are fleeing their homes because of an ego-driven authoritarian. It's not fair that our own lives have been turned upside down because of a partner's betrayal. We can choose anger, which is reasonable. And maybe we have to spend some time there. But we can also recognize that, greater than the pain, is a strength that will help us straighten our spines and walk into a future that might not be the one we'd have designed but that we can make beautiful too. 

Thursday's Thought

 

Thursday's Thought

 

Thursday's Thought

 

Thursday's Thought

 

Thursday's Thought

 

Thursday's Thought

 

Thursday's Thought

 

If we are not to give ourselves away

There must be those among whom we can sit and weep, and still be counted as warriors...

I think you thought there was no such place for you, and perhaps there was none then, and perhaps there is none now; but we will have to make it, we who want an end to suffering, who want to change the laws of history, if we are not to give ourselves away. 

~Adrienne Rich, "Sources"

As I write this, news is reverberating about Simone Biles, that superhuman gymnast, has withdrawn from Olympic competition. There are plenty of "how dare shes", as if her body exists to perform for others, while wearing the American brand; but there is also a loud chorus of cheers for her courage. Because, sadly, it takes courage to prioritize ourselves over what others expect of us. It takes courage to prioritize our own wants over what others want from us. What Biles did was demonstrate for us what it looks like when a young woman refuses to give herself away. 

Betrayal was an awakening for me. And oh yes, it was also traumatizing and devastating and crippling. But once the constant ache subsided and I was able to take stock of where I was, what struck me was how little of me seemed left. Strip away all the ways in which I made myself useful to people and all that remained was...who exactly? Without a doubt, I had spent many years giving myself away. A piece here to a friend who never reciprocated. A piece there to a husband who couldn't be bothered to be home for dinner. A piece there to a brother who only valued me when I agreed with him. I gave away so many pieces of myself because I believed that my value lay in being useful that there was nothing left. And it was that realization – that long before I discovered my husband's betrayal, I had repeatedly betrayed myself – that was, perhaps, the most painful of all.

Which is why, when I began to imagine what healing from betrayal looked like, I had to center myself. I had to reclaim myself, to reassemble myself. I had to learn to act as if I had value  without giving any of myself away. I had to learn how to be in a relationship that allowed me to expand rather than shrink, that gave me a voice rather than asked for silence. 

It was profoundly uncomfortable. Often it still is. But not as uncomfortable as betrayal, whether by myself or someone else. 

It's why this community continues to matter. We must be among those whom we can sit and weep, and still be counted as warriors. I am convinced that it is among each other, who know the pain of betrayal, where we are reminded of our worth, where we are counted as warriors, where we are urged not to give ourselves away. 

No response to betrayal is more right than another. We each get to chose our path out of this hell. But one thing must be consistent across responses: We must not give ourselves away. We must reclaim ourselves, find value in who we are utterly independent of how others expect us to perform.

Simone Biles, a young woman who has already endured so much betrayal, is showing us how it's done. By centering ourselves. By refusing to give ourselves away. By refusing to wrap ourselves in anyone else's brand. By recognizing that we are so much more than our ability to perform. 

When healing hurts (which it always does)

And healing is rarely comfortable. It’s a good thing, healing — but it’s not a pure thing, a perfect thing. It’s stitches, it’s resetting of bone, it’s relearning how to walk, it’s a limb in a cast, it’s the itch of cells rejoining. It’s uncomfortable. It hurts. It feels strange. That, I suspect, is where we’re at right now. At the point just past trauma’s last mile marker, and onto the healing road. But healing takes time, and healing is painful.

~Chuck Wendig, author

We just want to feel better, don't we? We're so tired of being tired. So sick of feeling sick. So sad that all we can seem to feel is sadness. That's, of course, if we're feeling anything at all. I spent months (and months!) feeling...nothing much at all. Which, honestly, was a relief. It was a reprieve from feeling so so much. So much pain. So much confusion. So much grief. So much loss. Just. So. Much.

Healing often feels like a destination. "Aren't you over this yet?" he asks us and we resist the urge to either curl into a ball or punch him in the face. "This", of course, refers to the pain he's wrought. "This" is the destruction of the life we thought we had. The detonation of a bomb we never saw coming. "This" feels like the joke's on us. 

The truth, however, is that healing "is a good thing....but it's not a pure thing." It doesn't happen all at once. Abracadabra. You're healed. It doesn't happen in a therapist's office. Or the bedroom. Or the boardroom across from your lawyer and his. It happens while you're at the sink washing the dishes. It happens while you're tucking your kids into bed. It happens in your tears, it happens in your laughter, it happens even as you remain convinced it's not happening.

Wendig nails it when he reminds that healing is stitches, the resetting of bone, relearning how to walk.

We have been injured. Shattered. Healing is collecting those pieces and reassembling them. It can be a chance to curate your life. To examine each piece and make a conscious choice about whether to include it in this new life. Because it is a new life you're assembling. The old one is gone. And as much as we long to "be back to normal", we say, or to "just have things the way they were", the truth is that normal wasn't working out so great. The way things were was problematic. We just didn't yet know it. Not yet.

Healing can be an opportunity, if we take it. Will we keep this friend or let her go? Will we continue to show up for the boss who never supports us? Will we continue to prioritize everyone else over our own needs, our own health, our own joy? Or will be assemble a life with us at the center of it? A life that honors ourselves and models to those around us that they can build a life that honors themselves too. It won't be easy. It won't be a pure thing, a perfect thing. But, as Wendig says, we can pass trauma's last mile marker by doing the work. By looking that monster straight in the eye and saying, I'm not going to live my life running from you. I'm not going to let you keep me scared and small. Trauma has shaped who we are but we can learn to stand firm in the  knowledge that we are grown-ass adults. We have stocked our toolboxes so that we can restabilize whenever we're thrown off-balance by trauma. 

We are on the healing road. And we will need to be patient. "Healing takes time," we are reminded. "And healing is painful." But it will take us where we want to go.

Why Shame is the Wrong Tool to Deal with Infidelity

Here are some of the things I said to my husband after D-Day:
You're a liar.
You disgust me.
You are nothing but a cheater and a liar.
Why would I ever believe you because you are incapable of telling the truth.
The list goes on but my memory has grown fuzzy.
Pretty horrible, huh?
I'm not saying he didn't deserve my wrath. He did. He most definitely did.
What I am saying is that that those words not only did nothing to create the possibility for healing, they also weren't true (well, except for the disgust bit. I was pretty disgusted at that point).
But they hurt him. And that was really my intention. I wasn't capable of thinking more long-term than the next five-minutes. I was in the midst of survival mode – fight, flight or freeze. And I was fighting like hell. I wanted to hurt him like he'd hurt me. I wanted him to know that I would never forgive him for what he'd done. Which also, as fate would have it, turned out to be untrue.
But more to the point, if I'd been able to stop and think, to determine what my goal was, I might have realized that what I was doing – shaming my husband – wasn't going to help me achieve it.
Which is the great misunderstanding of shame.

We think shame makes people change their behaviour. But famed shame researcher Brené Brown gives us the bad news. It doesn’t. If anything, shame makes people double down on their bad behaviour (we’re seeing this shame-and-name culture online right now and it’s ugly).

What happens, Brown explains, is that shame hijacks our limbic system – we go into survival mode. That’s our primitive brain, our reptile brain. Shame, she says, “corrodes that part of us that believes we can ever be different.”

Sadly, a lot of us grew up being shamed. More than likely, our partners did too. It’s a frequently used tool by those in authority. But shame drives a lot of bad behaviour. Shame doesn’t urge us be better, it tells us we never will be.

You’re never going to be anything but a loser, we might have heard.

Why can’t you do anything right?

Or, my husband’s father’s favorite: You’re nothing but a quitter.

And here I was, post D-Day, shaming my husband, albeit unintentionally. I was doing to him exactly what had been done to him as a child. And what he’d done to himself ever since.

Shame drives bad behaviour, Brown reminds us again.

So much of my husband’s acting out was rooted in his childhood shame. Shame kills intimacy. Shame kills empathy. Brown puts it this way: “It’s much more likely to be the cause of harmful and destructive behaviours than the cure.”

I’ve been thinking about this in the context of infidelity lately. I’ve long thought that our culture, while it loves a redemption story, loves a consistent narrative more. While we hold the possibility that people can change, we’re suspicious of it. That “once a cheater, always a cheater” mentality leaves no room for redemption, for reinvention.

Why do we make it so hard for people to redeem themselves? Why do we insist on labelling people rather than labelling their behaviour? It might seem like semantics but it’s rooted in shaming. That’s not, of course, to say that bad behaviour shouldn’t be called out. It absolutely should, especially cheating, which causes so much damage and pain to partners and kids. But there is a world of difference between expecting someone who cheated to figure out why he did and how to ensure he never does it again, and labelling them a cheater. The first allows for change. The second…does not.

I’ve long believed that my willingness to give my husband the chance to change stemmed from having grown up with an alcoholic who got sober. I had seen someone, who everyone else had given up on, choose a better path. And I had watched her not only get sober but get wise about it. I knew people could change because I’d seen it. Might my perspective have been different if she’d never stopped drinking? Probably.

We need to see that change is possible to believe it. What’s more, if we’re going to give our partners the opportunity to change, we need to see that they are willing to do the hard work that change requires. We need to see them doing the work, no matter how uncomfortable it makes them. Without that, we’re just clinging to hopes and dreams.

It must be a careful dance, between wanting to believe our partners can change and being realistic about whether they will. Change is not a straight trajectory. It zigs and it zags but someone truly intent on becoming better will self-correct.

As Brown reminds us, when you see someone making amends, apologizing, doing better, that’s about guilt not shame.

But if they do not make amends, if it becomes clear that their words are not backed up by actions – if they refuse counselling, if they resist giving you passwords, if they push back against boundaries you’ve set in order to feel emotionally safe with someone capable of cheating, then that’s important information. And all the shaming in the world isn’t going to create that change if it isn’t coming from a reckoning within.

From the Vault: That In-Between Place

As we all self-isolate and quarantine and do our best to NOT hoard toilet paper and hand sanitizer (please!!), I'm conscious of just how uncomfortable this state is, this state of in-between-ness. It's like we're all holding our breath, waiting to see what comes next. We have no blueprint for this, nothing we can compare it to, though we try. It's like 9/11, except it's not. It's like wartime. Except it's not.
And so we all...wait. We wait for news, we wait for leadership, we wait for something that makes the ground beneath us feel solid again, instead of this constant shifting. 
Waiting can be an important stage. Growing somewhat comfortable with discomfort is an important skill to learn. But it's not an easy one.
And so, as we all wait in this in-between place, I'm reposting this in the hope that it reminds us all that to feel uncertain is human. But so is it human to need to feel part of a community. We remain here, your invisible sisterhood (with a few brothers too!):

I've been spending a lot of time lately looking forward to when this is over. "This" refers to my father's recent fall, subsequent hospitalization, and return home with the support of what seems like a staff of 20. My world has been upended and my days are spent dealing with catheters, organizing nurses, planning meals and fretting – constant fretting – about the future. At 88, my dad isn't likely to bounce back. If we're lucky, where he is now – able to walk with a walker, decent long-term memory but shaky short-term – will hold. If we're lucky, he'll be able to continue to live in his home on the lake, his piece of paradise.
If we're lucky, "this" will be over soon and we'll settle back into normal.
This is that horrible in-between place. When the future is shadowy. When the present isn't quite a crisis but it isn't our normal.
The thing will living in that in-between place is that we're loathe to accept it. Not surprisingly, intolerance of uncertainty is linked to anxiety and depression. I squirm with discomfort. This is unacceptable. I want to know what's next. This in-between place is full of uncertainty. And I, like most humans, will take certain misery over uncertainty any day of the week.
It's this loathing of the in-between place that drives so many of us to make decisions before we're ready, to force our partners into decisions before they're ready. Just go, we demand, in the face their reticence to commit. I'm outta here, we declare, in the face of our own pain.
Thing is, we're taking that pain along with us. It doesn't vanish – poof! – just because we walk away from the discomfort.
I'm reminded of the time I told my now-husband that I was ready to get married. I was so convinced that he adored me, that he was just holding his breath for me to declare my readiness, that I was stunned when his response was lukewarm. So hurt was I that I announced that, clearly, this relationship wasn't what I thought it was and I was calling it quits. I went from "I'm ready to marry you" to "I'm breaking up with you" in about five minutes flat.
He asked me to give him time. He asked me to spend some time in that in-between place while he decided what he wanted. "You've clearly been thinking about this," he said. "I haven't. I love you and I love being with you but I haven't been thinking about getting married. Please let me have that time now."
I agreed, mostly because of his dog, who I couldn't imagine breaking up with.
And then, because I know myself, I decided to run a marathon. I knew that sitting in that in-between place, where I had no control over how things were going to play out, where I had to just live with uncertainty, would feel excruciating. And so I ran. Each day, I ran. Hours. And hours.
I got stronger physically. And I got stronger mentally. As I ran, I thought. About what I could control and what I couldn't control. (Incidentally, there's research that shows reading novels helps us get uncomfortable with uncertainty because we don't know how they'll end. I could have saved myself a whole lot of blisters and chafing if I'd just held a reading marathon instead.)
When I crossed that finish line, four gruelling hours and six excruciating minutes after starting, my then-boyfriend and his dog were there. I was thrilled to see them. But I realized that I didn't need his answer. Not right then. I'd become okay in that in-between place. It hadn't been as scary as I thought because I could control me. I was going to be okay no matter what he decided.
We spend a lot of time in that in-between place after betrayal. And, of course, it's complicated by the pain. But leaning into that in-between place – and yes, perhaps alleviating some of the discomfort with an activity that reminds us of our strength and our determination – can change everything. It can prevent us from making compulsive choices. It can shift our focus to what really matters.
As I cope daily with this in-between place – listening carefully each morning when I call my dad to signs of pain, or of confusion – I'm increasingly aware that in-between is where we spend much of our lives. And if all we're doing is holding our breath until it's over, we're missing out on the lessons it holds. To trust ourselves. To take care of ourselves. To be patient with ourselves and others.
My dad is also in that in-between place. But if I'm so focussed on my own discomfort, I can't see his fear. And so I try to make space for each of us and our enormous feelings. The in-between place is big enough for all of it.

Infidelity in the Time of Cholera: Your Survival Guide to Betrayal During a Pandemic

The first friend I confided in, I did so over a glass of wine in a restaurant. It was just past Christmas and her face reflected the gentle glow of white twinkle lights. I hadn't planned on telling her. But she, who worked with my husband, was peppering me with questions about my husband and his assistant. Why they fought so much. How demanding she was. How weird their work relationship was. And so I finally told her. They had been having an affair. 
I watched the shock in her face be quickly replaced by a shattering. She looked as devastated as I felt. She reached across the table and took my hand as tears quietly rolled down her cheeks. I am so sorry, she said. Please. Tell me what I can do to help. 
Her response, her compassion, was balm for my aching soul. And it felt good to finally tell someone. Well, as good as I was capable of feeling at the time. 
Fast-forward 13 years and anyone discovering or dealing with infidelity is also dealing with a global pandemic that has many of us self-isolating in our homes to avoid spreading the virus. Loneliness is lousy at any time but it felt lethal when I was dealing with infidelity. Of course, it wasn't just an absence of people that was the problem, it was a sense of isolation in my pain. I felt. So. Alone.
What does this mean for those of you dealing with infidelity while also dealing with a global pandemic that has so many of us on edge?
It means what it's always meant. "My heartbreak, my rules", right?
It means laying down clear rules if he even wants you to consider reconciling:
•Absolutely no contact with the Other Woman. None. Nada. No "I need to tell her in person." No "I have to return something to her". No "she just wants to see me one last time." Nope. Absolutely not.
•Total transparency from him. Access for you to any and all phones, computers, devices. Passcodes. Secret e-mails. However they communicated now includes you. This isn't foolproof, of course. People can buy burner phones or they can create new e-mails. But an unwillingness to offer total transparency is an acknowledgement that he doesn't quite get it. He doesn't quite realize just what he's done to you and he doesn't quite get that everything has now changed, thanks to him. If he's unwilling to make himself uncomfortable in order to make you more comfortable, then he's revealing himself to be a bad bet for a second chance. 
•Support for you. If you don't already have a therapist, please find one. Right now, with so much up in the air re. public contact, it might be worth finding someone who will do online sessions or by phone. 
•More support for you. Do you have a trusted friend you can call when you need to talk? Do you have practices in place that help you feel sane – meditation, yoga, exercise, journalling, dog walking, hiking. Anything that gives you a little space to breathe, to remind yourself that you will get through this, that you're in the midst of a storm but the sun always ALWAYS comes out again.
•Patience for yourself. If your kids are out of school right now, like mine are, this can be a particularly stressful time, even without infidelity. As best you can, confine arguments/crying to times/places where your kids can't hear. That can be near impossible, of course, but do your best to at least reduce the conflict they're part of. Go for a solitary drive, if necessary, and scream into the void. With the glee of missing school, we can misunderstand just how anxiety-provoking this is for kids, especially special needs kids who often require habits and routine. Do your best. And forgive yourself when your best falls short. These are desperate times. 
•Do not hurt yourself. Physically or emotionally. If you are prone to self-harm, this is the time to ramp up your self-care and rely more heavily on support. But we can often engage in pain shopping behaviours, like stalking her social media, driving past her house, or behaviours that exacerbate chaos, like drinking too much, over-shopping, etc. None of that will make you feel better. It might distract you briefly but then you'll have the additional pain of an overdrawn bank account or a brutal hangover (and remember, alcohol is a depressant). 
•Rest. You do not need to make any decisions right now. In fact, I would discourage you from that unless your health is at risk (speaking of which, if there's any hysterical bonding, always ALWAYS use protection until both of you have tested negative for STIs). 
We are in a challenging time. Never in my lifetime, and probably yours, have we dealt with a global crisis of this magnitude. It will change many of the things we've held to be unchangeable but there can be a silver lining in that. Like a marriage that had invisible cracks, like a partner who held secrets, the crisis is now out in the open where it can be dealt with, where healing can take root, where treatment can be offered.
Wherever you are right now, your life matters. Take care of yourself. Be gentle with yourself. Be kind to yourself and others. You are not alone. Not in the pain of betrayal or in your anxiety around this health crisis. We will get through this because we are stronger than we yet know. 

Guest Post: The Social Media Lie

by Chinook

Is there is a single woman out there who hasn’t Internet-stalked the Other Woman in the aftermath of discovering her partner’s betrayal?

What we find when we look her up can be gut-wrenching. 

A glorious beach vacation.

A perfect gym-toned body.

An expensive and immaculately decorated home. 

Accolades for her latest professional accomplishment.

A smile that glows with a happiness we will never know.

Eyes that glisten with a smug security we will never have.

It’s enough to make us feel inadequate about every single part of our lives. 

But Warriors, we all know social media is bullshit.

I know this not from the Other Woman but from my own friends.

I have one friend whose social media feed shows off her incredibly svelte body, her handsome husband and her adorable kids. All of these things are a true part of her life. But the whole truth? Her daughter has been in and out of hospital since birth. She and her husband are struggling. Her svelte body is because of a bout of very serious illness. 

I have an acquaintance who is phenomenally, insanely good-looking—like, magazine cover, walking-the-runway, not-quite-of-this-world gorgeous. Her feed is full of sunsets and inspirational quotes and photos of herself at various professional events in which her looks are dazzling. What doesn’t show up in her feed? She is a survivor of sexual abuse. 

I also know someone who looks kind of awful in her social media feed. She looks older than her age. None of the photos she posts of the places she visits make them look particularly envy-inspiring. Is that her life? Nope. She’s just a crummy photographer. In person, she is sexy and beautiful. She has a magnetic energy that makes everyone want her attention and approval. She is in a relationship with a gorgeous man who is besotted with her. Her children are thriving. She is one of the happiest people I know.

Because I know of all this (in other words, because my friends are honest with me and I’m honest with them about what’s really happening off-line), I wasn’t thrown off-balance with pain or envy when I Internet-stalked the other woman. The photos of her looking beautiful, confident, fit and happy were suspiciously out-of-step with what little I knew about her family life, her professional situation, and her relationship history—and what any of us can infer about the kind of woman who wants to participate in an affair. 

I’m grateful I knew these things about her, and about the false natural of social media, because once I saw that her feed was just a big lie, it became much, much easier to ignore it. 

The truth is that we all have sadness and pain and insecurity in us, whether we choose to let it show online or not. 

And honestly? If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s that affair partners have way more pain and insecurity than most.

There Will Be No Closure So Stop Expecting It

We're familiar with the five stages of grief and many of us can point to various stages as we recount our experience with D-Day. Shock. Anger. Depression. And a whole lot of us are, in some ways, holding our breath until we're done with this experience. We await the day that it's over, we're healed. We rhapsodize about closure. Closure looks different for some of us but it often includes giving the Other Woman a piece of our mind.
So a whole lot of us are dismayed to discover that, no matter what we try, no matter how far out we are from D-Day, closure seems to elude us. We're never quite there. We never feel "over" betrayal.
To which I say, of course not. Cause I've learned the hard way (is there an easy way through this? Cause I don't know of one...) that closure is a myth. Rather, thanks to the work of Pauline Boss, I've come to understand that, where betrayal is concerned (among other life challenges), it's what she calls "ambiguous loss". And there is rarely closure where ambiguous loss is concerned.
Ambiguous loss, a term Boss coined in the 1970s, refers to loss where what we're losing isn't clear-cut. It's death-like rather than death. A spouse lost to addiction. A refugee fleeing the war-ravaged country they love. A child born with special needs. 
Betrayal.
We've lost the marriage we thought we had. We discover a spouse who's different than the one we thought we knew. We even, often, find ourselves capable of feelings we'd never imagined. Rage. Despair. Hatred. We've lost so much but we can't quite put our fingers on what it is.
Our grief is complicated. Our husbands aren't dead. In many cases, our marriages survive.
But everything's changed, hasn't it? We've lost...something. Complicating it further is the silence we frequently adopt. To the world, our lives are intact. There see no signs of loss, ambiguous or otherwise. 
Reality itself feels threatened.
And closure is little more than what we can expect from our front door, keeping the world at bay while we wrestle on the inside with our pain.
Part of moving through ambiguous loss – part of moving through life itself – is releasing ourselves of any expectation that things should be different. Ambiguous loss will not deliver closure any time soon. Or at all. Release any expectation of that. Grief is normal, no matter that your loss might not look like loss to anyone but you. 
Allow that grief. Invite it in. Move through it. Move through it again, because it will return, each time looking a bit different. 
Until the day comes when grief knocks, again, on your door and you recognize it. You again, you think. I know you. And I can handle you. You're not nearly so frightening. I can become your friend.
Grief has much to teach us, if we let it. And its teaching begins the day we accept that closure will continue to elude us because there is no such thing. 

Our Mother: Still Standing Despite It All

Like many of you, I watched in horror as flames engulfed Notre Dame. I lived in France in my 20s and it was clear that Notre Dame, "our mother", presides over Paris and the French. It had survived world wars, rebellions, toppled monarchies. It stood as solid as a mountain, built by humans in honour of the divine.
And so when it was revealed as vulnerable and in imminent peril, it inspired shock and grief in millions around the world. No matter if you were Catholic or atheist, French or not. Notre Dame, "Our Mother", represented something that we craved. Permanence. Trustworthiness. Reliability. Evidence that humans are capable of creating beauty and sanctuary, even when there's so much evidence of cruelty and betrayal.
Our marriages felt similarly solid for many of us. We took those vows, perhaps in a church though likely not as grand as Notre Dame. We created a life with someone we chose as trustworthy, and though we knew the risks – it's hard to ignore a divorce rate of 50% – we believed that our marriage was different. Ours would survive. It had already withstood challenges. But it was solid. Built by humans in hope of touching the divine.
So when we find our marriage engulfed in flames, what do we do? When the spires topple, do we cover our eyes and turn the channel? Or do we root for the firefighters, bravely and strategically tackling the fire that threatens to swallow the building whole?
Our marriages are not 800-year-old structures. But Notre Dame wasn't just a building. It was a testament to faith of all kinds. To commitment. To restoring what holds value to us. To history.
Notre Dame, like a marriage, is as fragile as our belief in it.

Wednesday Word Hug

Wednesday Word Hug

Wednesday Word Hug