A New Chapter...

Last weekend, I attended a workshop with a dear friend called Awaken the Sovereign Self. Hosted by a former comedian with a foul mouth and an uncanny ability to make complicated ideas digestible, I walked away with a few things still turning over in my brain.

But more than anything, I walked away feeling lighter.

My learning didn't stop there. My gal pal and I went to dinner afterward, where we had one of those wonderfully meandering conversations about the things happening in our lives. Somewhere in the middle of it, she told me something a friend of hers, a widower, had said.

“She was the love of my life. But this is a new chapter.”

Something about that sentence lit up every light on my internal circuit board.

There was no dismissal of the past. No attempt to diminish the love that had existed. No pretending that losing someone didn't hurt.

Just an acknowledgment:

That was a chapter. And this is another one.

I had spent weeks trying to figure out exactly what sovereignty meant before the workshop. Merriam-Webster offers ideas like supreme power, freedom from control, and autonomy.

But what does it mean to me?

It's funny that I should ask.

The Universe has been doing its thang and showing me. Every day.

A few afternoons ago, I sat outside with my oldest while clouds rolled in. Lightning flashed, thunder followed, and big heavy drops of rain fell onto the hot ground. Sitting there in the cool breeze, I told him something I've been thinking about a lot lately.

I feel like I have spent my entire adult life jumping from one controlled environment into another with remarkable efficiency.

My junior year of high school, I started dating a boy. By the time I graduated, I had moved in with him. I became very good at being responsible. Paying bills. Making decisions. Thinking ahead. Managing the grown-up things, even though he was four years older than me.

From there, I moved into one form of coercive control after another.

And now, even after leaving my marriage, I sometimes catch myself feeling as though I am still living under someone else's rules.

The difference is that now there are children in the middle.

My youngest children navigate two households with different rules, different expectations, and very different energies. They grew up watching their father keep me on a short leash, and sometimes I see echoes of those old dynamics in the way they interact with me.

And if I'm being completely honest, I don't always handle that gracefully.

Sometimes I look at my children through the same lens I once used to survive their father.

That realization hurts.

Because then I feel sorry for myself. I think, Am I ever actually going to be free? Will I always have to walk on eggshells? Will I always have to wear kid gloves until there are holes in them?

But is that really the case?

That question followed me into the workshop.

For two hours, I sat in a hard metal folding chair listening to this colorful former comedian talk about Karma. Not karma in the casual “what goes around comes around” sense, but the ancient Indian concept of cause and effect... the idea that our actions, choices, suffering, and the way we process our experiences have consequences beyond what we can immediately see.

He suggested that we enter this life carrying a kind of karmic cloud... a magnetic field of sorts that draws experiences toward us so that we can learn, grow, and release what we carry.

I'll be honest.

My heart sank.

The idea that we might somehow magnetize the experiences we need into our lives made me bristle. I believe in reincarnation, but I'm also deeply skeptical of belief systems. I think this is one of the places human beings can accidentally surrender their sovereignty: when we stop questioning and simply hand our power over to a system that claims to know why everything happens.

For a brief moment, I thought, Well, Snakeoil Man, you've successfully identified my problem. Now sell me the solution.

And then he did.

Except the solution wasn't really his.

It was letting go.

He introduced several practices I already use to help regulate my nervous system, along with the Sedona Method... a series of questions designed to help us move toward an emotion rather than away from it.

How do I feel right now about ______?

Can I allow myself to feel this emotion?

Can I allow even more of it?

Could I let this go?

Would I let this go?

When?

The first time I really sat with these questions, I cried.

A lot.

Apparently, there are feelings that don't particularly care how articulate or spiritually evolved I think I am.

They just want to be felt.

And perhaps that is where sovereignty begins.

Not with control.

With the willingness to stop fighting what is already here.

I have spent a considerable amount of my life believing that freedom would arrive when the external circumstances finally changed. When the person controlling me stopped. When the relationship ended. When the paperwork was signed. When the money was settled. When everyone understood what had actually happened.

But what if freedom doesn't require any of that?

What if sovereignty means that what happened to me no longer gets to decide who I am?

This is where I find myself wrestling with an old story.

My divorce left me financially vulnerable in ways that were difficult to recover from. For years, my primary role had been staying home with our children. When I offered to return to insurance or find other work that might help financially, those ideas were repeatedly shut down. I had little savings and little credit history of my own.

When my marriage ended, the financial safety net disappeared with it.

I went to work.

I took on extra classes with my little business.

I pedaled my art.

I figured things out.

And eventually, I built a life.

Not a perfect one. Not an easy one.

But mine.

The house I live in now feels like one of those strange gifts life occasionally drops into your lap when you aren't looking. I looked at house after house within my budget and found mold, cat piss, and every other indication that perhaps the Universe had a sense of humor.

Then I found this one.

It was affordable. It was safe. It had a pool. I thought it was a joke... it wasn't.

It felt like someone, somewhere, had quietly moved a chess piece into place and said, Here. You can breathe now.

And I did.

I also promised my children that once the house sold, I would put some money aside for a beach vacation. We originally planned to go to North Carolina. When those plans fell apart, I got resourceful.

And somehow, through a little persistence and a lot of Priceline magic, my children and I ended up in Hawaii.

It was extraordinary.

And yet there is still a voice in the background telling my children that none of this should be possible.

That their mother has a big house.

That their mother takes them on vacations.

That their father works hard only to have to pay me.

And this is the part that hurts.

Not because I need anyone to validate the choices I've made.

I don't.

It hurts because children shouldn't have to carry the emotional accounting of their parents' divorce.

They shouldn't feel guilty for enjoying their lives.

They shouldn't have to decide which parent deserves their loyalty based on who appears to be suffering more.

And I can't pretend that doesn't make me angry.

It does.

Sometimes I am absolutely furious.

Sometimes I want to explain every detail. Every bill. Every sacrifice. Every hour I've worked. Every decision that brought us here.

I want to build the case.

I want everyone to know.

But then I remember:

I haven't let it go.

And that is my work.

Not his.

Mine.

I cannot control what another person says about me.

I cannot control the story someone else tells themselves about the past.

I cannot control what my children believe today.

And I certainly cannot force someone to have a conversation they are not emotionally capable of having.

What I can control is whether I continue living inside the story.

That doesn't mean pretending it didn't happen.

It doesn't mean excusing it.

It doesn't mean allowing harmful behavior to continue unchecked.

And it certainly doesn't mean abandoning my children in the name of being the “bigger person.”

It means I don't have to carry the hatred.

I don't have to defend my worth every time someone questions it.

I don't have to make myself smaller so someone else can feel less uncomfortable with the life I've built.

And I don't have to teach my children that freedom means winning.

Maybe freedom means something much quieter.

Maybe sovereignty is sitting on a porch while a storm rolls across the sky and realizing that you are still here.

Maybe it is feeling the anger instead of stuffing it down.

Feeling the grief.

Feeling the injustice.

Feeling all of it.

And then asking:

Can I let this go?

Would I let this go?

When?

I'm not sure.

But I know this:

It's not always smooth sailing on the waters of life.

I am learning to let my heart be my guide instead of hiding from what hurts or charging straight into every battle simply because I can.

I want to model something different for my children.

I want them to see that we can save and spend thoughtfully while still living fully.

That hard work matters.

That generosity matters.

That abundance doesn't have to be shameful.

That we don't have to apologize for enjoying the life we've worked to create.

And most of all, I want them to know that they don't have to carry the weight of the stories their parents tell about one another.

They are allowed to love us both.

They are allowed to have their own experiences.

They are allowed to grow into their own understanding.

And so am I.

Maybe this is what sovereignty means to me.

Not finally becoming untouchable.

Not controlling the circumstances around me.

Not escaping every person who has ever tried to control me.

But choosing, again and again, what I will carry forward.

Some chapters deserve to be remembered.

Some deserve to be grieved.

Some deserve to be understood.

And some?

Some simply need to end.

I don't have to suffer through this one again.

This is a new chapter.

The Soul selects her own Society

Emily Dickinson

The Soul selects her own Society —

Then — shuts the Door —

To her divine Majority —

Present no more —

 

Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing —

At her low Gate —

Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling

Upon her Mat —

 

I've known her — from an ample nation —

Choose One —

Then — close the Valves of her attention —

Like Stone —

 c. 1862

Her Name is Pamela...

My burning question this morning upon waking… knowing that hindsight is 20/20, would I do it all again knowing things would go the exact same way… and I would end up right here where I am today?

I used to think that I needed to get my eyes checked. Instead, I’m starting to understand this little life of mine better.

I stumbled upon a TikTok of someone promoting a book by an author I knew personally. Right before we stopped talking, he had forwarded a copy of one of his books before he sent it to the publisher. His exact words were, “Are you ready for your story to be told?” It was strange reading someone else’s perspective of me and my story after being rejected by me. The title of the book was Never Send a Monster. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it then.

As I watched this short video about his new book, I struggled a bit. It’s been nearly two decades, and his interaction with me still aids him in character development. Am I really that intriguing?

Bigger question yet… did you see me for me? Because it doesn’t feel like me.

It does feel familiar, however. I have been touching my way through all the past versions of myself, from tiny little me until yesterday. What I have found is that I’ve shielded myself from view in so much of my life because I was afraid to rock the boat. Of course, the me that feels certain has popped up from time to time. It’s like that teenage girl who went on a goth bender and dyed her hair black… then showed up to church and was rejected by all the tried-and-true huggers because of her hair. In that moment, I learned that the me willing to experiment and find new ways to express the depth of my heart and soul could - and would - be rejected.

Last weekend, I decided to put purple, my favorite color, on my hair. For some reason, it didn’t make my hair purple. Instead, it made my hair an ashy black. It’s always fun when I dye my hair. My natural auburn-brown takes color and chooses its own adventure, usually. I was worried kiddos and parents and co-workers would have something to say about their gothy/emo art teacher. But I’m in a space now where the people who know me aren’t that incredibly invested in judging me based on appearances. And if they are, I don’t give a damn.

It was a full-circle moment that I didn’t know I needed.

When I think about the many versions of me throughout the years… my own character development comes into play.

The introductory character here would probably be that cute little child with the big eyes and curiosity for days. I may have asked way too many questions and learned that most adults found my queries annoying. I had access to a dictionary and an encyclopedia… and learned to answer my own damned questions.

That girl eventually fell prey to genetics and packed on a few more pounds than the children around her. She learned to be awfully accommodating just so she’d have someone to play with at lunch recess.

There was the teenager… When she landed in high school, she looked like a totally different person. All of those boys who would never stop picking on her in years past suddenly changed their minds. The teenager finally felt seen, but only for one thing. There was still a depth inside that remained hidden.

When he walked into the radio station less than five minutes after speaking his name, it felt divinely orchestrated. And maybe it was… character development. When it ended, she felt robbed. Like she didn’t do her job, like she wasn’t the right “whatever he needed” her to be. She spent almost ten years in agony, thinking of every possible “What if?” and not being fully present in the life in front of her.

I’ve sat a lot with that girl… the one riddled with anxiety, the one who feels like she’s never enough, the one who is heavily critical and hides her true character, thinking that’s the problem. I have loved on her so hard and tried to present her with evidence that she is the coolest and sweetest… that the gut-wrenching ending that happened way, way back then really didn’t have anything to do with her, even though that’s how it was presented.

I’ve had to sit with the girl who made life choices from that place… the girl who sprinted to marry the next seemingly safe guy who appeared to like her more than she liked him. She didn’t know him… and he definitely didn’t know her. I remember overhearing a conversation that guy was having with a long-distance friend at the beginning of the relationship. The way he explained this amazing girl to this friend didn’t feel like me at all. And then he called me, “Punk Rock girl.”

Oh baby. Yes, I love Punk. I’m so much more than that. While everyone was awestruck by Nirvana… I was over here lusting after Trent… and Pretty Hate Machine was my anthem album. But I also adored the American Beauty long-stem roses planted in my garden. That girl eventually discovered Bauhaus, Type O, Dessau, Circle of Dust… And she also loved playing with kittens and puppies. She wore nothing but black and had an affinity for old creepy cemeteries, but also smiled a lot and made friends easily. She wrote deep, dark poetry that she never shared and loved her family fiercely… She worked at a mortuary but always sought connections with living, breathing humans. That girl still played small because, what do you mean I’m not good enough?

But I was only seen as a “Punk Rock girl.”

How about that overly optimistic girl… the one so excited for second chances? I never worked so hard to make something work in my life. Completely mortified that the ending was more like a true-crime story that didn’t have a chance to play all the way out… bloody and battered and humiliated and barely hanging on. That poor baby circa 2010 was something to behold. I love her so very much. Despite all the odds, she still managed to make honor roll, fall in love again, go out and enjoy life!

And then there was that girl who desperately wanted to believe what he said… that he “can’t do it without you.” Oh, that sweet, tender-hearted girl… longing for her very own love story. Always looking over her shoulder at the version of herself that learned something, but not enough to be confident in it. The woman who wanted to be indispensable. The one who believed that if she was necessary, then she certainly wouldn’t be abandoned.

That girl showed up and made it work. Owned up to her choices and still sought the best in every situation. She relished in easy motherhood. Playing with her babies. Teaching them her ways… her music… her ability to deeply think. She was a beautifully delicate human being, and I love her so much.

The light-bulb girl, though… the one who realized that she was in charge of her own character development. That the character presented back to her by men who never took the time to know her, who only desired to control her, break her, crush the spirit that made her so enticing to them in the first place, did not have the rights to write this story.

Real, snatch-your-soul-up-by-the-shirt-collar kind of love has two edges. The light and the dark. And I appreciate them both. When I truly express myself, I am loud… only because the contrast between black and white is significant.

My sweet nature invites people in who need it the most. I never want to be mean. I spent my younger years as the fat kid and know just how hard it is to thrive in that realm.

My desire to have connections has made me shelve parts of myself that seem too bold, daring, and intimidating to others.

My desire to be seen for who I really am leaves me trying to explain myself to a world that doesn’t care enough to observe or ask me first.

All those versions of me sitting sad, mad, frustrated, and unseen… looking back at the battlefield where I had become a knock-off character that never felt quite right… or remained the controlled whipping post because I allowed myself to be there. Or the Punk… Or the fat kid. The LOVER…

And then there’s the present version of me, giving MYSELF the connection and love that I have always deserved. Looking back, seeing that every single time I started fresh, it always worked out… just as it is right now. I always exceed my expectations… glimpses of my daring, bold, dark, sweet, loving self shine through.

If you’re watching, Will, and I know you are… can we incorporate more of that? The woman who finally picked up the pen herself, who decisively finds herself, loves herself, knows her worth, adores her life? Because that seems like a mighty fine character to me.

But honestly, you may have written characters based on me… I am writing the ending of this story.

Maybe the character I was always waiting for someone else to see is this woman finally learning to see herself.

I am so in love with this version of myself.

And to answer my burning question from this morning… Knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t wish any of it on the woman I love. But would I erase it? I don’t think I could. Every version of me brought another piece of herself home.

Inside every person is a world...
What you seek, you already are
The seeker and the sought are one
The lover and the beloved are one
All of this is one human being.
 
- Rumi -