Peace Upon Re-Entry

Being single has been a slow returning to myself

I woke up in the middle of the night to the rare and precious sensation of perfect peace. It shouldn’t have felt peaceful. After all, I’d been pulled from a deep sleep to the sound of a puppy whimpering to go outside, and I’d only just fallen asleep after having taken care of a sick child for the better part of the night. I shouldn’t have felt deep and utter contentment standing outside in a softly misting rain at the witching hour with a puppy determined to sniff every single blade of grass — yet, I did.

The peace lasted through the night. I returned the puppy to his crate, and I slipped into bed beside my son. Within the hour, I felt the bed shift and my daughter slip in beside me, nestling closer for warmth. I had just enough presence of mind before falling asleep to note the sound of the storm moving in and the soft brush of my children’s hands as they reached out for reassurance of my presence in bed beside them.

By morning, the peace hadn’t evaporated the way it so often does. It wasn’t disturbed by intrusive thoughts of loneliness, work pressures, the weight of an ongoing pandemic, or concerns about my children and their special needs. The peace stayed with me despite the storm outside and having to walk a reluctant pup in the rain. It was with me as I got one child ready for school and the other child ready for a sick day at home and as I made coffee, checked the school lunch calendar, and looked at my own full workload for the day.

Life keeps throwing me challenges, but I keep fielding them. I’m finding the shape of my life again after the end of a relationship I thought would last. My re-entry into single life has been a slow returning to myself and to the dreams I had before there ever was another dream.

I haven’t made this transition alone. I have a therapist who has held space for my grief while encouraging my progress. I dove deep into past trauma in search of new healing, and I emerged ready to live my life without the constant weight of past disappointment or future anxiety.

Healing creates space in our lives for more of what we love. There’s less time spent ruminating on all the ways our lives went wrong, and more time available to enjoy the present. In fact, I’ve noticed that since I’ve processed old trauma and worked on my healing that my narratives have changed. I’ve let go of shame about my choices, and I don’t feel a need to find someone to blame. There’s a curious peace in surrender, and I’m slowly returning to myself in the process.

I had a plus one, and now I don’t. It doesn’t mean I’m a minus one. It means I am one — a whole person sufficient in myself.

It’s strange how the initial transition from coupled to single feels like we lost more than we ever had in the first place. We feel the loss, and we spend all this time adjusting to it. But when we go from single to coupled, the opposite happens. We’re so swept up in good feelings that we see all that we’re gaining in the process. We’re happy to make the adjustments that allow more space for this person in our lives. It’s only when we reverse this process that we feel a sense of emptiness.

We make the person we choose our best friend, and then we have to walk that back when it’s over. We’re left realigning our lives and shifting them into another role — no longer lover and something both more and less than friend. Initially, the loss takes up space. It feels like it sucks all the air out of any room we’re in. It’s a terrible feeling, but we’re not supposed to stay stuck in it. As we heal, we experience other feelings — cycling through the full process of grief on the way back to ourselves.

The end result, ideally, is to find these perfect pockets of peace when we accept it all — all the love and all the loss, all that might have been and all the possibilities left to come. It’s been a slow shift full of progress and setbacks. I was lucky enough to love one of the best people I’ve ever known, and I’m left with more gratitude than grief.

I think sometimes that if I loved the wrong person so much, imagine just how much I could love the right one. It gives me a curious sense of peace and serves as a reminder that I am exactly where I need to be. I’m considering what I want my life to look like and then empowering myself to create it. I’m even dusting off old dreams to see if they fit into my new vision.

I’m still healing, and I still have moments of grief that steal my breath and leave me wishing for what’s been lost. I would be lying if I said otherwise. I know this is part of the process. So, this is what I do: I feel those feelings fully. I allow myself to feel the loss and the love. I take myself to therapy, and I practice self-care. I remind myself that my heart may be bruised, but it isn’t broken any longer. I’m building new dreams and laying to rest the old ones.

The feeling of perfect peace continues. I know it won’t last, but it’s here now, and I am grateful. My puppy snuffles in his sleep and moves closer to where I’m typing these words. Soon, there will be a clatter of feet in the hallway and up the stairs. My daughter will start singing, and my son will run around laughing while the dog barks and chases a ball, his nails scratching against the floors as he retrieves it and returns.

This is my life. It’s not without its troubles, but it’s precious all the same. As I slowly return to myself, I start to fall in love with it. That’s when I know that everything is going to be okay — even in the moments when it’s not.