Recently I found myself alone at a coffee shop in LA.
In my old life I went to coffee shops every day. I loved being out and alone in a crowded city. It’s a specific kind of freedom—being anonymous while surrounded by so many people. I would snag a table in the corner, or near a window, and I would people watch for hours while I wrote.
It’s been years since I’ve participated in most things from my past life. Habits that became rituals which I loved have fallen away. Now journaling is sporadic, reading is as well. I don’t remember the last time I watched a movie that wasn’t lighthearted so that I don’t have to pay attention. Having a conversation where I don’t feel exposed, or feel worried that I soon will be, is rare these days. My thoughts remain fragmented. I struggle sometimes to find the words. I feel dull and unintelligent. The fog lingers.
I’m still confused by some things. The cognitive dissonance trips me up. But underneath I can tell I’m in there somewhere. I can feel me coming back.
There are certain things I’m desperate to have return to me, and there are some I think might be lost forever. When something was your whole personality, and you suffer something tragic, and that thing leaves you, what do you do then?
I feel solid, which is something I haven’t been able to say in a long time. I feel like I’m me again. But there’s this new piece of me that is profoundly sad no matter what. I’m happier than ever, and I’m painfully aware of this tender spot that hurts to look at. I witness a moment so beautiful it makes me cry, or I get excited about the future, or I’m crying because I’m laughing so hard, and out of nowhere the sadness that now rests in my chest blinds me. I can’t ignore it. I also can’t explain it.
I am me again, and I am completely different, and I don’t know how to be in the world now.
So when I found myself at a coffee shop alone, it felt foreign. I felt self-conscious. I got out my journal to give my hands something to do, and it quickly turned into a list making session. When I feel like I’m floating, I go in search of something to anchor me back to the earth. This often means something practical, like a plan.
Before I knew it I turned the page and scribbled this, my mind working faster than my hands:
I stared at it for a while. What did it mean? What did I want? How should I be involved with my life? Am I not already, since I have no other option but to live this particular one?
While I was sitting there having this little epiphany, I was listening to Easy Tiger by Flyte on repeat. When I first left my relationship, a friend made a playlist for me which included this song. He messaged me the playlist and one simple word, “ouch.” A perfect text, a kind gesture.
"But go easy tiger This is only gonna get worse Easy tiger You're a survivor But this is really going to hurt"
I thought leaving would be the worst of it, but actually it ended up getting worse from there. Something I didn’t anticipate. It has cut me in ways words are incapable of expressing. But nearly two years later, I’m still here.
It’s been slow—learning how to live again and rewiring my brain. You read all of these narratives, all of these stories of people recovering from their own divorce and finding themselves and going on adventures and building this big beautiful life, and you think that will be you. And I guess it is, little by little, but I haven’t found anyone who has properly articulated how painful it is even when it’s the most wonderful gift you’ve given to yourself.
It’s amazing how freeing and how lonely it is to live with the truth.
Be involved with your life!!
Something about seeing that sentence in my handwriting woke me up to the realization that I wanted to change how I’m looking at things. I’m moving on, I’ve been moving on, and I can be slightly heartbroken and proud that I did the right thing, which doesn’t always mean the easy or exciting or happy thing. Sometimes you must make the move and trust the relief will come.
The relief has finally come.
I’m paying attention again. I’m being involved by being present.
I’m living less in the past, and less in the future too. Whomever I’m with, I am giving them my full attention. Wherever I am deserves to be noticed. I’m no longer desperate for a plan. For once I’m not wishing I could go somewhere where I’m not.
I’m running around the California coast thinking of little except how grateful I am to be alive. I’m getting out of my head. I’m climbing on rocks and riding bikes and eating again and going to museums and getting tattoos at a stranger’s house and looking people in the eye and going to concerts and exploring and putting in effort and challenging my distorted thoughts and laughing a lot and appreciating the comfort of a hotel bed.
I’m concerning myself with small pleasures and easing off the pressure. I’m a little freaked out by how natural this move has been, but I’m trying not to overthink it. I’m embracing the fact that maybe for the first time ever, I’m where I’m supposed to be. I’m noticing exactly how much there is to notice.
On a drive along the coast, I witnessed a rainbow stretching across the sky from the hills to the ocean. And I laughed because it was so wonderful. And the friend I was with said, “Are we living in lucky charms?!” And we pulled over to appreciate it fully. And I told my friend that one day I want to know how it feels to step into a prism. And we mused that if sunbeams are so healing, how much more restorative are rainbows? And the sadness was there but it didn’t overshadow the joy.
And all of this really does feel like me.
This is sooo beautifully written!
I am pretty proud of you and happy for you too. I always look forward to your posts. Thank you for sharing. Praying for you, Sarah. ❤️