Finding Happiness After Heartbreak

It’s been over a year since I found myself cradled in the roots of my deepest wounds. Let’s rewind to the night that shattered my existence into a million fragile pieces.

Chris was out-of-town for work, which gave me the perfect excuse to head to my friend’s house for girls’ night. I hadn’t seen my girlfriend in a while, so naturally, I caught her up to speed on my life.

I confessed that Chris emotionally cheated on me a few months ago. She asked me, ”Do you think it was more than that?”

I’ll never forget the look she had on her face as she finished that sentence—it unequivocally alluded to the tidal waves of truth she was about to hurl towards me. At that moment, I knew I was about to drown under a tremendous tsunami of pain.

Just as I had suspected, she told me more had happened than what I was led to believe. I collapsed into a chair as I felt the last drop of air being stolen from my lungs. I held Dakota in my arms and ferociously tried to wipe away the salty rivers that flowed effortlessly from my eyes.

I came home to a painstakingly empty house that night. I laid Dakota’s soft limbs on the mattress and a deluge of adrenaline rushed through my veins as I closed the bedroom door behind me.

I couldn’t stop shaking. I desperately gasped for air as the rhythmic echoes of my broken heart were drowned out by the sound of shattered glass and slashed photos.

The next morning, I carelessly shoved all of Chris’ clothes into trash bags and waited for him to return from Salt Lake City that evening.

The Aftermath

We separated for four slow months. I was certain that I was going to leave him, but we both agreed to go to individual and couples’ therapy during this time.

As I sat in my first solo session, I wondered how we got to where we were. The thing is, no one really talks about life after kids. Sure, we all know it’s an exhausting transition, but not many of us like to publicly shine a light on the unrelenting chaos that follows the birth of a precious human being.

The first six months postpartum was exactly what I imagined boot camp to be like. I’m sure my drill sergeant needs no introduction.

I felt as though Dakota was making me run through an unseemly obstacle course with my head chopped off. Sleep deprivation, constant crying (from baby and mama), and hormonal fluctuations were thrown into the mix and we had a recipe for a ruthless frenzy.

I think it can be challenging for dads to find their role in the early days, too—especially if the mother is breastfeeding around the clock. I’ll admit that during the first few months with Dakota, I was the ultimate micromanager.

I hovered over Chris’ shoulder during his one-on-one time with her. I showed him the “right” way (my way) to do things. I’d ask him to carry out a task, but then say “nevermind, I’ll do it myself” five seconds later.

Over time, every favor I asked from him was met with what I perceived as a bittersweet taste of hostility. I venture to guess that my overly-critical self made him feel incompetent, so he stopped wanted to do things because he was afraid I’d say something.

Although I never blamed him for not being able to lactate (that’d be convenient though), I felt like I was doing everything. I changed diapers all day and night, got her down for naps, played with her, soothed her, and so on. In hindsight, I understand that I put a lot of this unnecessary workload on myself, simply because I couldn’t relinquish control.

Sure enough, my resentment for him pooled in like an unforgiving high tide. Why was he allowed to come and go as he pleased, but I had to ask permission if I wanted to run errands alone? Why could he go to the gym whenever he wanted, but I was lucky if I could squeeze in a full workout without any interruptions from Dakota? Why was everything that he was doing so annoying all of a sudden?

I spent all day taking care of our baby and the last thing I wanted to do at the end of the day was sex. Oh god, the sex.

Sex after a baby felt like a chore for me. I kept track of the last time we’d have sex, so I could make sure there weren’t too many days in between each time. Sometimes I would pray that Dakota would wake up from her nap as we were about to have sex.

During sex, my body felt foreign to me. I found myself checking out of my physical vessel, mostly because being present meant that I’d have to face what my postpartum body looked like. I felt so ashamed for thinking, hurry up and finish so I can get on with my day or go to sleep.

I was emotionally and physically exhausted. I felt the gaping distance between us grow wider and wider, but I didn’t have any energy within myself to stitch us back together. 

For the first two months of our separation, my depression rolled in like a thick fog. When it cleared, I’d smile, laugh, and feel eternally enough. When it rolled back in, I’d find myself instantly lost at sea again and ambushed by waves of images of him with the other woman.

The savage cycle of grief, rage, and panic left me achingly lonely and confused. I sat in my (metaphorical) boat, swaying back and forth between “fuck off” and “come home already.”

Then one day, I came across a book called Becoming Supernatural by Dr. Joe Dispenza. I learned that when you recall a past event, you produce the same chemistry in your brain and body, and wire the same circuit settings as if the event is happening in real time.

Your body can’t discern the difference between the experience that’s creating the emotion versus the emotion that you’re creating from thought alone, so it continues to relive in the past experience over and over again.

This stark understanding made me question why so many of us suffocate ourselves beneath silhouettes of self-sabotaging thoughts. Why do we look in the mirror and listen to voices that are not our own? Why do we starve ourselves from our inner divinity? 

We cling onto pain because we believe we’re unworthy of feeling anything else. We binge and binge on this pain until addiction is all we know, until it’s comfortable.

I knew the only way I could change was to feel uncomfortable. It meant I had to let go of the paralyzing thoughts I had shoved deep within my psyche. 

I stopped letting that event and that woman hold power over me. I realized that she is the one who is hurting, not me. She is deeply lost, confused, and insecure, not me. 

I came to accept that she is not what she has done. Chris is not what he has done. I am not what I have done. You are not what you have done. We’re all just humans, equally starving for the same love.

Don’t shrink into the darkness. Expand into the light. I repeated these words over and over until the dense fog dissipated into the sapphire skies and I could finally see the shoreline saturated in nirvana again. I hurled my brittle bones across the sunken sand and surrendered to the sanctuary of stillness. I was finally safe. Grief could no longer touch me.

I’d be lying if I said it was love that brought me back to him. It wasn’t—it was fear. It was loneliness. It was the daunting silence that crept up every evening as the last sliver of sunlight melted away into the mountains. It was taking Dakota to the park for the first time and not having anyone to share the moment with. It was having so much to say, but no soul to listen. It was the sheer thought of two houses, two birthday parties, and two holiday dinners.

I know I said there was no turning back once I shared the news of our separation, but things aren’t always black and white with a child in the equation. Sometimes “too hard to leave” is a good enough reason to stay, and that’s precisely what I decided to do.

I questioned if things would ever be the “same” between us, but I’ve come to realize that it never will, and I’m perfectly okay with that.

Yes, our love is different, but it is ours. It’s brighter. Softer. Kinder. It’s a handful of authenticity, paralleled by unforgettable beauty.

Redemption Awaits

I don’t know if people can actually change or if we eventually just go back to our past behaviors, but I now know that redemption is possible.

Chris and I have fought like hell to rebuild our once fire-blazed home. From the smoldering ashes emerged a nurturing father and badass hero to a little girl, and a mother who reclaimed her sexuality, bravery, and voice.

We’ve made less space for shame. More room for authenticity. Less space for darkness. More room for light. Less space for judgment. More room for connection.

It wasn’t love that brought me back, but it is love that’s moving me forward. An image of our family rests in the corner of my heart with a flame that burns softly at the altar. No matter how dark it gets, the light continues to flicker. The illuminating warmth calls me home. I am here. Loving again.