New Seasons
How many stories do we tell ourselves all the time?
How many are true? How many hold us back?
In big moments of solitude, when I didn’t know how I would make it through, I’d strategically play a song on repeat until I felt the message in my soul — when there was no one behind me, pushing.
In those same big moments of solitude and tough times I’d play “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright” by David Lee Murphy on repeat. Just hearing someone else say those words got me through some of the hardest times I’ve ever experienced.
There were weeks when I had no idea how I would make it to the end — no idea how or where I would pull the effort to hold space for other people, let alone myself.
In the last month, two significant events happened in our little house—my oldest went back to college to start her sophomore year, and my littlest love turned ten. Next up, my middle guy will be driving, all on his own. Him, getting his license is going to drastically change my reality.
No one really tells you that motherhood is, in so many ways, a constant practice of grieving little losses.
Sometimes I wish I could go back—not to do anything differently, but just to soak it in more. When you’re a new mom (and even years in), you live in survival mode. When they’re small, it’s physical—you’re doing everything for everyone.
I can’t remember who first said it to me, but it’s always stuck: you never really know when you’ll change your child’s last diaper. One day you’re anxiously waiting for them to use the toilet, pushing through the stress of potty training, and then suddenly—it’s over. You look back and realize that season slipped quietly away. And then you find yourself asking, what’s next?
That’s the rhythm of raising kids—we’re always growing them, nurturing them, giving them space to become who they are, while holding onto the hope that their lives will turn out even better than what we had ourselves.
I feel like my life is shifting again. I thought back to six years ago, when I got divorced, and realized that one day it might just be Evelyn and me. I don’t mean that in a negative way—it’s just the reality. With three kids, life pulls you in a million directions at once. But as they grow and start getting themselves where they need to be—especially to lessons and activities—we as mothers go through an identity shift of our own. Suddenly you’re asking, what’s next for me?
Finally, I’m wrapping up this blog post that’s taken me weeks to bring to light. And somehow, it all came together on its own—just as things always seem to do.
Today also happens to be the first day of fall—my absolute favorite season. And it’s my mother’s birthday. Those two things side by side have always felt complicated for me: the joy of a season I love and the heaviness of a relationship that shaped me in ways I’m still working through.
Confession: I haven’t been on a date in two years.
Not because I’ve given up on love, but because I’ve been dating myself—growing, healing, and figuring out who I am without all the noise.
It’s been raw, real, and sometimes lonely… but also the most grounding season of my life.
Maybe love will show up tomorrow. Maybe it won’t. But what I know for sure is this: I’m finally ready for it when it does.
*****
I’m sitting in the hospital waiting room alone—surrounded by pairs of people, couples together.
Husbands and wives sit side by side, waiting for one or the other to be called into the doors that lead to the outpatient surgery wing.
One couple in particular catches my attention. She mentions something about her birthday and he replies, “I don’t remember when your birthday is.” She throws her hands up in the air and looks at him.
“What?” he shrugs. “I’m lucky I remember my own birthday. I can’t remember yours.”
I’ve been treading water at the surface for a while now—not really going in any one direction, just following the current without taking any big strokes of my own. Consciously participating in situations, but not fully choosing.
And now I’m sitting here listening to this man joke about his wife’s birthday. Planning ahead. Remembering. And I can’t help but wonder: why had my husband never planned my birthday? Why didn’t I deserve that?
I stepped away from situations and people where I knew I deserved better, but what’s waiting for me on the other side? The unknown.
Will I always be alone?
Did the chance for real love pass me by while I was too busy with distractions?
Is there someone out there who will love me exactly as I am—without trying to change me, tame me, or make me “less”?
So much can happen when we’re forced to sit in solitude.
So much does happen when we’re forced to sit in solitude.
But why does it always take force for us to finally receive what we need?
I spent ten years of my life asking my partner to kiss me. That’s all I wanted. I don’t feel like that was too much of an ask. But somehow, I became the enemy for needing it.
I feel like crying because I wonder if there’s really something out there for me.
I spent ten years asking my partner to love me in the way I needed.
And it’s been over two years now since I let love in.
Over two years.
Where does worthiness come from?
Is it the worthiness of our successes?
Financial stability?
A reliable, supportive partner?
Love?
I have to say (captain obvious at your service)—men and women are SO different.
A man might feel like he’s “doing good” by providing in the way he knows how, but the woman just wants access to his heart. She wants emotional availability.
I’m going to be 44 in a few months. In so many areas of my life, I am the happiest I’ve ever been—fulfilled in ways I never thought possible. Yet when it comes to a reciprocal romantic relationship, it’s non-existent.
During this time on my own, I’ve watched other men and women I know divorce, end relationships, and then find new partners. Over and over again.
I think back to when I gave birth to my oldest daughter. It was 1:01 a.m. after hours of labor following an induction. I hadn’t eaten since lunch that day. I was starving.
After she was born, after those first moments of awe and relief, the nurse asked if I was hungry. So. Fucking. Hungry. She disappeared and returned a little while later with a turkey sandwich—two slices of square white bread, turkey, and American cheese. No condiments. And I’ll be damned if that wasn’t the best turkey sandwich I had ever eaten in my life.
Was it because I was beyond hungry, having just gone through one of the hardest things my body (and soul) had ever done? Probably.
Did I appreciate it beyond belief, having gone without?
Absofuckinglutely.
And I wonder now—as I sit here writing this very same blog, six years later—when people find new love, is it because they were truly in love? Because they finally found the missing piece?
Or was it just their turkey sandwich?
XO
Laura
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