Knowing what I know now, would I have done it differently? Not just yes, a resounding, Hell, yes!

In my first marriage, I had a season of intense emotional pull that quickly faded into a routine of comfort. I had a few years of technically being together while also maintaining a vast distance filled with discontent.

I didn’t trust myself or my partner. This was a red flag that I deliberately ignored.

In my adolescence, acceptance conjured anxiety and strife. Regardless of my thoughts and feelings, I was told, “Just accept it,” or discouraged from questioning through the silent treatment.

Our house wasn’t an environment of nurturing conversations. Important topics of where I stayed while she worked nights, to what I ate, or who I was friends with were off-limits to negotiate.

The first time I made macaroni and cheese, I didn’t know to drain the water before adding the orange powdery mix.

I was eight and could read, but was already impatient with written directions.

Growing up, an only child of a single parent didn’t provide opportunities for a full pantry or culinary lessons. I was typically alone, scrounging through the kitchen to stifle my hunger.

I lacked a sense of inherent worth, so I filled my life with superficial possessions that helped me feel important and whole.

I justified that my corporate job paid well and that I worked hard and deserved beautiful things. Denial shaded my awareness of over-attachment. I was blind to the physical and emotional weight.

My husband wrote me an email from his cubical viciously detailing years of resentment and his desire for a divorce.

I read the words as if they were a fictional story. Denial was my immediate defense.

I thought I could fix it and move on with our seemingly successful charade. And yet, he wouldn’t let me. He refused to speak to me or see me. He was done.

For the majority of my life, I’ve been a doer. A list maker. A person who accomplishes. It was often a character asset and contributed significantly to my career success.

As an only child, I conjured up activities to keep busy. Busy in the sense of 9-year-old projects, bustles, and schemes.

Some seemingly important duties like laundry or figuring out how to make a semblance of a meal.

My Aunt Dalene, DeDe, as I called her, was a gem of a lady. My heart smiles, thinking of her.

She cultivated joy and laughter and allowed me to feel seen and heard. DeDe loved me when I felt invisible and taught me more than she’ll ever know.

This was the woman that allowed my tender adolescent soul to be recognized when I mostly felt ignored.