My mind tends to teeter between past regrets and the potential of the future. It’s easy for me to get tangled.

Vivid mental scenes arise out of seemingly nowhere — moments where I question both my actions and choices of inaction. Like somehow, if I think about it a bit more, I can change what occurred.

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 day I met the love of my life, I was not at my best. I was in the midst of trauma — hazily walking around, teary-eyed, bumping into reality now and again.

My then-husband of nine years had moved out while I was on a work trip. I was reeling from the email he sent a few days later, stating his desire for a divorce.

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.

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.

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.