When we decided to start over, it felt like I was standing at the edge of a vast, unknown territory. It was a fresh beginning, one we both needed, but the road to get there had been anything but easy. We had been married for nearly fifteen years, and it was during the third year that I first sensed an underlying tremor in our seemingly solid foundation.
We moved into a small apartment in the city, a place where the streets never sleep and where anonymity is both a blessing and a curse. The reasons for the move were practical on the surface; closer to work, more opportunities, a change of pace. But deep down, we both knew it was our last ditch attempt to salvage what was left of us. I loved him, I truly did, but somehow along the way, love turned into endurance, and I became trapped in roles of wife and friend while losing sight of myself.
At first, things seemed hopeful. We dedicated Tuesdays to what we called “us-time”, where we unplugged from our devices, sat across from each other at the kitchen table under the soft hum of the overhead light, and simply talked. We shared dreams, regrets, ideas for the future. For a while, it felt like we were painting over the cracks with vivid colors, and I found myself daring to imagine us together, forever.
But then came the night when those imagined colors melted into shadows. I returned home late from work, juggling grocery bags amid the cold bite of early winter air. The apartment was dark when I entered, which was unusual since he typically returned before I did. As I moved from room to room, calling out his name, my voice echoed back to me, the silence twice as intolerable with every unanswered call.
When I eventually found him, it was not where I expected. A message left on the kitchen counter, a simple note in his familiar handwriting, stating he needed time to think. He would go to his mother’s, it said. I remember clutching onto the counter edge, the chill from the stone seeping into my palms, trying to anchor myself in the waves of disbelief rolling over me. My groceries lay forgotten at my feet, and as I stared at the note, I could feel the smallness of our once expansive apartment closing in around me.
In the days that followed, I lived beneath a thundercloud of misery. Every mundane task became drenched with his absence—the empty seat at our table, the silence where his laughter should have been, the too-clean bathroom without his untidy presence. I didn’t reach out because in some corner of my heart, despite the pain, I understood. I too needed the space, needed to confront what had gone wrong. Yet knowing this brought no solace. I felt alone, cracking under the facade I had worked so hard to maintain.
This time alone became a crucible for my self-discovery. I began to run each morning through the crisp air, my feet pounding against icy pavements. It became a meditative ritual where, mile by mile, I could peel away the layers of fear and anger and uncertainty. Running distilled my thoughts like fresh snow blanketing chaos, and what was once survival slowly transformed into resilience.
I learned to savor quiet moments, like brewing a pot of tea and watching the steam curl into nothingness, or curling up with a book that whisked me away from my own life. I remembered how I loved painting, years before life had swept me up. So one drizzly Sunday, I gathered supplies and began anew, tentative strokes on canvas that gradually blossomed into vibrant displays of internal landscapes where words had always fallen short.
This unexpected solitude, which had threatened to suck joy from my life, became the mirror reflecting my forgotten strength back to me. I realized that while I had spent years building a life for us, I had inadvertently lost parts of myself. But in those lonely weeks, I reclaimed my independence, my passions, and most importantly, myself.
Then one evening, he returned. Not with fanfare or promises, but with an openness I had never seen before. There was no need for explanations; his presence was apology enough. And in that unspoken understanding, I found forgiveness. Not just for his absence, but for the years I held regret like a shield, deflecting acceptance of my role in our distance.
Our starting over did not mark the end of problems but a beginning rooted in truth and intricate frailty. We began again, not as we were, but as who we became individually. There were days of sunshine and those drenched in rain, but what differed this time was the knowledge of my own strength, and the freedom that came with it.
This journey, painful as it was, taught me an invaluable lesson: the act of starting over is never weakness nor defeat. It is in fact an invitation to pause, reflect, and emerge stronger than before. Each step in my solitude carried me towards a place of understanding and acceptance, not just of him, but of myself. And that, I realized, was the strength I rediscovered when we started over.
