The Rear View Mirror

A Real and Raw Look Back

I have been quietly, privately, and intimately enjoying my honeymoon these past few days, interrupted only by the welcome buzz of texts, emails, DMs, and messages from far and wide congratulating us on our marriage.

I have been savoring it all.

And for the first time, publicly acknowledging what my daughter would call a hard launch of our life together on social media.

After sharing The Preferred Bride, I found myself wondering what should come next.

Then I woke up yesterday morning to a text that stopped me cold:

“Congratulations on your marriage. I’m heartbroken to learn about it on Facebook. I thought we were better friends than that.”

It made me pause.
It made me reflect.
And it made me want to write.

This photo was taken moments before our nuptials, as I attempted to FaceTime my future sister-in-law in Hawaii. And yes, my dress was the foundation of everything that day. I loved it.

Not to explain.
Not to defend.
Not as an excuse.

But as an introduction to what is coming.
As an opportunity to shed another layer. After all, it is still the Year of the Snake.
And as an intentional step toward the more personal side of this space.

There have been 1,011 days since my life, as I knew it, changed forever.

The day George took his last breath.

The days that followed were filled with immense sorrow, fear that felt cellular, and grief so deep it left me sobbing until the tears ran dry. There was loss. And there was running. Lots of it.

I ran physically (more on that for sure).
And I ran figuratively.

I ran to heal.
And I ran to hide.

I had lived in Toledo for over 27 years. It was where so much of my life unfolded, and where George and I built our world together. After he died, the memories were everywhere.

I bolted.

That is the survivor in me. The part I have come to know, understand, grieve, and ultimately accept. I took an Irish Exit and left a community that had held me for nearly three decades, with very few goodbyes.

I call this part of me The Bolter.

She is part of my internal board of directors, a member of my Internal Family System, a therapeutic model that views the mind as a collection of parts, each with a purpose. It has helped me understand myself in ways I never had before, thanks in large part to my extraordinary therapist, Jane. It is something I will share much more about in time.

But back to that text.

When I bolted, I needed to escape.
I needed to heal.
And I needed to figure out how to live and love again.

I know my abrupt departure caused hurt. But I did not know how else to find air above the surface in a place that held nothing but memories of a life I could no longer live. I was silently suffocating.

As I have learned to welcome all the parts of me, I have also begun to understand why I chose privacy as my refuge for a significant part of my life. For many reasons that I will slowly unravel, I lived quietly. Carefully. Privately.

Online.
Offline.
Everywhere.

It became my safety net.

Protecting myself.
Protecting others.

But the cost was high.

Isolation.
Lost friendships.
And at times, the loss of myself.

The irony is that just as I began learning how to love again and how to let that be seen, I lost both friends and family who did not understand or agree with my choice to move forward. Each time I revealed a little more and experienced some form of backlash, I retreated again, pulled back into my shell by fear and judgment.

Until someone I trust, who works in the world of grief, gave me permission I did not realize I was still waiting for.

To lean into love.

(I owe a special acknowledgement to Tim. You and the Monarch Grief Center are a gift to Northwest Ohio.)

Had I not taken it, I would not be sitting here today as a newlywed. I would still be living on someone else’s timeline. Hiding. Not living. Waiting for my grief to end.

That is a mountain with no top. One I have learned to walk alongside as a new part of me.

So to the friend who sent that text, thank you.

Thank you for waking me up again.
For reminding me that it is time to share more honestly.
More openly.
More fully.

Some of my parts have worked overtime to keep me safe. I honor them. I thank them. And I am beginning to let them rest.

Because other parts of me are ready to be seen again.

And to my husband, who has guided me gently, supported me patiently, and loved me steadily as I uncover and discover who I am, I love you.

Bravely,