That thought is so delicious
Why I'm delulu about love
It was supposed to be a simple selfie.
Facebook memories informed me that my author page was born on July 2, 2011, so naturally I had to do a celebratory birthday post.
But I didn’t want to go with a Canva graphic with a number 15 on it.
So I took a selfie (OK, I took about a dozen selfies; only one of them didn’t end up in the trash), wrote the post, and uploaded it to my author page. Shared it on my personal page, too.
And as the Likes and well-wishes came in, I looked at the selfie.
Like, really looked at it.
And I thought Damn. I look freaking fabulous.
Not in a vain, conceited way.
Something beyond external beauty.
Because here’s the thing:
I had just gotten out of bed. Run a brush through my three-day-old hair. Swapped out my pajama top for a T-shirt.
Makeup? Pfffft.
And yet, I saw something in that photo that I hadn’t seen in years.
Joy.
Real, authentic joy.
I know it’s not just me. The night before, a dear friend had messaged me: “Seriously, you are glowing more now than you were then.”
Then referred to eleven years ago, when Craig and I kicked off what we still call the magic summer and were grossly in love.
I wasn’t only in love with Craig—I was in love with everything back then. My body. My bank account. My home. My career. My family. My friends. My favorite band.
My entire life was magic.
“I would say it’s a tie,” I replied to my friend. “I haven’t glowed this much since then.”
And honestly, I wasn’t convinced it was true.
After all, I’m still not financially stable, still not where I want to be healthwise, and my finger still feels naked without my engagement and wedding rings. (Granted, it’s only been a couple of months, but still.)
Until I saw that selfie.
That same night as my friend’s message, I had seen a reel by Scott Austin Martin (the “Authentic Masculinity Project”):
Most people have never actually met themselves. They’ve only met the version of themselves that survived.
Maybe you’re not naturally anxious. Maybe anxiety became the part of you that kept you safe.
Maybe you’re not emotionally unavailable. Maybe you learned that needing people got you hurt.
Maybe you’re not controlling. Maybe control became the only way your nervous system knew how to feel safe.
Here’s what most people never realize. Your nervous system doesn’t protect who you are. It protects who you had to become. That’s why change feels so hard. You’re not just changing habits. You’re asking a survival strategy to step aside.
The tragedy is that most people spend their entire lives trying to improve their survival identity instead of discovering who they really are.
What if your confidence is armor?
What if your independence is protection?
What if your people pleasing is fear?
What if your perfectionism is shame?
What if your anger is grief with a bodyguard?
Healing isn’t becoming someone new. It’s slowly letting go of the version of yourself that was built to survive. And underneath that... you may finally meet the person you’ve been searching for your entire life.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen people on social media say “I want the last ten years of my life back.”
My friends have said it, too.
Hell, I’ve said it.
It was only a few weeks ago when I said that divorce feels like I’ve been widowed.
It’s been two years since Craig and I separated. Because I’m me, I’ve analyzed and deconstructed the entire duration of our courtship and marriage and separation these last two years. I can pretty much tell you why our marriage broke.
That doesn’t stop me from scratching my head and wondering “How the hell did this happen?” but it’s more of a rhetorical question.
Being apart has always felt wrong. In every fiber of my being.
Like someone trying to convince me the sky is green when I know unequivocally that it’s blue.
I have plenty of evidence. Photos. Words. Gifts. Memories. Witnesses.
I know there’s also plenty of evidence that shows every broken piece.
But what I now know for sure is that everything can be traced back to a deregulated nervous system.
Your nervous system doesn’t protect who you are. It protects who you had to become.
That’s not to say that I don’t take responsibility for the role I played in the demise. The mistakes I made.
But I’ve written about some of the things that sent me into survival mode: Patriarchy. Loss. Grief. Financial stress. A pandemic.
I think it was my twin brother who first told me that “a loss conjures up so many other losses.” Midlife seems to do the same.
I had naïvely believed that when I was forty-five, I’d licked all the “stuff” related to my parents’ split and my father’s abandonment thirty years ago, but man, did that stuff start rearing its ugly head two years into the marriage.
In fact, dare I say, I’d gone into survival mode a month after we returned from our honeymoon.
I didn’t even know I’d been in survival mode.
And even though I thought every choice and decision and reaction was about fixing the problem, it always made the problem worse because it was actually trying to improve their (my) survival identity instead of discovering (returning to) who they (we) really are.
And who we were—are—is in love.
I’m talking magic summer love.
Yes, I am delulu enough to believe that.
Mind you, I’m saying we, but I am well aware that I can only speak for and about me. To do otherwise is a breach of boundaries and respect. (And of course, I could be wrong.)
I used to double down on the belief that our marriage was reparable.
I no longer believe that. In fact, I now double down on the belief that our marriage is irreparable. I may miss wearing the rings, but I don’t want the marriage back.
However, I also double-down on this:
We are reparable.
Because thanks to a now-regulated nervous system and a realignment with joy, I have come home to the person I was searching for these last ten years.
I saw her in that selfie. She’s right there.
The person who was—is—in love. Even if all the pieces aren’t in place.
Eleven years older, of course. Different body. Different brain. Different life.
But authentic.
In this year’s NBA Finals, the San Antonio Spurs led for approximately 175 minutes total throughout the series, while the New York Knicks led for approximately 56 minutes total throughout the series.
The Spurs led by at least ten points at the end of the first quarter in every game. They led by almost 30 points at halftime in Game 4.
And yet, the Knicks came back from that deficit to win by one point in the final seconds. They won the series 4-1. Better yet, they won their first championship in 53 years.
To look at the stats of the regular season and the players of the two teams, the Spurs were the team to bet on.
But the energy of that series surrounding the Knicks—dare I say, the love—was palpable. Magical.
If Craig and I were that NBA series, our marriage was the Spurs.
Our love is the Knicks.
Even if Craig and I never get back together, I will die on that delulu hill.
And I’m OK with that. I’m as OK (finally) with the probability that we won’t get back together as much as I am with the idea that there is enough love, even if it’s nothing more than a smoldering ember, to rekindle something that never died.
Because who I am—who I always was—is someone who loves a good love story.
Healing isn’t becoming someone new. It’s slowly letting go of the version of yourself that was built to survive.
It sets you free to love.
Because, as Duran Duran sings,
There’s no substitution
For being the best that we could be
The selfie says it all.
That line about the nervous system protecting who we had to become, not who we are, explains so much about why letting go feels like grief even when the thing being released wasn't actually serving us anymore. Meeting the self underneath all that armor is its own kind of falling in love.
It's such a joy to watch you rally and now soar in so many ways. I know there are still lots of challenges and complicated feelings, but you are navigating things with such grace and strength, and I know you've got tons of people cheering you on!