Sunday, November 14, 2021

Speaking for the Trees.

I didn’t meet your biological mother until well after we’d married. Before then, I wrote her an email thanking her for bringing you into the world and for doing her very best to get you into adulthood so that I could have you as my husband and one day father of my children. I built a relationship with her because I loved you, and in loving you I gained a family unlike my own. I needed that diversity. I needed that support. Without them, I could not have understood the way you were in that moment… that season of your (our) life. I researched decades beyond your birth to give our children roots to look back upon; to trace their fingers along the names and maps and know their DNA made marks upon the soil there.

I found your daughter. I looked into her eyes and saw you there. I wrote more letters… to courthouses, judges, lawyers… and then I reached out to the first woman you called Wife. She is now one of my dearest friends. We share survivor stories, parenting struggles, children with the same genetics and mental curiosities and beautiful minds and daughters with your eye shape and your mothers lips. 

Your stepmother and I have our differences in opinions about you. We’ve clashed regarding my choices and beliefs on my body and our marriage that ultimately led to our baby. But what she’s always been good at is being there for her children and now our children. She makes every effort to be available. She asks about their schedules and goes to their practices and performances and has them over. I will never deny your family time with our children, because they are their family too.

When their family, who was my family AND my support to lean into for 11+ long years, actively includes me in their visits or gatherings where our children are present - I will be there. I refuse to indulge anyone in conversation about you unless it is directly regarding our children. Your life and mine are no longer made of the same threads anymore and you made sure to sever every last strand on your way out the door and into the fabric of her life. If your family wants to discuss you and your choices, as I’ve told them before, that is a discussion they need to have with you. I’ve said things like, “that’s nice for him,” and “good for her” and my stomach twists in knots and my tongue swells in my mouth and I am reminded that they are her parents now too. I shrink back and observe and take in these moments for our children. I bite my tongue and take all the pictures and remember all the stories.

I am our children’s memory keeper, the documenter, the historian and photographer. I am our children’s warm embrace, their whisperer of “I love you big… you are SO smart and SO creative and SO funny and SO loved.” I am their mother, once your lover and wife. I will never not be family to your own family because I am the umbilical that keeps you tethered to them through our children. No matter what season you’re in with your family, I will continue to document and archive all the moments I didn’t keep our children from them.

Have your tantrums, say what you must, but it only serves as a reminder to myself and one day to our children of how you are and what I removed us from. Being so hateful, so angry is no way to live. There is zero logical reason to self sabotage your own ability to just be content and happy with what you have versus what you could have. Nobody is perfect, especially not myself, and I learned the hard way that sometimes you have to sever a limb to save the tree… but that doesn’t mean the limb never existed.

Wednesday, October 27, 2021

La petite mort.

I would give anything to be 17 again just for a night with you. I miss feeling as if time stood still. I miss your nervous hands against my waistline pulling me close to you. I miss the heat of your mouth whispering confessions into my hair and neck. 

I miss this version of you. 

I miss this version of me. 

I want to stop time again. I don’t understand why we ever had to erase each other from the other’s life. This life is too short to not be happy and blissed out of our brains with simple contentment. It’s not fair. At least when I’m sleeping you’re there and I can relive it all… the worst part is waking up.

Friday, October 15, 2021


Happy Birthday.

There’s no other way for me to wish you all the happiness and health I ever wanted for you.

If you know me at all, you should know that there’s so much more I could say to you… but those are words I keep bottled up behind the wall I’ve built around my heart.

So, Happy Birthday… I hope 40 brings you answers to all your questions, pulls you close and whispers the meaning of your life into your ear and guides you to where you want to be or at least sets you on the right path.

Now it’s your turn. You’ve found me before and if you wanted to? You would do it again.

Wednesday, September 8, 2021

Raise of hands.

If you are reading this, tell me how you got here to this madness. There’s a little place to leave a comment and you can either do so publicly or if you know me personally, just drop me a text/DM that you read this post.

I’m curious as someone has been reading this blog Tarantino style backwards and I just want to know their thoughts… what’s kept your attention or curiosity about my life? What do you want to see more of? What parts do you skip?

I’m sincerely flattered that you’re here, but Google statistics only tells me so much.

Monday, September 6, 2021


can’t listen to Radiohead anymore without being 21 again and having my heart ripped out at the hand of the person who was home to me.

But honestly, it would be nice to ugly cry. It takes something truly earth shattering to bring on the water works thanks to my SSNRI. I can feel the seasonal sadness creeping up with a slow grip on my throat.

I want hot eager hands on my waist, the biggest fluffiest coziest bed to fall into and get lost in, a horizon view with sand between my toes, a second glass of wine and an ugly face swelling cry. Raw, cathartic and soul baring sob fest.

My soul is numb. It’s indifferent. It’s not happy, but it’s not sad either. I feel like I’m dancing a choreographed little ditty all day, every day is the same.

I want to sneak off and text him. I want to bare my soul in the shadows of this dance and hear his voice from hundreds of miles away. I promised I wouldn’t. That promise is breaking me. I want to throw a fit. I want to yell into the sky how unfair this is. He walked away, broke his promise. He came back and made right while I was in the depths of a path I chose to take without him. 15 years later I found him, we reconnected, the chemistry and love was there. It. Was. There. And the distance tore him apart and tortured him while I saw silver linings and my heart filled with a tiny mustard seed of hope. And then… he begged that we stop. I want to respect that, logical brain wants to respect that. 17 year old me buried deep down is appalled we didn’t catch the first flight out of this town for some magical movie moment.

My heart keeps taking me back to great falls. His training tee clutched tight to my chest. Alligator tears burned my cheeks and I couldn’t bare to turn away from him because the minute I did I knew I was headed back to a life that didn’t even seem significant anymore. 

For over 15 years I’ve just wanted to come home. Getting to talk to him was like being handed the keys and finding myself standing outside the door.

Thursday, September 2, 2021

Shadow Stories.

Come lay with me and our hands will sing praises and the heat of our mouth a chorus of hallelujahs.

Speak to me with your body and our wordless exclamations will speak volumes to the ghosts whispering in the shadows.

I want to be a novel read aloud by you, spine broken, my hair dog-eared beneath my head.

My brain doesn’t translate the ongoing monologue to my mouth as it does for my hands. 

In order to hear me you’ll need to read this great adventure in the crinkle of my laugh lines, the sneaky dimple on my left cheek, the backroads of stretch marks tracing across my hips and stomach telling tales of more than two dozen months of building my children brick by brick inside of my body.

With the flesh of your chest pressed against mine, our hearts will pass sob stories between them of our near undoings and confess their sins to one another.

Speak to me with your body as it’s the most fluent language I can understand beyond the written word.

Wipe my tears with your thumbs and lips before they pool hot into my ears; reassuring me of your inability to just walk away.

Take my hands and run them down your body like Braille.

Speak softly, slowly, directly and use these words to tell me what you want, need.

I’ll lay beside you until the words come like a slow dance between us and we can move together in sync to music only we know the lyrics to.

Wednesday, September 1, 2021

Everything and Nothing at all.

I don’t necessarily need someone to tend to my wounded heart, but I want someone to baby me and make me feel precious to them if just for a little while.

I like the idea of someone pulling me close to their heart and smoothing my hair.

I feel like my heart is bruised in bed with the covers up over it’s head.

The bruise radiates out to my fingertips and everything I touch burns.

The words left unsaid are stones in my pockets pulling me down into this current of grief deeper than the distance between us.

We both saw what could be and what lit me from within tormented you.

Your brain wouldn’t allow space for the possibility of anything other than the plans you’d made before me.

My brain wanted the comfort and familiarity of your arms.

If only we’d thought with our hearts.