The Tidal Wave Wasn't the End

Even the hardest waves return to calm.

August 6, 2025

I’ve been crying for two days.

Not a tear here and there. Not a quiet, reflective sadness. I mean crying. The kind where your whole body caves in. The kind that leaves you wrung out and hollow. The kind that makes you wonder if maybe—just maybe—you haven’t made any progress at all.

And the truth is, I have made progress. But this week, something pulled me all the way back.

It was him.

I didn’t plan to see him. I didn’t prepare. I didn’t brace myself.

I was at the airport—just pulling in to pick up my son—and there he was.

The man I loved deeply, and who was secretly, brutally cruel to me from the start.

He didn’t come over. He didn’t speak. He didn’t even really acknowledge me. But after a while, he looked at me. Just looked. That was enough.

Something cracked open inside me.

And the tidal waves came.

I didn’t feel rage. I wasn’t angry. I didn’t want revenge.

I just wanted him to try.

To say something.

To fix it.

To care.

There’s a specific kind of heartbreak that lives in the space between what you know and what you still wish for. That’s where I was. For two full days. Caught in that in-between place.

Wishing for something I knew wasn’t coming—

and knowing, deep down, that I shouldn’t still want it.

The grief that hit me wasn’t like Day One—when I first learned everything.

It hit harder.

It cut deeper.

Because now—after nearly four months—

I know the full scope of the devastation he caused.

I know the soul rupture.

The transformation I didn’t ask for, and didn’t deserve.

The endless longing.

The anxiety.

The sleepless nights.

The dreams where he still haunts me.

The fear.

I know what true heartbreak is.

I’ve gone back through every memory—

trying to make sense of what happened,

looking for clues that I mattered,

searching for evidence that we were real.

But what I saw instead were all the signs I missed.

The horrific truths that were there from the beginning—

I had him on a pedestal—

so high, so blinding—

I couldn’t see the harm he was causing inside of me.

Every lie he told—

every ache I’ve lived with since the day it all fell apart—

crashed into me all at once.

I’ve felt it in my body.

At public meetings, I gave addresses with him sitting directly behind me—

like nothing had happened—

while the woman who came before, during, and after me sat in the back of the room, scrolling on her phone.

I’ve swallowed the scream in my throat.

I’ve held my composure while dying inside.

I know the loss of what felt like a second home—

his house.

His dogs, who I loved like they were mine.

Our rituals.

Our late-night snacks in bed.

All of it… a lie.

And I’ve lived through the mind fuck of waking up inside a reality I didn’t recognize—

a war I didn’t know I was fighting

until the truth blew it wide open.

I cried in my bed. On the couch. In the shower. In the car. I cried until I couldn’t breathe and then cried some more.

And I was so frustrated.

Because just the day before,

I had felt almost… healed.

Lighter.

Clearer.

I had been laughing.

Picking blueberries.

Reconnecting with joy.

I had even thought to myself, “I think I’m okay now.”

And then—this.

I kept thinking: How could something so brief throw me so far back?

I’ve worked so hard.

I’ve cried the tears, done the work, walked away, stayed away.

I’ve rewritten the story, held the mirror, reclaimed the truth.

So why did this moment—this glance—undo me?

It felt like betrayal all over again.

But this time, the betrayal was internal.

I had believed I was past this.

And suddenly, I wasn’t.

And through it all, a small voice kept whispering:

You loved him deeply. That’s why this hurts so badly.

Today, I had therapy.

I was already worn down—

tired from crying, tired from longing,

tired from trying to understand something I didn’t ask to experience.

I logged in and just sat there.

I didn’t explain. I didn’t analyze. I didn’t try to find meaning in it.

I just cried.

I let the heartbreak have me. I let my body tell the truth.

And my therapist didn’t try to stop it. She didn’t rush me toward healing. She didn’t offer insight.

She just held space.

And that space—quiet, sacred, unrushed—was what I didn’t know I needed.

Eventually, the sobbing softened.

Not because I was done hurting—

but because I had finally stopped trying to outrun the grief.

We sat in the silence for a long time.

And then she gently asked me:

“What do you want your life to look like now?”

And I realized—I didn’t know how to answer.

I had been so consumed with what happened.

So focused on surviving.

That I had almost forgotten…

I get to choose.

And Then Something Changed

We started slow.

And then it started to come out.

I want to feel alive and lit up by my life.

I want peace in my body.

Joy that doesn’t have to be earned by suffering.

Mornings that are mine.

Evenings that feel like soft landings.

I want to be surrounded by strong, emotionally intelligent people—

who inspire me, see me, and stay.

I want to stop caretaking everyone else’s emotions.

I want to stop over-functioning to the point of collapse.

I want to create something meaningful and impactful.

A business. A legacy. A life that honors what I’ve survived.

I want love that is deep, honest, and reciprocal.

I want no contact with the person who caused this rupture—ever again.

And I deserve that.

After the session, I kept going. I opened a conversation with my AI companion—ChatGPT—and I spoke it aloud, all over again. Not like a technique. Not like a list.

Like a rhythm.

Like a promise.

Like a homecoming.

Not for him.

For me.

And if you're still here… maybe this is your invitation, too.

To stop.

To breathe.

To ask yourself:

What do I want my life to look like now?

Not the life you were handed.

Not the one you had to survive.

But the one you get to choose.

Start small.

Start true.

Ask yourself:

• How do I want to feel?

• Who do I want around me?

• What do I want to stop carrying?

• What do I want to welcome in?

Let the answers come slowly.

They don’t have to be tidy.

They just have to be yours.

You are allowed to want more.

You are allowed to speak it out loud.

You are allowed to receive.

We weren’t taught how to do this.

But we can learn.

And we can build a life that fits the person we’ve become.

Not just a life beyond the pain—

but a life that feels like coming home.

I know this isn’t the last tidal wave.

I know not everything is fixed just because of today.

But I named what I want.

And that’s something.

It’s more than I had yesterday.

And maybe that’s where healing starts—

Not in the absence of pain,

but in the quiet courage to imagine something better.

You deserve to dream.

I hope you do.

I love you.