Letting go.

Dear world,

I shouldn’t care. I should be over it. I’m better off. I traveled the world for a year. I’m a Director of Marketing before the age of 30. His loss. At least he did it when he did it…before we married…before we bought a house…before we had kids. I shouldn’t waste another second thinking about him or the life we had, or the life we planned. God has better plans for me. I know all of this. Of course I do.

But when a man tells you he can’t marry you because he no longer believes in marriage [[AFTER he voluntarily asks for your hand in marriage]] and then proceeds to, yet again, propose marriage…to someone else…well, that just stirs up a few feelings that contradict all that I knew. All that I thought I knew. Add to that, that I’m pretty certain he used the same ring. My ring. The ring that I left on his nighstand the night he told me to put marriage to bed. He gave that ring to someone else….[[WHY do men think that’s decent?! It’s not, guys. Take note. It’s tasteless to both your former and your future]].

So now, I finally have a reason to be mad.

I always wished for something to be mad about, actually…I know that sounds a little bit weird and a lotta crazy. But I thought it’d be easier to have that peg to stand on rather than the arbitrary confusion I felt for so long. I wanted him to have cheated on me. Or realized he was gay. Or have told me I was the worst human ever. Those things would have given me a rational pathway to follow. Instead, I got ‘I’m sorry. I love you. I just don’t believe in marriage anymore.’ I believed him. Maybe he was telling the truth at the time, fair. Regardless…Boom. There’s the lie I longed for. There’s the peg. A peg that hits you like a ton of bricks.

And do I feel better? Umm, not really. Having to rewrite history in my mind is a stupid, worthless task. Trying to re-package a box I thought I burned with some new diamond-covered wrapping paper is psychotic. Being angry is a part of the process, I know. Respecting the grieving process is hard but right…

And in my fit of hurt and anger and betrayal last week, I thought ‘I know. I’ll do what I do best. I’ll write him a letter. I’ll tell him how I feel. Air my hurt. Get it out of my body and off my chest. To let it go.’ I’ve done it before…to another ex…and to a woman who messed everything up. And it was all the kinds of therapeutic to write out unadulterated feelings to adulterers. So I thought I’d do that again. And then I thought, ‘nah, don’t ruffle feathers—don’t make him feel crappy over his decisions. He might be happy. Let him be happy.’ But I still deserve to get this off my chest. So instead, I’m writing this letter to the world. Without naming names. Without expectation or fear. This is my therapy. So I’m letting myself do it.

So. I’ve written my letter. I gave myself permission to be angry and then to be brutally honest. And now that it’s off my chest, I’m letting myself really, truly, permanently let it go. Let him go. Let all of it go.

I’ve stumbled through all of the emotions of the roller coaster now. It seems that I’ve come full circle on the horrible and confusing ride. And now, it’s time to get off the ride. It’s actually time to leave the theme park all together and go sit by the water instead. Back to me. Back to balance.


For my faith and hope in what’s to come.

For my family and friends.

For me.



A girl who is still growing. And who is forever thankful for the grace.