He cut me off at the knees. I was hoping for rescue, resuscitation, relief. Instead, same-old, same-old. The pattern repeated.
Or so I thought at the time.
But the truth of the matter is, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started the soul-work needed to forge a new life. I quit waiting. I rode in on my own white horse and picked up the pieces. I built a handmade life I am proud of — attached or unattached — a life that has me at the center, not on the periphery.
And that was the gift — the pony, so to speak — that was buried in all that sh*t. … More Letter to My Former Self