And just like that, I blinked and it was April, six months after he got caught again. He was gone, the apartment was empty, and everything I owned was headed to a storage unit. My suitcases and I were headed to my dad's house.
I remember sitting on the floor of that empty apartment like it was yesterday, wondering how on earth it had all fallen apart so quickly, and what on earth I was going to do next. My career was in shambles. My marriage had ended in a wildly public way that I deeply resented. My body had completely stopped cooperating — my period had vanished, sleep was a distant memory, and food rarely stayed down long enough to matter. The stress of it all had taken up full residence in me, not just emotionally but physically. My body was keeping score in ways I hadn't anticipated and couldn't ignore.
And yes, somehow, in the middle of all of that, the narrative forming around me and about me was one of strength.
I didn't feel strong. I felt lost.
I had no idea how to pick myself back up. But somewhere underneath all of it, I knew I would. I knew in my core that come hell or high water, no person, no betrayal, no collapsed marriage was ever going to annihilate me. And the life I was going to build after this? It would be freaking incredible. Call it stubbornness, call it strength, call it grit, call it resilience, whatever you want to call it. In the middle of my pain, I knew I had it. I always have. And I would find my way back to it.
Fast forward four years. I pivoted my career, grown from an entry level project manager to now managing a team of project managers, living in a cozy Boston apartment with the best goldendoodle to ever exist, Annie. These days we spend our Saturday mornings having conversations with strangers, inspiration for this very newsletter. Last Saturday, one conversation stopped me in my tracks.
He had lost his job. As he sat across from me and looked me in the eye he said, "I took a bet on myself and I failed." We both took a slow, deep breath together. The self-doubt that followed in our conversation was something we both understood without having to explain it, the shared weight of it was palpable between us, two strangers sitting across from each other with completely different stories and the exact same internal battle.
But we also both knew something else. As painful as not knowing what would come next, looking back the loss had given us both the opportunity to rebuild. He moved back in with his parents, bartending at night and networking during the day. Nine months of that, and eventually he landed a job, found his footing, and built something new. The fall, as scary and humbling as it was, made the rebuild possible.
That's the thing about hitting the floor.
Whether it's an empty apartment in April or a career that didn't go the way you planned the floor has a way of showing you exactly what you're made of.
So if it hasn't gone according to plan, if you don't know where the next step is leading you don't fret. I know how scary it is. I've been there on that floor. But this pain, as real and as heavy as it is right now, won't always feel this way. And the life you get to build on the other side of it? That's entirely yours. You get to decide what goes into it.
Remember the rebuild starts quietly. And that's okay.
Your friend,
Lisa