Forty Years Into My Life
I’ll be forty years old.
I still don’t know who I am or what I want. At the age of eighteen, I whisked myself into a marriage with a man I had only known for a couple of months. I became a mother at the age of twenty. By thirty-two, I was pronounced divorced.
My children are becoming young adults. I have moved on from the split of my marriage, yet I still don’t know where I belong. I don’t miss my marriage. I don’t miss what could have been.
But I miss something.
I just can’t put my finger on it.
For the bulk of my marriage, I was a stay-at-home mom. A career never transpired. My ambition was to keep the family together and the house clean. Hopeful of the day I would find myself back in the workforce once the kids were older.
Hopeful of the day — -
Now here I am, adulting. Grinding to a 40-hour workweek mostly to numb myself from the pain and confusion on what I really want. I’ve become hardened to the fact that I am alone and single. The idea of being with someone makes my insides twist with utter confusion.
I’ve come so far from releasing a man that was once my other half. Now that I am whole again, I don’t want to give myself away. But if I am whole, why do I feel like a part of me is missing?
I’m quite ambitious.
The idea of change doesn’t scare me. I’ve made leaps and bounds to get to where I’m at that I’m almost afraid to admit that I’m tired. I’m tired of running. I’m tired of doing. I’m tired of chasing a fleeting thought or moment.
I just want to be still.
I just want to be.
I just want to exist.
As I say those words, I feel myself longing to collapse in the arms of a man. A man that understands and provides a safe place to fall.
Oops, I did it again. The hardened heart that wants no one also softens and cares for connection.
I want to be seen.
I want to be heard.
I want to be loved.
I want to be validated.