What His Absence Made Possible

Sept. 22, 2025

I couldn't do this if he were still here.

If he were still in my life,

I wouldn’t be writing like this —

the poetry and metaphor exploding out of me,

the diamonds,

the wolves,

the poisoned cups,

the golden strands.

I wouldn’t have built this living magazine of my journey,

a gallery of fire and fog and homecoming.

Because when he was beside me,

I wasn’t beside myself.

I lived in hypervigilance,

always scanning,

always sensing what I didn’t yet have proof of.

My body knew. My intuition knew.

Something was wrong.

That I wasn’t safe.

And that knowing kept me small, silent, afraid.

And worst of all, confused.

I could have done the leadership work I am doing now.

I could have sat in the president’s chair,

led the board through instability,

shown up with poise and clarity.

I could have been a parent,

but not with this level of presence.

I could have nurtured myself,

but not with this kind of tenderness.

I could have built a new career,

but not with the clarity to accept it was no longer right for me.

I could have kept surviving,

but not truly lived as me.

Because when I was with him,

the version of me that surfaced was not my best self.

It was the version forged by fear.

The version second-guessing.

The version explaining and apologizing and shrinking.

And now,

he is gone.

And I am here.

Writing, creating, leading, mothering,

building and dreaming,

not from fear,

but from fire and clarity.

Not from hypervigilance,

but from grounded trust.

Not from the need to decode another person’s void,

but from the fullness of my own creation.

I could not do what I am doing now

if he were still in my life.

And the truth is this:

I am free.

I am whole.

I am powerful.

I am thankful.

I am no longer trapped in the fog.

I am the fire,

the diamond,

the gladiator who found her way home.

I am me.