Over the course of the last two years, my life has been in flux. I moved 1600 miles away from my home, my oldest son and my best friend. I left a 25-year marriage. I gave up a 10-year career. I have ceased to be a presence in a number of people’s lives, and they have ceased to be a presence in mine.
To some who love me, or used to love me, some friends, some relatives, quite a few colleagues and coworkers, and a handful of neighbors, in a way, I have disappeared. I no longer live next door. I no longer work with you. I no longer see you in the coffee shop each morning. You no longer read my words. You no longer stop in my office on your way down the hall. You no longer consider me your sister-in-law or your wife. We are no longer Facebook friends. I am no longer your lunch buddy or your team member. You no longer wave hello. You don’t see me at church. You don’t see me walking my dog down the street.
I don’t want to be overly dramatic, but it’s kind of weird.
I have a deep sense that I don’t know who I am anymore, and I’m starting to wonder if I ever really did.
I am in transition. I didn’t anticipate that this phase would last as long as it has or reach into as many areas of my life as it has reached. I had no idea when I started this journey two years ago that I would be where I am today.
This is the most important time of my life. I can feel it. Yet sometimes I am gripped by fear that I might let this moment slip through my fingers. But I have a sense that I won’t, that I’m not. I have a sense that something is happening within me that is momentous, even if it is only of consequence to me.