An Unsteady Beginning: Week One

Divorce after 20 years and empty nest starts here…

Amy Dobbs

Published in

Middle-Pause

5 min readAug 29, 2023

Day One

The last little bird has just flown the nest. We went from a family of four to just me here today in a big empty house. I knew this was coming but I stayed in my nightgown until evening reading and writing. The little bird is off playing grown-up, and I play invalid.

Tennyson said, “it’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.”

But the heartbreak knocks the wind out of you. I’ve also read, “Where there’s grief, there is love.” And sometimes in life getting out of bed can be a monumental task. Raising a family — watching them grow and caring for them — gave me immense joy. My husband provided for us and was the kind of guy who could fix everything but us, and then we fell apart.

Two women in their fifties walk across the sand dripping in the sun carrying surfboards. We’re both nursing heartaches and the last of our birds have just flown. But we carry on and go surfing. I’m happy to just get past the waves and paddle around, but I admit when I actually catch a wave, it’s pretty darn exhilarating.

We pass a couple and her surfer husband looks more like her son. His waist is slim, his body tan. He’s grinning under a tuft of sun-bleached hair. She’s hiding her extra pounds under her towel. She walks toward me feigning deep concern.

“Are you still in the house? Be careful not to wait too long to find someone new, because in ten years you will no longer be able to ride that surfboard. You’re still charming now, but in ten years it will be too late.”

Ah, well, so be it. First I’m learning to be on my own. Frankly, it sucks. But I was finally able to stand up and say enough. Time to learn to love myself. Such a corny thing to say, that everyone throws around. But I must learn it anyway.

Not all Blue Skies on the Other Side

I am invited to eat with a couple that have been married for decades. His sarcasm and castigation towards her make me coil and my reaction is physical. I feel sick. It’s not okay. Luckily, I know another couple that actually enjoys each other and is kind to each other. It should be so easy.

The lid was nailed the day my husband nonchalantly said that the marriage had destroyed him. That was when I knew it was time to go, to bow out of this opera.

I’m down for the count, but not destroyed. I mustered courage that I truly did not fathom that I had. And now, how to move forward? One step at a time.

So I ended day one showered and dressed and doom scrolling, watching inspirational woo-hoo videos on Instagram, woman-power podcasts on creativity, reading Rising Strong by Bréne Brown…a farce because I only rose out of the chair to pee.

So this day one, no my darling, is not how it must go. Time to make a plan. Then I wash some clothes, cook some food, put the bread dough to rise, and set my timer to get to work for 25 minutes. That’s my desperate trick to get me going. Work 25 minutes. Pause. Do over.

I also went outside. There’s no running out of time — there’s just right now. Now is all that matters. And when I went to put gas in my car, instead of worrying about how much it cost, I was proud I actually had the money to do it, money I had worked hard to make.

Day Two

I am more productive. I run errands, weed the garden and add compost, plant a dozen lettuce plants, wash, hang clothes to dry in the sun, water plants, fold clothes, cancel appointments, and make others. I clean off the top of a pantry loaded with knick-knacks, fill glass jars with dried beans and rice and line them up. I’m completely procrastinating.

Day Three

Some family drama throws me off my plan. Something ate half my lettuce plants overnight. I’m worried for my little bird. I try to be Zen and encouraging. Let him find his way and be here if he needs me. I wake at 4:30 am anxious and try to meditate but I’m terrible at it. By noon I call a friend.

“Are you working?”

“No, would you like to come for lunch and then go for a swim in the sea?”

“I can’t. I have to prepare my classes for next week. Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

I stand at the water’s edge. It’s freezing. I hesitate while she swims far out into the port between the swaying fishing boats where the sea is a deep ultramarine blue. I plunge. The baptism washes away my negativity. Hair dripping wet in the sun, I’m tingling. I stack hot rocks onto my cold feet. We make a pact to get up an hour earlier each day and she recommends the book, Miracle Morning so I buy it on my Kindle and begin reading.

Day Four

5:30 am. I try following the advice: silence, affirmations (those are harder), visualisation (my ideal life seems far away), exercise (I keep reading), reading (check), scribing (check — as I’m furiously taking notes).

Back to affirmations:

I am responsible for the quality of my life.

I am a competent, capable, caring woman.

I have much to give.

I am enough.

Yawn.

I am sleepy. 7:30 am.

I decide I will be kind to myself and lie back down for one more hour. It is the last of my summer vacation after all. At 8:30 am I hit the snooze, in and out of sleep, I must have hit it a few times because my dog has had enough and throws her weight onto my bed. I get it.

Tea and some exercise which I had skipped. I stretch. Ouch. My body is rusty. I set a large mirror in front of the yoga mat and my abs are in the worst kind of shape ever. I squint at my phone and try some yoga moves. Depressing.

11:51 am: I finally sit at my desk to sort my papers. I can. I will.

6 pm: I can’t. I’m not. Meltdown. It’s too f-ing hard to be good.

Maybe someone out there can relate?