I started this post almost a year ago – I found it today in the dredges of my laptop – a stark reminder of how things can change so drastically yet, in many ways, remain poignantly the same. The lesson in humility is not lost here.

By all accounts I have had a good year; a lot has changed. I am learning, and settling in to my new life – I’ve started dating again and am in a fun, new relationship. My kids are doing well – we’re doing life together in a magnificent way.

I have a confession. I used to think I was better than other people. I don’t want to say I was ever a racist, but I might have been. It’s hard not to be when you grow up under the guise of white privilege in the United States. My confession: I had little understanding for those who were different from me. And I didn’t need to – I never stepped out of my realm of convenience (my bubble). My life was good. I attributed that goodness to something I had done; but the truth is there is nothing I could have ever done that would explain the level of status to which I was born.

This is a fact of being a white person in America. You believe you’re just a little bit better than everyone else.

It was about 6 months ago. I decided I wanted to focus a bit more on my writing. Besides this blog, I had yet to take on a personal writing project.

I think in words – filtering almost every experience through the grid of how I would string letters together to create something meaningful to describe it.

How would this scenario play out?

What would this person do?

That person?

I did what any aspiring writer would do in my situation, and Googled local writing groups – I hoped to find something near me, and people – to help me in my new endeavor. I found several that fit the bill, arriving on a Tuesday evening clad in my standard jeans and T-shirt – yes high heels are required uniform for me– just to give you a picture.

Love and death and waiting and new life. It is the Easter season. I think a lot about these things during this time of year and as such have found myself in a state of melancholy over the past few days.

There has been death – both around me and in me. I am in a transition, another shift of my being. This fills me with excitement and a little disappointment – as I always envisioned my next new thing being dovetailed into a new relationship.

But sometimes the change that needs to happen within you comes in ways you least expect. That’s when you know you’re on to something good.

It had been weeks – months even, since I had known - since I had made the final decision in my heart and my head I guess – but I just couldn’t seem to pull the trigger.

I am highly intuitive – and, even though she wasn’t supposed to have an official opinion, I could tell my therapist’s patience was growing thin. This was the 3rd – 4th – 5th? time we’d had the same discussion in as many weeks.

My kids, what about my kids?

I didn’t want them to be a product of divorce – this was my top priority – or maybe it was an excuse. An excuse to avoid making the hard decision – the difficult circumstance – it would take me out of my sacred avoidance cycle. The avoidance cycle that was as comfortable as my favorite pair of sweatpants.