I grew up in a Christian household where all of my relatives hold the same beliefs. Some of my earliest memories include playing with neighborhood kids, bugging my mom about when dinner would be ready, and wishing for a different life. As far back as I can remember, I have felt like something about me was different. I remember laying in bed at night wishing that a group of women that looked like The Hex Sisters from Scooby-Doo would kidnap me and through science turn my body into that of a girl. Funnily enough something similar would happen, but not for decades later.

Divorce is messy. It just is. And it’s not even about right or wrong. It’s just MESSY.

In the almost three and a half years of getting divorced I did a lot of dismantling and a lot of divining in my own wild. I made mistakes that were always invitations to grow, unfold, and heal.

I found my inner voice.

I sat in dark rooms with my trauma and let it speak to me.

I befriended my intuition.

I shed layers and layers of shame and conditioning.

I got quiet.

I went off on my own.

I held ground.

I meditated on forgiveness - and sometimes I did that through the release of weeping and silent screaming behind the bathroom door.