Life After Letting Go: Part Three

Part Three: When Healing Meets the Real World

After I repaired the parts of my home that had long been neglected, and proved to myself I could do it, I started wondering what else I was capable of. That’s when I decided to try dating again.

It wasn’t a sudden or impulsive decision. It came slowly, after many days of reflection, peace, and solitude. I chose a dating platform that allowed me control, one where I could remain private and more anonymous from the small community I live and work in. Being a therapist in a tight-knit town comes with a unique set of boundaries, and I had to be mindful of that. So, I planned for distance; emotionally, mentally, and geographically.

Eventually, I agreed to go out on a date— just one.

The texting had been enjoyable. He was attentive, responsive, and kind in his messages. He complimented me and listened to the little things I shared. It felt nice to have someone interested in my day again. I didn’t realize how much I had missed that, a voice on the other end of the line simply saying, "Tell me more."

He offered to drive in to meet me for lunch. I figured, if it goes well, we can continue. If not, no harm done.

At lunch, I noticed he wasn’t kind to the wait staff. It made me pause. That was a red flag.

As we walked through the community afterward, he reached for my hand. I let him hold it, but it felt foreign. People I knew saw us together, and I received curious, even uncomfortable looks. When we returned to the car, we sat for a moment before he got out to head to his own. Then, just before stepping out, he leaned in for a kiss— and I froze.

It was just a peck. But it hit me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. When I was younger, kissing someone new used to feel exciting. Flirty, fun, even a little electric. This time, it felt… nerve-wracking. Personal. Off. The energy wasn’t there, and it startled me how much I missed the comfort of familiarity. I went home and cried.

I wasn’t sure I could do this. I questioned everything: Am I too old for this? Too wounded? Too out of practice? But again, grace. I reminded myself that trying is still progress. I pulled myself together and continued to text him. He remained optimistic. In fact, very optimistic. He was already planning weekends and futures. I didn’t know if I was ready for all that.

He asked to visit again, this time for an evening. He brought an overnight bag to stay in my guest room. I felt uneasy but open, cautious, but willing. I asked my best friend and her husband to join us for dinner, and they brought their daughter along too. I needed extra eyes. I needed my people close.

And thank goodness I did.

That night was a disaster. He wasn’t kind to them. He was dismissive and arrogant with the wait staff. He kept placing his hand on my thigh under the table, something that felt way too intimate, too soon, too much. I felt invaded. I wanted to vanish. I even caught myself wishing I could ride home with my friend’s daughter instead of him.

Still, I rode with him. And in the car, I told him gently but directly: this wasn’t going to work.

He was upset. Angry, even. But when he finally left, I felt a giant wave of relief wash over me.

And then, of course, I cried. Again.

He reached out afterward, but I ignored the messages. Then came the letter in the mail; long, pleading, dramatic. I didn’t even finish it. Straight to the recycle bin.

And that’s when I made a quiet but important decision: I’m not ready. And again, grace.

I know I have said this before, but it’s worth repeating.  Grief makes people uncomfortable. Even the people who love you deeply. They want to see you smile again, to laugh, to feel light. They want the old you back. Not because they don’t care, but because they do. And they hate to see you in pain. But divorce is grief. It’s not just the end of a marriage. It’s the loss of a future, of daily routines, of comfort, of identity, of “us.”

So, I will give myself space to mourn, to try, to cry, to pull back, to try again, and to grow stronger through it all.

I’ll keep walking. Keep breathing. Keep choosing me. Even if the pace is slow, it’s mine.