No one prepared me.
They said, “You’ll be okay.” But no one told me that “okay” would feel a thousand miles away. No one told me that some mornings I would fall to my knees, gasping for air, begging God to let me go too. That I’d wake up wishing I could stop breathing just to end the ache in my chest.
No one told me that this heartbreak would eat at me slowly, mercilessly destroying my health. Your heart can start failing. Your body weakens. You can’t be fully present for your children. And worse, the anger, it creeps in, hot and sharp, spilling onto the people you love most, even your own kids. You snap. You lash out. You feel lost in a world that no longer makes sense.
No one warned me that family might abandon you, that friends might disappear, that you could lose not just your husband, but your home, your sense of safety, your sense of self.
This is the part no one talks about: you are never the same. The old you is gone. And every day, you have to decide if you can carry this new version of yourself through another sunrise.
I’m still here, not because it’s easy, but because I believe telling the truth might save someone else. If you’ve felt this darkness, you are not weak. You are not alone. And you are still needed in this world.