Lana was direct: "I'm starting a women's group, and I want you to be in it." I would have looked over my shoulder (surely she was talking to someone else), but I was posted up in the back corner of a back room at a holiday party that I had begrudgingly attended. I didn't get many invites in 2016. Okay no invites, actually. So I had to go. Half a decade had passed since my seismic divorce that fractured families and divided a community. I had committed the cardinal sin of falling in love with someone other than my husband. It was complicated. But here I was at my first holiday party since what was then BeforeTimes, being approached by a woman with a wide smile and an open heart. And, if memory serves, some CBD gummies.
While many of my friends, frenemies and acquaintances committed similar sins on the mortal-venal spectrum -- I became the go-to for their confessionals -- I was early to the exodus from my "training marriage" (coinage not mine), and vilified for it from aisle nine at the local Safeway to the high school bleachers to my then place of employment. The bandwidth of the townsfolk to dissect, adjudicate and sentence the accused with little-to-no information was astonishing. They gave new meaning to confirmation bias.
Public stocks were thankfully not available when I didn't do as I was told. Unsolicited suggestions included, but were not limited to: move to another community; disappear and silence yourself on social media and otherwise; quit all school and community committees; do not even think about getting a puppy for your girls; join a support group far, far away; cancel your vacations; be alone for several years whilst repenting/self-flagellating; and stay with your husband even though you don't love each other and haven't in years because this too shall pass and the girls will grow up and you can leave each other then and only then.
The meta messages were loud, clear and consistent: we know what is best for you, your marriage and your children; disobey our directives at your peril.
"And by all means," said one of my now-former emergency contacts after I had written an essay about my unthinkable and unexpected life transition, "don't write about it again, or I won't be your friend."
"Promise?" is what I should have said.
"I promise!" is what I said instead, paying proper obeisance.
At another point in the same conversation she allowed "your story would be a great screenplay ... in ten years."
It's been eleven years (who's counting?), but something tells me it still wouldn't be okay. When it's done, rest assured it will be dedicated to her with something along the lines of "Thanks for the motivation!"
When Lana approached me at that party, the loss of my friends (and our friends of friends, etc.) was still my cross to bear. What made it most painful was that my emergency contacts were not only my closest friends but my daughters' best friends' moms. They were the matriarchs of the families formerly enmeshed with our family; the co-campers, the carpoolers, the birthday bakers, the special-memory makers, the hospital-takers. Their kids came to our house when they had new babies.
Meanwhile, my lover-turned-lifemate lost zero friends and made common cause with half a dozen new ones. His best friend, God bless him, doubled down against all odds; they always had each other's back ... because divorce happens and friends stay; they don't discard or choose sides. My anointed, publicly-perfect and curated ex could have (still could) run for mayor. But the gender double-standard is another post entirely.
I had pre-grieved my marriage; we'd been done for years. I lacked the foresight, and had not done the emotional calculus, however, to pre-grieve the loss of my closest friends and their families.
My heart wasn't thinking.
At the time, I believed the price of losing my "village" was incalculable, not just because I missed them acutely and comprehensively, but because my daughters paid the price of losing the extended-family fabric of their lives. Overnight, they were made to understand that their mother was an irredeemably Bad Person whose choice left them without a village too.
Despite being perceived as derelict, indulgent and selfish, learning how to be away from my three young children (ages 8, 10 and 12 at the time) fifty percent of the time was no easy paradigm shift. Just as creating a "new normal" was "like running backwards in the snow in heels," as one friend described it. True that, particularly when I'd been sentenced to detention ... indefinitely. One acutely-aggrieved dad ran down his backstairs when I picked my daughter up from his house to avoid the exchange of small talk and pleasantries; another likewise peeved mom turned her back on me in a retail setting before doing a 180 to stare me down and flip me off while stomping away backwards. "Fuck YOU," she screamed, gripping her son's hand with her non-gesticulating free hand. Just before she tripped. Ouch.
18 months passed from the time my marriage imploded to the time I was invited to someone's house with my daughters. They felt that as much as I did. When they were with dad, the unyielding support, invites and co-vacations continued apace. When they were with mom, by contrast, there were no carpools, very few playdates, and certainly no extended gatherings. Just relentless, buffeting headwinds and reminders: Thou shalt not be happy. Dog walkers, piano teachers. Baristas. They were their mom's new friends. The girls soldiered on, pretending not to notice.
So, yep, when Lana's most welcome women's-group invitation was floated, I didn't hesitate, ask questions or screen the members.
"When do we start?" was my response.
The tears came later, while driving home.
She followed up in mid-January with an email to invitees: "I am envisioning a time to come together to build connection, support and community ... that is intentionally set aside to focus on ourselves and each other." At our first gathering, we made vision boards, soaked in a hot tub, shared in circle and broke bread.
Six-plus years later, the group has changed slightly but the center has held. The women—now affectionately self-named The Voxy Mamas because we use an app called Voxer to stay connected between gatherings and events—have redefined friendship for me in profound ways.
We accept and care for each other unconditionally. We relate authentically. We do not know from Schadenfreude but rather empathy and understanding when a mistake (large or small, life-changing or otherwise) is made, a child is suffering, a marriage is faltering, a parent is dying, a dream is disintegrating or a tectonic shift is redefining a life. We celebrate not just birthdays but victories--personal, professional, spiritual. The losses are shouldered collectively, making them more bearable, less devastating.
We embrace the imperfect with the well-intentioned, the flaws with the strengths, the ups with the downs.
We accept apologies.
We don't pretend.
It's not that accountability is waived. On the contrary, we own our choices, actions, feelings--without fear of retribution, judgment, abandonment. Disagreements happen, inconvenient truths are aired, conflicting agendas tolerated. Acceptance and growth follows.
Mostly, though, we share knowing that we will be heard, we listen knowing that others are safe being vulnerable and we laugh, cry and cry-laugh ... knowing that we will be connected, held and supported.
For that and the beautiful rest of it, my gratitude it limitless.
The Horses
Rickie Lee Jones
www.youtube.com/watch?v=elmaK9MOuE0
We will fly
Way up high
Where the cold wind blows
Or in the sun
Laughing having fun
With the people that she knows
And if the situation
Should keep us separated
You know the world won't fall apart
And you will free the beautiful bird
That's caught inside your heart
Can't you hear her?
Oh she cries so loud
Casts her wild note
Over water and cloud
That's the way it's gonna be, little darlin'
We'll be riding on the horses, yeah
Way up in the sky, little darlin'
And if you fall I'll pick you up, pick you up
You will grow
And until you go
I'll be right there by your side
And even then
Whisper the wind
And she will carry up your ride
I hear all the people of the world
In one bird's lonely cry
See them trying every way they know how
To make their spirit fly
Can't you see him?
He's down on the ground
He has a broken wing
Looking all around
That's the way it's gonna be, little darlin'
You go riding on the horses, yeah
Way up in the sky, little darlin'
And if you fall I'll pick you up, pick you up
Can't you hear her?
Oh she cries so loud
Casts her wild note
Over water and cloud
I'll pick you up darlin' if you fall
Don't worry 'bout a thing little girl
Because I was young myself not so long ago
And when I was young
When I was young
And when I was young, oh I was a wild, wild one.
While many of my friends, frenemies and acquaintances committed similar sins on the mortal-venal spectrum -- I became the go-to for their confessionals -- I was early to the exodus from my "training marriage" (coinage not mine), and vilified for it from aisle nine at the local Safeway to the high school bleachers to my then place of employment. The bandwidth of the townsfolk to dissect, adjudicate and sentence the accused with little-to-no information was astonishing. They gave new meaning to confirmation bias.
Public stocks were thankfully not available when I didn't do as I was told. Unsolicited suggestions included, but were not limited to: move to another community; disappear and silence yourself on social media and otherwise; quit all school and community committees; do not even think about getting a puppy for your girls; join a support group far, far away; cancel your vacations; be alone for several years whilst repenting/self-flagellating; and stay with your husband even though you don't love each other and haven't in years because this too shall pass and the girls will grow up and you can leave each other then and only then.
The meta messages were loud, clear and consistent: we know what is best for you, your marriage and your children; disobey our directives at your peril.
"And by all means," said one of my now-former emergency contacts after I had written an essay about my unthinkable and unexpected life transition, "don't write about it again, or I won't be your friend."
"Promise?" is what I should have said.
"I promise!" is what I said instead, paying proper obeisance.
At another point in the same conversation she allowed "your story would be a great screenplay ... in ten years."
It's been eleven years (who's counting?), but something tells me it still wouldn't be okay. When it's done, rest assured it will be dedicated to her with something along the lines of "Thanks for the motivation!"
When Lana approached me at that party, the loss of my friends (and our friends of friends, etc.) was still my cross to bear. What made it most painful was that my emergency contacts were not only my closest friends but my daughters' best friends' moms. They were the matriarchs of the families formerly enmeshed with our family; the co-campers, the carpoolers, the birthday bakers, the special-memory makers, the hospital-takers. Their kids came to our house when they had new babies.
Meanwhile, my lover-turned-lifemate lost zero friends and made common cause with half a dozen new ones. His best friend, God bless him, doubled down against all odds; they always had each other's back ... because divorce happens and friends stay; they don't discard or choose sides. My anointed, publicly-perfect and curated ex could have (still could) run for mayor. But the gender double-standard is another post entirely.
I had pre-grieved my marriage; we'd been done for years. I lacked the foresight, and had not done the emotional calculus, however, to pre-grieve the loss of my closest friends and their families.
My heart wasn't thinking.
At the time, I believed the price of losing my "village" was incalculable, not just because I missed them acutely and comprehensively, but because my daughters paid the price of losing the extended-family fabric of their lives. Overnight, they were made to understand that their mother was an irredeemably Bad Person whose choice left them without a village too.
Despite being perceived as derelict, indulgent and selfish, learning how to be away from my three young children (ages 8, 10 and 12 at the time) fifty percent of the time was no easy paradigm shift. Just as creating a "new normal" was "like running backwards in the snow in heels," as one friend described it. True that, particularly when I'd been sentenced to detention ... indefinitely. One acutely-aggrieved dad ran down his backstairs when I picked my daughter up from his house to avoid the exchange of small talk and pleasantries; another likewise peeved mom turned her back on me in a retail setting before doing a 180 to stare me down and flip me off while stomping away backwards. "Fuck YOU," she screamed, gripping her son's hand with her non-gesticulating free hand. Just before she tripped. Ouch.
18 months passed from the time my marriage imploded to the time I was invited to someone's house with my daughters. They felt that as much as I did. When they were with dad, the unyielding support, invites and co-vacations continued apace. When they were with mom, by contrast, there were no carpools, very few playdates, and certainly no extended gatherings. Just relentless, buffeting headwinds and reminders: Thou shalt not be happy. Dog walkers, piano teachers. Baristas. They were their mom's new friends. The girls soldiered on, pretending not to notice.
So, yep, when Lana's most welcome women's-group invitation was floated, I didn't hesitate, ask questions or screen the members.
"When do we start?" was my response.
The tears came later, while driving home.
She followed up in mid-January with an email to invitees: "I am envisioning a time to come together to build connection, support and community ... that is intentionally set aside to focus on ourselves and each other." At our first gathering, we made vision boards, soaked in a hot tub, shared in circle and broke bread.
Six-plus years later, the group has changed slightly but the center has held. The women—now affectionately self-named The Voxy Mamas because we use an app called Voxer to stay connected between gatherings and events—have redefined friendship for me in profound ways.
We accept and care for each other unconditionally. We relate authentically. We do not know from Schadenfreude but rather empathy and understanding when a mistake (large or small, life-changing or otherwise) is made, a child is suffering, a marriage is faltering, a parent is dying, a dream is disintegrating or a tectonic shift is redefining a life. We celebrate not just birthdays but victories--personal, professional, spiritual. The losses are shouldered collectively, making them more bearable, less devastating.
We embrace the imperfect with the well-intentioned, the flaws with the strengths, the ups with the downs.
We accept apologies.
We don't pretend.
It's not that accountability is waived. On the contrary, we own our choices, actions, feelings--without fear of retribution, judgment, abandonment. Disagreements happen, inconvenient truths are aired, conflicting agendas tolerated. Acceptance and growth follows.
Mostly, though, we share knowing that we will be heard, we listen knowing that others are safe being vulnerable and we laugh, cry and cry-laugh ... knowing that we will be connected, held and supported.
For that and the beautiful rest of it, my gratitude it limitless.
The Horses
Rickie Lee Jones
www.youtube.com/watch?v=elmaK9MOuE0
We will fly
Way up high
Where the cold wind blows
Or in the sun
Laughing having fun
With the people that she knows
And if the situation
Should keep us separated
You know the world won't fall apart
And you will free the beautiful bird
That's caught inside your heart
Can't you hear her?
Oh she cries so loud
Casts her wild note
Over water and cloud
That's the way it's gonna be, little darlin'
We'll be riding on the horses, yeah
Way up in the sky, little darlin'
And if you fall I'll pick you up, pick you up
You will grow
And until you go
I'll be right there by your side
And even then
Whisper the wind
And she will carry up your ride
I hear all the people of the world
In one bird's lonely cry
See them trying every way they know how
To make their spirit fly
Can't you see him?
He's down on the ground
He has a broken wing
Looking all around
That's the way it's gonna be, little darlin'
You go riding on the horses, yeah
Way up in the sky, little darlin'
And if you fall I'll pick you up, pick you up
Can't you hear her?
Oh she cries so loud
Casts her wild note
Over water and cloud
I'll pick you up darlin' if you fall
Don't worry 'bout a thing little girl
Because I was young myself not so long ago
And when I was young
When I was young
And when I was young, oh I was a wild, wild one.
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