u/ComfortableMind8302

New Port is full of people asking me, “How’s your husband?”

And every time, I have to remember that the divorce was finalized years ago.

What’s wild is the marriage itself only lasted a lonely year. But emotionally? It feels like an entire lifetime collapsed into those months.

The story didn’t even restart in some romantic movie kind of way. It restarted while I was sick.

I had meningitis. Spent 11 days in the hospital. By night 8, somebody saw me on Facebook Live, took a screenshot, reached out to him, gave him my number, and suddenly I got a text message that simply said:

“Hey it’s me! What’s going on with you?”

And honestly? That one text changed the trajectory of my life faster than I could’ve imagined.

After 20 years, he came back.

At the time, it felt divine. Like maybe love had found its way back to me during one of the darkest moments of my life. Like maybe some stories really do get second chances.

Rhode Island became the place where hope was reborn.

Then Maine became the place where everything died.

What people don’t understand is they only remember the beginning. They remember the reunion. The marriage. The excitement. The “finally” of it all.

They didn’t see the unraveling.

They didn’t see how two people who once loved each other deeply could become complete strangers. No calls. No friendship. No checking in. Just silence where a whole future used to live.

And maybe that’s the hardest part of all.

Not that we divorced.
But that someone who once felt heaven-sent eventually became someone I no longer know at all.

Sometimes I think the cruelest thing life can do is give you back a person you prayed for… only to show you why they were lost in the first place.

You finally get a little energy back, start feeling a little more like yourself, overexert trying to “catch up” on life… and then your body demands days of rest afterward like you never moved forward at all.

And honestly, I can’t tell sometimes:
Is this a setback?
Or is my body forcing me to respect limits I spent years ignoring?

I’m learning that healing isn’t just pain management or procedures. It’s relearning how to exist without constantly pushing past exhaustion to prove I’m okay.

Some days my body whispers.
Some days it shuts everything down until I listen.

Maybe rest isn’t failure.
Maybe it’s part of survival.

I don’t even know where to start honestly.

The last few months have felt like somebody hit shuffle on my entire life and forgot to turn it off.

One minute I was teaching, driving buses, moving nonstop, taking care of everybody else like I always do. The next minute I’m sitting in hospital rooms learning words I never thought would apply to me. Surgery. Complications. Recovery. Blood thinners. A-fib. Cardioversion. Stroke-like symptoms. Neurology consults. Fatigue so heavy it feels like your bones are tired.

And the wild part? You still look “fine” to people.

That’s been one of the hardest things. People see you walking and think you’re okay. They see a smile and think you bounced back. Meanwhile your body feels unfamiliar, your brain is exhausted, and your whole life is balancing on insurance approvals, leave paperwork, medication schedules, and trying not to mentally spiral at 2am.

I had surgery in March that was supposed to improve my quality of life. In some ways it did. In other ways, it opened the door to a chain of medical issues I never saw coming. Recovery stopped being linear real quick.

I’ve had moments where I felt strong and hopeful. I’ve also had moments sitting alone thinking:
“How much more can one person’s body take in 60 days?”

And before somebody says “rest,” let me tell you something nobody talks about:
Rest is hard when you are the strong friend.
Rest is hard when your identity has always been tied to showing up.
Rest is hard when bills still exist and your paycheck suddenly doesn’t.

There’s a specific kind of humiliation that comes with needing help when you’re usually the helper.

But I’ll say this:
People have shown up for me in ways I will never forget.

My church family. Friends. Coworkers. Sisters. People bringing meals, paper plates, DoorDash cards, rides, prayers, texts, random check-ins, sitting with me in hospitals, helping me laugh when I was scared. Some people loved me so loudly during this season that I genuinely don’t know how I would’ve emotionally survived without them.

And weirdly enough… this season exposed some things too.

You learn very quickly who only loves the version of you that performs.
Who disappears when you stop being useful.
Who checks in because they care versus who checks in for information.

Pain has a way of clearing rooms.

But it also introduces you to real love.

I’m still recovering. Still figuring things out. Still tired more than I’d like to admit. Still grieving the version of myself that could just GO without thinking twice.

But I’m here.

And honestly? Some days “I’m here” is the victory.

If you’re reading this while going through your own medical mess, chronic illness, recovery, unexplained symptoms, or just exhaustion from carrying too much for too long:
I get it now.

Your body can force you into a level of surrender your mind would’ve never chosen willingly.

And maybe that’s not weakness.
Maybe that’s survival.