On realizing the ending wasn’t the end after all. 🖋️
I don’t speak much about the end of my marriage.
As an intensely private person (in real life, anyway — the blog is a different story), it always felt… complicated. Too raw. Too heavy. I didn’t want questions or pity. I didn’t want anyone poking around for details or explanations. So I stayed quiet.
But maybe it’s time to talk about it, even just a little.
When I got divorced last year and had to sell my home, it felt like the end of my book. The life I’d worked so hard to build was suddenly gone. The house. The husband. The sense of certainty. All of it disappeared, like the plot collapsed on itself.
Ever since then, I haven’t really been living — not fully, not deeply. Just… surviving. The kids and I are staying with family while I work to rebuild, and it’s felt like an ending. Feels like an ending.
Or maybe it’s a pause. A long, painful pause I never wanted. It feels like I’m waiting for life to begin again, but I don’t know when, or where, or how that might happen.
That’s why it felt like the end of my book. But it wasn’t. It was just the end of a chapter, not the story itself.
Maybe that's the thing about endings: sometimes they're just beginnings in disguise.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot. How some stories really do end, but others shift and spill over, bleeding into new pages. How one story’s closing line can quietly become another’s first sentence. A sequel, of sorts.
There are chapters I haven’t reached yet. Plot twists I haven’t seen coming. New settings. New characters. New storylines still working themselves out.
I just need to keep turning the pages. Because I’ve realized something in all of this mess: endings make room for beginnings.
The story’s still unfolding — changing shape, finding its rhythm, beginning again.
And so am I.
This post is part of my New Chapters series — reflections on rebuilding, resilience, and writing new parts of my story.
No comments