This is 40, Dear A.
It still doesn’t feel real, you know? 40. I know that’s probably the most overused statement, but it really doesn’t. I have spent so much time thinking about this birthday. Reflecting on my life, the past ten years, everything that’s led me to where I am now, and the words I wanted to say about it all just felt elusive and, admittedly, just not quite right. I did try to write all of the words I’ve been feeling leading up to my birthday, and while these words were true, they also weren’t what I really wanted to say. Not really.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this blog. This medium. Who I am writing this for. Who my audience is. And when I really thought about it, the truth is that these words have always been for me. With that said, I also acknowledge that these words have resonated with so many, and they also offer a glimpse into my life, behind the beautiful pictures and stories I share on Instagram; that, while true, are only a small part of the bigger picture that is my life. So, even if these words are for me, I believe there is value in my sharing them, and that there are those who (still) want to read them—who want me to share them, and I feel less of an egoist in the sharing.
When I think about turning 40 it’s almost impossible to not think about each of my forty years on this planet, but especially the last ten, as they have been the biggest, most life changing years of my life thus far. While I loved my thirties, they weren’t without considerable hardship, loss, and pain. I think about all of it and I am stuck on the word growth. I think because it’s what I’ve done. Almost perpetually. I feel, just in the last nine years alone there have existed at least three separate versions of me, ending with the one I am now, and who I believe is the best version of myself. I say it because I still can’t comprehend that I have continued to grow and change so much. And this version of me? It’s honestly everything I ever wanted. When my ex left me, I was…well, it tore my life up, and I was left with so much to process, to grieve, to move on from. But it also woke me up. For the eleven years I was married I felt like I had been ‘stuck’—sleepwalking. And I hated that. I started to really live again afterwards. To find ‘me’ again. And as part of that I intentionally made up my life the way I would want it to look. The person I wanted to become. And while I don’t think I’ll ever arrive, I feel so much closer to that woman today than ever before and I am so damn proud of me for getting here. Despite all of it—all the pain, the heartbreak, the excruciating change and hardship—I am here, writing these words.
In thinking about how I have changed in the last year, the words that come to mind are ‘peace’ and ‘release’. I feel that I’ve finally come to a place of peace with both my life and with myself. Not that I still don’t have things that I want to do, or to someday have a life partner, but that I am at peace with my life—just as it is now. Even as I feel the constant restlessness in my bones, pushing me to do more, to have more, I am also leaning into the peace of, “I am okay just here. I am enough, just me—here.” There is peace in having grace for yourself, and while I haven’t fully arrived, I am getting more and more comfortable in the discomfort life sometimes brings in the ‘in-between spaces’.
As to the second word, ‘release’—I feel I am releasing so many things as I enter my 40s. Expectations being a big part of that. The expectations others have of me. Especially when it comes to familial expectations; the expectations, spoken or unspoken of having been raised in the church. But especially the expectations I have had for myself. So many things I have carried with me; things a younger version of me hoped and dreamed and longed for. A loving marriage. Children with a loving and supportive partner in a home that overflowed with so much love and support that our kids would grow sick of it (not really, but they definitely would act like it, laughs). Expectations and dreams that, as I’ve changed, I finally recognize that it’s okay for these things to change too. So much discomfort in letting these things go, but I find, with each day, more comfort, and more peace knowing that I have and am building a beautiful life; even it doesn’t look the way my 16-year-old, or 25-year-old, or 30-year-old self thought that it would look like. And that’s okay. Because, maybe—just maybe—this life is better than anything I could have planned or dreamed of when I was younger. And yes, I recognize that this life, my life, will make a lot of people uncomfortable. But here’s the thing—I frankly don’t fucking care. My life isn’t meant to make people comfortable. I have a big heart, and a big voice, and I won’t allow others opinions or expectations of me stop me from pursuing and living the most amazing and authentic life I was meant to live. For this I am damn proud and unapologetic.
My life isn’t meant to make people comfortable.
There are other things of course that come to mind when thinking about this birthday. The relationships—at least the big and meaningful ones since my divorce—are hard to not think about. I know I shouldn’t dwell on it (and I honestly don’t), but the fact that every single major relationship/love I’ve had over the last nine years, is now married(??)—it’s an exceptionally hard pill to swallow. Coupled closely with the fact that it has been nine years. And, as those closest to me know, my being single is not for a lack of trying, of putting myself out there, for keeping my heart open, or having hope—one more time. I know it’s not because of me. The simple truth is that I have fallen in love five times in the last nine years. And every time it’s ended. I don’t even want to get into the “whys” here—they feel superfluous and beside the point. With all of that said, I do feel it worth acknowledging that I know I put myself out there, with my whole heart, in a really terrifying and vulnerable way. And when I loved someone, I made sure that they knew. Because I am a big believer in not leaving anything important left unsaid, particularly when it comes to love. The thing is—I acknowledge that I love intensely, and I feel intensely, and, to some (I think) that kind of love is terrifying and overwhelming. It wasn’t to all, but I think, to most of these men they either couldn’t match my feelings or they recognized that they didn’t know what to do with a love like that. I once had one of my exes intimate that to me when we were having a very candid conversation about our relationship a couple of years post-mortem. He told me that I loved in this incredibly big and overwhelming way—and he didn’t know that he could receive that kind of love. My memory and subsequent paraphrase of his words isn’t perfect, but the painful truth of his words still rings true.
With all of that said, the truth is there is still one person who I can’t quite let go of. There are unspoken words there, for him, that have been rising up within me for a while now, and that I knew I had to write and to share here now. For whatever reason, I felt that I needed to say them now, as I say goodbye to my thirties—and, to finally find a peace about him, about us, in leaving these words on the page. He was the first big love for me. A love that made me believe that all of the pain of my divorce may have been worth it, because I felt so keenly that we were right, in so many ways. And he has been there ever since—the impossible measuring stick that I unconsciously measure someone against. Because so many things were just right. And, in my heart of hearts, I believe are still right. Despite all of the pain, my heart believes I need to leave these words here now. If for no other reason, to know that I am leaving it all on the page. And I will walk away knowing I live that kind of love. The big and crazy kind I have spent my life looking for. Bold and big words. Not afraid of what other people think. Because you’re not willing to let that person go ’til they know how you feel—come what may. And I truly have no expectations following these words. But I know the only way that I can finally let him go, to face my forties, and my next chapters, is to leave it all here. So I am. And damn it feels good—to finally have these words out (albeit terrifying, too). But I also know I wouldn’t have it any other way. I intend to continue to live a very big life. Even if I don’t exactly know what that life will look like, I know it will be one full of love, of belonging, and many, many adventures. I know this because I finally know me. And that is the life I plan on living.
I will walk away knowing I live that kind of love. The big and crazy kind I have spent my life looking for. Bold and big words. Not afraid of what other people think. Because you’re not willing to let that person go ’til they know how you feel—come what may.
To my forties—I’m still not quite sure about you, and I’m definitely not quite ready to concede I am 40. But I am here, and I am ready for what’s next. Here’s to the next decade. To leaning far into all of the things I know I am called to do from here. And to finally not letting my fear keeping me from wholeheartedly doing them.
To the amazing people I am blessed to call my friends—who merit the word—and who also just keep showing up, endlessly. “I love you.” Thank you for believing in me, even when I stopped, and then some. I couldn’t do this life without you, and I hope I never have to.
And to everyone else reading this—Thank you for reading. I hope that something here inspires you, or makes you smile, or encourages you in some other way. We are all doing our best in this journey that is life and I am genuinely grateful for you taking the time to listen to a part of mine.
And with that, I will leave you with this letter. To him, your name isn’t here, but you will know this is for you.
Love always,
Sabrina
Dear A.,
You once told me that words have power. It’s something I have kept and I know has shaped so many big conversations I have had since then, but it’s also meant I haven’t always said all of the words, to you. As I look forward to this next birthday, to the next decade, and the next chapter of my life, I can’t help but reflect on the past nine years, but especially you. The simple truth is that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since you reached out to me a little over a year ago, now. Thinking about all of the words we shared with each other—a time for so many truths, for forgiveness, for validation, for realizations (I think)—for both of us. As I face my future, it seems appropriate to try to leave you here, in Sacramento, as I look to move forward (in more ways than one), and to try now to tell you all of my truths. Whether you ever see this, as scary and big and as powerful as sharing these words here is, I will leave them on the page knowing I will have left nothing left unsaid as it relates to you.
I think something I have always known, and maybe you finally realized when you texted me last year, is the connection we have, that I feel every single time; whether you text, or I see you in person—it’s unreal how powerful it is. You have always made me feel this way, from the moment I first saw you so many years ago. I have never felt anything like it, A. Nothing before or after can compare to it. It’s special and it is rare. But it’s more than just attraction, as crazy and powerful as that aspect of our relationship has always been, I have to believe you know it’s so much more this that. The way we talk. How it has always felt like we finish each other’s sentences. It has always just felt easy, and so unbelievably natural. Falling in love with you was so easy because I absolutely loved every single part of you. But, of course, that scared the shit out of me. Because it was so fast, and I think it scared you too. So unsure how to tell you. Especially when just being around you made me so nervous to begin with, in a good way. The best way, honestly. When you like someone so much it makes you shy. And trust me, “shy” is so atypical for me. Honestly, you might laugh at this, but it took someone else who knew me well to tell me that he saw it first. I was telling him the story of the time we were at my place and you had pointed out my favorite book first in my bookshelf, The Book Thief. Without hearing anything else, he told me, “And that’s the moment you fell in love with him.” I was so scared of that word, A, after so much heartbreak. But I did realize it. I did fall in love with you. With all of you. But unfortunately not before you left, and the story, our story, gets so hard and painful. I am glad we finally have answers now, we have closure now, we have forgiveness now, but,…but I still wonder just how different life might have been had we made different choices.
When we were first seeing each other I took a trip to San Francisco to see an old friend who had reached out. I’m sure a part of you wondered about that. The truth is I couldn’t stop talking about you. I think he had hoped something might happen between us, but instead the Sabrina he saw had already fallen for you. He saw it. He saw how I lit up just talking about you. It makes me laugh just thinking about it. I don’t think anyone has ever made me act like that. To light me up like the fourth of July. To wake up next to you already so unbelievably, ridiculously happy. For no other reason than I was with you. He saw it and he teased me for it, of course. He told me, “You’re going to get married to this man and have three kids with him.” And I blushed probably three shades of red at that, but I couldn’t disagree with him, either. As scary as that feeling was, I knew I could see it. With you. All of it. And I wanted to risk it, all of it, with you. It’s why, at the risk of pride/however it might look, I wrote you that seven page letter. I couldn’t imagine or understand how you couldn’t feel what I did. How anyone would throw something so amazing away. And I had to be sure you knew how I felt. I have thought about this so much over the years. While I am grateful you never thought that me writing you that letter was dumb or overly emotional, I feel no shame for sending that to you, nor for writing all of these words now. The truth is that I want to have that kind of love. To be that kind of person who sends the seven page letter. Who writes vulnerable words to you, eight years later. Because I still have that crazy love. I love you. And while that love has obviously changed, it hasn’t gone away. A part of me will always love you. Even if I don’t love what you did, or how much you hurt me, the love for what we had, what we still have, even all these years later, is there. And I want to be the kind of person who is brave enough to say it. Even if we never get to find out what that could look like together, I want you to know there will always be a part of me that hopes to find out. You once said that it was always going to be complicated with us—that I deserve a “simple love.” And while I truly don’t understand that—why you never saw how much I just wanted you—I do disagree, respectfully. I think love is complicated, and rarely straightforward. Because we aren’t simple. We are, each of us, imperfect and we each have our own traumas that we bring with us. With all of that said, and even acknowledging there would be work, and I would need you to work to regain and rebuild my trust in you to not hurt me again, I can’t imagine anyone else, thus far, I would rather work to be with and share a life with.
It is so hard, leaving this here, and in so many ways, leaving all of this here. You. The thoughts. All of the words shared. But I also feel it is all I can do. To finally have a way to move forward. To find, maybe one day, a love and a connection as big as the one we have. I feel so many mixed emotions about you reading this. I hope that you read this, but I also hope you do not. I know you are with someone else now. I am sad, so unbelievably sad that you are, but I also hope you are happy. More than anything else, I hope you find the happiness within yourself that has eluded you all of these years. I hope you stop trying to fill it with all of the other things. I hope you find you, just as I have these past nine years. I hope that one day you and I get another chance, but even if we don’t, I will be grateful for the insanely big and amazing love we had—for all the moments and the memories. I love you. And I still miss you. But I am leaving you here now. I meant everything I said, and I still meant what I said, if you ever find yourself single again…but I also know you wouldn’t want me to not live my life in the waiting. I am living a very big life, A. One that makes me think of you, still. One that I know you’d be proud of. Here’s to words having power. And here’s to sharing them anyway. I know I won’t ever regret leaving it all here. And here’s to seeing what surprises life has in store for us yet.
All my love,
Sabrina