“Let It Go” by Diane Stark

Diane Stark is a former teacher turned stay-at-home mom and freelance writer. Her work has been featured in seven Chicken Soup for the Soul books, as well as dozens of national and regional publications. She is the author of Teacher’s Devotions to Go. Visit her website at www.diane-stark.com.

I have been a freelance writer for five years. Well, five years with a two-year hiatus. You see, I can only write when I’m happy. Not deliriously, goofy-grin-on-my-face happy, but even keel happy. Or at least able-to-get-a-chuckle-out-of-Sponge-Bob happy.

Three years ago, my husband walked out on me and our two young children. Within three months’ time, I had to sell the only home my children had ever known because I could no longer afford it on my teaching salary. We moved more than 200 miles to my hometown, so we could be closer to my parents. I couldn’t eat or sleep and my weight dipped dangerously low. Size one clothes were too big on me. I ate all the junk food I could stand and I still couldn’t gain an ounce. (Before you decide that you hate me, please know that my Taco Bell and Butterfinger diet was a short-lived, one time deal. I’m now back to eating lettuce and granola bars and being 10 pounds overweight.)

For several months, I felt like a zombie. I took care of my children, but not of myself. I was sick almost constantly. I felt as though I had lost everything: my marriage, my home, my job, and, most of all, my dreams. I felt like nothing would ever be all right again. I hated my ex-husband for taking everything from me, for causing my life to fall apart.

But gradually, a little bit every day, I began to feel better. I started to smile again, and then even laugh. When I went to bed at night, I was pleasantly surprised that I had actually had a good day.

I began to realize that the things I had lost were not gone forever, just for the time being. I knew that I would eventually own another home, get a better job, and maybe, just maybe, a better man too. I started to see that I had a lot going for me. I had a supportive family, great kids, and a strong, positive outlook on my future. And I was skinny. Don’t forget skinny.

I landed a job teaching kindergarten in our new town, and I loved it. My kids and I rented a little house across the street from a park. It was far from my dream house, but it was ours. It was clean and comfortable, and it felt like home. I picked up a few pounds and I even began — gasp — dating.

Life seemed to be getting back to normal — whatever that was in this alternate realm, divorced single mother world. It was a world I never wanted to be a part of, but here I was, making the best of this new reality.

I felt mostly like my old self, except for one very important thing: I couldn’t write. Not one word. Not an essay for publication, an article for a magazine, not even a journal entry for my eyes only. I had been writing since I was a kid and I had been doing it for publication for three years. But now, I couldn’t formulate a single sentence. My passion was dead and my ideas were all dried up.

One day at Wal-Mart, I bought a decorative notebook and a package of multi-colored gel pens. I had always preferred typing on my laptop to writing long-hand, but at that point, I was willing to try anything to get myself writing again. That night, after my children were asleep, I sat on my second-hand couch and tried to write.

Nothing came. Absolutely nothing. I had always had more ideas than I knew what to do with, but for almost two years now, I hadn’t written a word that wasn’t required for my teaching position. Writing had always been so therapeutic for me, almost a catharsis, but now, when I truly needed the therapy, my gift was gone.

I sat on that couch, holding my new purple pen, and cried. My ex-husband had taken my house and most of my other possessions from me. How could I let him take my writing too?

Those other things were our things, and by law, he was entitled to half of them. But my writing? Well, that was mine alone, and I couldn’t let him take that too. But it seemed that it was already gone.

I glanced down at my new notebook, and there, written in my own script, were three little words.

Let it go.

I wasn’t aware that I had written the words, yet there they were. Those words were as close to an essay as I had gotten in years.

As their truth sank in, I realized the reason I was unable to write. I was still holding anger and resentment against my ex-husband. I knew that I wouldn’t be emotionally free until I forgave him. In order to write again, I was going to have to do what my purple pen said. I was going to have to let it go.

While it didn’t happen overnight, it did happen. I began to appreciate the freedom of my new life. When my children were with their father, I could eat microwave popcorn for dinner and watch any movie I wanted. I could wear my pajamas all day long if I felt like it. For two weekends a month, I got to be me, not just my children’s mother. It was a small thing, but as time went on, I began to embrace my new life. It wasn’t what I had dreamed of, nor was it where I thought I’d end up, but it’s where I was, and in truth, it wasn’t such an awful place to be.

And when my kids came home from their father’s house, I made an effort to view their dad through their eyes. I tried to see him as they saw him, as a fun guy who acts goofy and makes mistakes, just like the rest of us. For months, I tried to picture him as my kids did, and one day, I realized that I was no longer angry with him. I went from seeing him as the villain who robbed me of my perfect life to seeing him simply as the guy who was no longer perfect for me.

I let it go, and I began to write again. Just like that.