Piece by Piece, Paw by Paw
Last night’s sleep was peaceful—almost suspiciously so. I dreamed of floating down a river in a tube, my legs stretched out, toes skimming the water. It was cool, refreshing, the sun perfectly warm on my skin. Somewhere in the distance, a soft melody played. People chatted around me, but it all sounded muffled, like Charlie Brown’s teacher had moved underwater. Honestly? Perfect. Sunshine, music, and zero conversations I had to participate in. Bliss.
When my eyes finally opened, I realized my dream had been invaded—by my so-called personal security detail turned sleep saboteurs. Freya had morphed into a 45-pound paperweight on my chest, curled into a perfect ball right on my lungs. Odin had taken the role of furry weighted blanket, stretched across my legs with dramatic flair, head and paws dangling. Both were snoring in unison.
I should’ve been mad. My circulation was shot, lungs compressed. But instead, I just felt loved—suffocated, but loved. With a gentle nudge, they hopped down, yawning like I’d ruined their best nap in centuries.
“Hey Google, what time is it?” I asked.
“5 a.m.,” she chirped, far too cheerfully.
Naturally, I turned to the only friend who understands me that early: my espresso machine. She hummed to life like a tiny jet engine preparing for takeoff. While she worked her caffeinated magic, I leashed up the dogs and we stepped outside into the hush of morning.
Freya tugged at first but her collar quickly reminded her she’s not the boss of this parade. Odin, ever the gentleman, alternated between gazing at me adoringly and sniffing pine needles like he was tracking a criminal. Together we strolled quiet streets, listening as the world cracked open its eyes. Mornings are soft and calm, my favorite. Whenever I’m on vacation, I’m always the first one awake, sitting outside with coffee in hand, welcoming the day like an old friend.
Back home, the pups vibrated with breakfast anticipation, tails wagging so fast I thought they might achieve liftoff. I filled their bowls while sipping my first glorious gulp of liquid sanity.
I opened the blinds, settled into my recliner, and sipped the best cup of life-giving coffee ever brewed. That’s when yesterday’s Instagram request from my soon-to-be ex–sister-in-law replayed in my head. At first, I wondered if she was soft-following me as a peace offering.
Then it hit me: she had found my blog. My secret-ish blog. The one only a few trusted people knew about. Writing hasn’t always been my way to process. I started writing as a teen but then stopped for many years, pushing through life without really unpacking things. My Auntie eventually bought me a book that nudged me back to it, and with my therapist’s encouragement, I picked it up again. This time, it felt different—like I was finally giving myself permission to untangle the mess.
With a deep breath (and maybe a little recklessness), I put it on the internet too. I figured strangers can think I’m crazy—what do I care? Maybe my messy words would reach someone else who needed them (or so my therapist said).
I hadn’t heard from her in months, so when her little olive branch—disguised as a follow—appeared, I thought maybe… just maybe.
Spoiler: nope.
I reached out lighthearted. She met me with unkindness sharp enough to cut glass. Anger surged—so fast I swear my chest vibrated. I tried not to respond, but rage had the wheel. I wrote back, mostly kind, with one tiny jab (hey, I’m human), and then blocked her. Positive intent, I told myself, half laughing.
The problem is, she’s a serial internet spy. She combs through her husband’s exes and whoever else catches her eye like it’s her part-time job. Unhealthy? Absolutely. And now she’d turned that spotlight on me. She found my blog, read it, and crowned the experience with unsolicited advice suggesting I check into a mental institution. Lovely.
My Midlife Plot Twist isn’t for everyone—I get that. But it’s not for her to get. I don’t need her permission or forgiveness. I don’t need anyone’s permission. I gave my life shock therapy by choice. I was mad, hurt, sad—all the feelings rolled into one exhausting blah.
Thankfully, therapy was on the calendar today.
My therapist is an artist at dropping truth bombs so elegantly wrapped you don’t realize they’ve detonated until your thinking later in the day. We talked about the difference between selfishness and self-actualization. He reminded me: what I’m doing isn’t selfish or crazy—it’s self-actualization. For the first time ever, I’m doing something just for me. Not to spite anyone, not to hurt anyone—just to finally listen to myself instead of everyone else’s expectations.
He reframed my goal simply: happiness and peace. If I can find them, I’ll be a better friend, lover, family member—even a decent community member. Guilt, my old toxic roommate, still lurks in the corner, but that’s a topic for another day.
Before therapy, I’d decided to stop blogging. The thought of loved ones reading, judging, whispering—it twisted my stomach into knots. But between my therapist and one amazing friend, I was reminded: I don’t write for them. I write for me.
And they’re right. Writing forces me to face feelings I’ve boxed up for decades. No wonder my body revolted with autoimmune disease and anxiety—I’ve been stockpiling emotions like a hoarder. Now, word by word, I’m hauling it all into the light. Not in one dramatic avalanche, but little by little. I’m remembering how to notice things again, be present, and be thankful.
Divorce, meanwhile, is its own personal hell of pain, sadness, guilt, and loneliness. I’ve always been the “take nothing, walk away” type—thinking clean breaks heal faster. With my ex, I did it again. I left almost everything behind. I told myself it was noble.
But truthfully? It was guilt. That sly voice whispering I didn’t deserve anything, even though I’d contributed. Same old mistake, different ringmaster. Some mistakes you just keep tripping over in new shoes.
Now I see it differently. I shouldn’t have felt guilty for being unhappy. I shouldn’t have left with nothing. We should’ve split assets and debts fairly. But I let guilt and fear of being hated drive me. I thought if I took nothing, they couldn’t hate me. Joke’s on me—people believe whatever version of the truth they want.
The only thing I can control is me. Despite my flaws, quirks, and occasional looney tunes moments, I know I’m a good person. I don’t always make the right choices, but I try—and that’s more than a lot of people can say.
After some debating, I told my ex about the incident and gave him my blog link. Honestly, I didn’t want to—I didn’t want to add to his pain. But if he’s going to see it, better from me than through her.
Maybe he’ll understand this isn’t about spiting him, it’s about saving me. Maybe it will soften the hurt. Or maybe he’ll agree with her padded-room assessment. Either way—not my weight to carry.
What matters is this: I can’t let others dictate my feelings or my life. My road is long, littered with potholes named “guilt” and “fear,” but I’m learning. Forgiving. Healing. Piece by piece, I’m stitching myself back together into the woman I want to be.
To balance all that emotional heavy lifting, I took Odin and Freya for a car ride (just to the front office, but shhh—don’t tell them). Then we went for a walk, one of our best yet. Freya only mildly rebelled, Odin strutted like the prince he knows he is, and together we explored a new street—the furthest we’ve gone so far. No barking, no side-eye. Victory!
We ended at the gazebo, which turned out to be less zen retreat and more Game of Thrones. The ants had claimed it, storming out after four days of rain drowned their homes. I imagined their queen—tiny, shiny, terrifyingly regal—commanding her troops for the onward invasion of…..the RV.
For today, I chose peace. Tomorrow, I’ll deal with them. Besides, tomorrow is already a big day: Odin and Freya are off to their Auntie/Groomer/Boarder for a doggie spa-palooza. New smells, new dogs, endless belly rubs, and Auntie’s staff swooning over them. Honestly, they’ll have a better day than me.
With that, I’m calling it a night. I didn’t do or say all the right things today, but I did the best I could—and sometimes, that’s enough.
Lessons of the Day
Sometimes the best conversations happen in silence, with only music carrying the story.
Love is heavy, hairy, and occasionally drools on your pillow.
Oxygen is optional when you’re smothered in dog snuggles.
Espresso: because adulting without superpowers is impossible.
The world has a morning playlist—you just have to tune in.
Not every olive branch is actually friendly—sometimes it’s poison ivy.
Blogging is cheaper than therapy… but also is therapy.
Ant queens are tiny tyrants plotting world domination.
Guilt can drive, but only if you toss it the keys.
Piece by piece, paw by paw, we rebuild ourselves.