Not over it yet

How long does healing take?

A True Life Built is a living photo essay on starting over and building a truer life. It’s for anyone, at any age, who is finding the courage to begin again. Subscribe for free posts.

Last weekend, my partner and I went camping together for the first time. Neither of us are particularly woodsy, and we joked that it was an Outdoors Test for our young relationship. With some trepidation, I packed the mountain of headlamps and sleeping bags and snacks one apparently needs to spend a single night outdoors.

I’m happy to report that getting on the road was seamless: bags packed, car loaded, traffic navigated. Soon, we had nosed over the last congested bridge and achieved escape velocity from the city, green-lined highway unfurling ahead. I had a mug of hot coffee, his hand in mine, and a glorious weekend to spend in the forest. We hummed nineties ballads off key and smiled at each other, pleased with our teamwork.

So it took me by surprise when I found myself suddenly, unaccountably angry, tears building behind my eyes. The very ease of the trip made me furious. How could this be so easy when so many trips with my ex-husband had been so hard?

Out of nowhere, I found myself replaying the past. On one infamous occasion, my ex and I had left for a weekend in the desert with 20 pounds of chicken wings and no shoes. We had packed, as ever, in a last-minute flurry and wires got crossed. The poor forgotten sneakers ignited our forever-fight: You don’t love me in the way I need to be loved.

But now I was loved exactly in the way I needed, all footwear accounted for. So why was the past intruding on my peaceful present? Frustrated, I asked my partner if he had ever been sideswiped by the contrast between this relationship and his former one. Of course, he said, and kissed my hand, I’m replaying old scenes this morning too. Maybe we always will.

I missed that clause in the fine print of healing. I thought that healing was just a matter of time, and that I’d be over my divorce by now. It’s been three and a half years since I left my marriage, and nearly two since my last day in divorce court when the judge finally declared the ordeal over. I counted the months like miles that put distance between my old life and my new.

But wherever you go, there you are. I still carry the old Liz with me, the one who spent two decades in a long-distance marriage where comings and goings were complicated, the one who still tenses when suitcases come out. There’s a groove in my brain, worn smooth like a superhighway, that says packing is a precursor to a relationship rupture. Only this time packing means sitting by a forest stream and snuggling by a campfire.

Tell that to my brain.

Splashing in the stream at 22 months old. August 2023.

We were camping with old friends and their adorable children, and we arrived to find the two-year-old set engaged in the serious business of tossing stones in the stream. My friends’ gregarious, golden-haired daughter was born in the same week as my last divorce court appearance. I look at her and see my new life at 22 months, toddling around the mossy forest floor.

Her rapid growth makes the passing time tangible in the way that only small children can. Last summer, she was a fuzzy blob on a blanket. This year, she was the unquestioned queen of the campsite, with jeggings and opinions and her own tiny picnic table. My partner and I sat on a warm rock with our feet in the icy water and watched her toss stones in the forest pools. After each new splash, she turned to us and requested applause. Look at this marvelous thing my rock has done! What a delight!

I was struck by her growing awareness of her young world. She already knows what is joyful (throwing rocks), what is safe (people) and unsafe (throwing rocks at people). She was drawing her mental map of the world from her experiences in this small stretch of forest, even if she won’t remember any of them. For her, road trips will be automatically linked to a peaceful stream and the applause of people who adore her, in the same way that the old ruptures are etched in mine.

We all carry a mental map of the world with associations that were laid down long ago. Healing, it struck me then, is not just a stacking of days. Healing is the gradual accumulation of loving experiences that rewrite what came before: Travel need not be tense. A packed bag no longer portends a fight. The only way to rewrite the old associations is to live their opposite.

Redrawing your mental map of the world is a slow, bittersweet process. Each new experience comes with a surge of heartache: How did I accept so little? How did I live that way for so long? Yet it also creates appreciation for the present. I marvel at the smallest things: a neatly packed bag, a hand on my leg in the car, a peaceful moment by a stream. I am astonished by ease because I know its absence.

---

One of the unexpected joys of starting over has been hearing from others on similar journeys. If something resonates with you, I’d love for you to leave a comment, drop me an email or share a post with a friend!

Liz is a writer and photographer based in Brooklyn.