Oh, What a Day: The Day My Therapist Told Me to Stop Dating Church People

You have heard it before and I will tell you again: I think everyone should at least try therapy.  

By try, I do not mean go once to say you did it and leave in a huff because you do not feel anything was accomplished.  By try, I mean go consistently at least three times, even if it feels uncomfortable and unproductive, and be open to it when you do go. 

Personally, over the last few years, I have seen three professional therapists and two lay counselors.  Of those five, I have only gotten along with two: one professional and one lay counselor. Forty percent– not an outstanding pass rate! 

You will not always like your counselor.  Not all counselors are good at what they do.  Similarly, not all clients are good clients. 

I, for example, have a Master’s degree in Counseling.  I am not a good client.  I am also an INFJ on the Myer-Briggs Type Indicator, so I think AND feel a lot.  I am a lot to throw at a counselor. 

I have gotten a lot of good out of going to therapy, even when the therapist was (in my opinion) awful. Oftentimes, yes, they offered poor advice and misconceived observations that were unhelpful and sometimes even infuriating; however, thinking through my strong reactions to their words was always productive. 

However, one of the therapists I did not care much for ended up changing my life.

I started seeing her at the pinnacle of my life imploding into a shit storm.  At least, that is how I felt. Dramatic, much? 

When our sessions began, I was devastated about a relationship that had kinda just ended and also kinda never came to be.  Yup, one of those.

Also, in the middle of that depression, my car died.  I had no savings. I had ZERO extra dollars to make car payments.  I was in a really rough spot in a lot of areas of my life at once. So I had to take an hour plus long bus ride to get to my therapy sessions, located only a few miles from my office.  Or, alternatively, I had to ask my friends to pick me up from work and drop me off at therapy. See? A shit storm.

This particular therapist was an advice giver.  Not all therapists are, and my favorite ones usually are not.  Her advice was not for me to take the bench on the dating scene while I got the rest of my life together.  Instead, to my surprise, she told me I should muscle through and keep dating– even if I did not particularly feel like it.

She said I just needed to stop trying to date people I met at church or churchy places.  From hearing about this isolated dating interaction, she said it seemed like dating within a group of people I already knew was toxic for me, especially when there were so many expectations packed in because of religion.  Church boys can actually be jerks sometimes. That is what she said (in so many words).  

I really did understand where she was coming from, to a degree; however, meeting “the one” in church, as you may know or can imagine, is a hard dream to give up for a single, 27-years-old Christian girl living in the Bible-belt.  If not in church, then where?  

She suggested I try dating apps.

After receiving her challenge and agreeing to try it out, I more-or-less met my husband immediately.  I was not expecting it, and was not entirely convinced I was ready for it, but it happened anyway.  

Although my husband has suggested we create an alternate story for how we met (aka, LIE), I have no issues with telling the truth.  We met on Bumble. I am not ashamed!  

I went on three dates with three different people in one week, thus pretty much doubling the number of first dates I had been on in my life.  My husband was guy number two. I will also note, he was the only one who got a second date.  

It was all over before I even had time to meet anyone especially creepy or have any great stories.  One week, three dates; I married the guy behind door number two. Really. 

My friends could have told me to try online dating, and I probably (absolutely) would have made a cringey face, told them my social skills weren’t up to it, and dismissed it.  But, because a therapist told me to, and I literally felt awful and had nothing to lose, I humored her.

Literally, I humored her.  Our first handful of dates were hilarious because my social skills were really not up to the task of dating!  Luckily, my husband was thirty and single, so he was prepared to be pretty forgiving.  

That therapist got to hear about a couple of our dates before I ultimately ghosted her.

We were not a match, that therapist and I, but she got some laughs and I eventually got a husband so I would say it worked out pretty well for both of us.

Despite her not being my favorite, seeing her helped me to let go of my ideas regarding how things “should happen.”  

Maybe you won’t meet the love of your life at church, in a grocery store, or volunteering. 

Maybe they won’t be the exact height you hoped for, or share your political beliefs, or enjoy running, or have a family that is any less crazy than your own.  

Maybe you won’t “know” on date number one.  Maybe you will just know it went well enough that you could do it again and again and again until it magically turns into something more.  

Maybe going to a therapist will help you be open to something other than your scripted wishlist.  

Or maybe, if you are like me, you will first need to find the person who is the embodiment of your preconceived wish list and then have your heart unexpectedly broken.  Only then will you be ready to throw yourself into the great wide chasm of “maybes.”  

My husband was raised Catholic (like Catholic School, Catholic) and is politically conservative.  I am Protestant and went to a “megachurch,” and tend to hold pretty progressive political beliefs.  When we met, all we had in common was a love for reading, our mutual introversion, and the fact our Moms had both passed away.  That’s it. That is all.  

We met on Bumble, had our first date at a grungy sports’ bar and grill, and got married a year and four months later.  Life happens.

Neither of us have ever been happier.  The things we were worried would be big obstacles for us ended up being non-issues.  

It all worked out, is working out.  (Well, I do still have perpetual car issues and no money, but at least I’m in love now). 

Nothing about it should have.  

But my former therapist told me that maybe it could.  

And maybe a therapist could prepare you to be open to your own “maybes,” too. 


Oh, What a Day: Oh, Hello

This is a story of two days, not one.  Yes, I realize I am tampering with my whole concept of “Oh, What a Day,” but humor me.

When my heart is hurting, nay excruciating, I have a thing I do.  I get on a plane and I effing leave Lexington, Kentucky for a week.  I go to visit some of my favorite people in the world and eat amazing food while telling them my feelings.  Then I go back home and stay depressed for a while with a week of amazing ethnic vacation food stored up in my fat supply before I stop eating altogether.  

It has happened twice so far. 

The most recent time was almost two years ago.  

Two of my best friends from college had just moved from Kentucky to California about a month or two before said onset depression. It was a great opportunity to be their first visitor and to get pretty much as far away from my city as I could without leaving the continental U.S.

On the last day of my trip, they had to take their pup to doggy training, so I opted to walk to a nearby Chipotle for dinner on my own.  I was already emotionally primed, knowing the next day I would have to fly back to Kentucky and continue to deal with my problems in a place surrounded with bad memories.  

And then!

And then, while I was walking back from Chipotle, a song came on my Spotify playlist and just completely wrecked me.  It perfectly summarized everything I was feeling and caused sudden onset sobbing.

When I looked at my phone, I discovered the song “Hello, My Old Heart” was by the amazing but not super well known music group the Oh Hellos– the favorite band of the person who had broken my heart, thus causing my trip to California.  Because of course it was. Of course!

Anyhow, I lost my shit as I listened to this beautifully sad song about trying to keep your heart guarded so it does not break again.  It felt extra sad and significant because it was his favorite band.  I both missed him and felt lingering pangs of resentment towards him all at once.  Feelings are complicated.

I have written about my first heartbreak before, but this one was infinitely worse.  It felt like my true rock bottom, and I did not see any way out of it. It was the first time after the first heartbreak that I had finally been brave enough to let my heart feel something again–a calculated risk– and it left me stifled and disappointed and a million other emotions too difficult to articulate on my own.  This song gave words to it. 

And then! 

A month or so after the aforementioned day, when I wept for both having let my heart stand unguarded for once and for feeling it was doomed to resort to self-protected lovelessness again, I went on my first date with my now husband.  Life.

About four months into dating Sean, Spotify sent me a notification that the Oh Hellos would be performing in Cincinnati, a short hour and a half drive away.  Since I pretty much only see bands live if their music makes me feel like I’m in a therapy session (à la Brandi Carlile and Taylor Swift), I had to go.

Sean, despite never having heard of the band, agreed to go with me because I am quote, unquote dainty and therefore should not go alone.  But I so would have gone alone, because I do things like that (even if I am dainty). 

We went to the concert together and got tacos and margs with my friends beforehand.  He drove and he did not complain. He stood with me for three hours in the ultra-loud concert hall, obviously not enjoying the music, without complaining.  Going to concerts where you do not know the songs and, therefore, cannot lip sync along to the music is just not fun. It’s just not.

However, he cuddled and swayed with me, and every time I looked up at him, he was smiling.  

I waited and waited and waited for the Oh Hellos to sing the beautiful song that spoke to me so clearly on the walk back from the Chipotle in Campbell, California.  Despite being their most well-known song, “Hello My Old Heart” did not make the set-list that night. 

Your girl was bummed.  Really, really bummed. 

On the way home, I fell asleep.  I fell asleep in the car, on the way home from a concert for a band my new boyfriend had never heard of, while he drove the two hours home in the middle of the night.  And he was ok with it.  

He was ok with doing things that bored him if it meant I was not alone.  He was ok with being at a concert so loud that all the words blended together so he could not understand them if it meant he got to hold my waist and sway with me a little.  

I do not know if waking up in that moment was when I realized I loved Sean a little bit or not, but I do know it was when I realized I did not really need to hear “Hello My Old Heart” anymore.   Finally, only a couple of months after having my heart smashed and buried, I found someone I did not need to protect my tiny, raw heart from.  

It only took 28 years, but the day came. Finally, an honest to goodness good one. 

Oh, what a day. 

Oh, What a Day: The Day My Husband Fell in Love With Me

Comedian John Mulaney jokes about how it is counter-intuitive that, when relationships are going well, couples decide to meet one anothers’ families.  


It can be awkward and anxiety-provoking.  Why do we do it? Why?!

Because it simply must be done.

In my first ever relationship, we started to talk “meet the family” around the nine month mark.  And by ‘we,’ I mean ‘me.’ He decidedly did not want to meet my fam.  Therefore, I did what a great many people have done before me in times of relational conflict: I iced him out, and we took a week long “break.”  Like a great many people who mostly just act when ultimatums are handed to them, he ultimately decided to yield and consented to meet them.

I won the ultimatum (or so I thought)!

As a result, we *cough cough* “made up” for the third time ever; the very next day he told me he couldn’t actually come with me anymore, because of a scheduling conflict with his own family.  To his genuine surprise, I promptly kicked him to the curb (for three entire months, before I agreed to getting back together).  

Please note I have learned a lot about boundaries since then.  Don’t be younger me. Don’t be passive aggressive. Don’t give ultimatums. 

You don’t want to actually go through the semantics of having your love interest meet your family, you just want them to want to meet them.  

You get me, right?

In my second ever “so we agree, this is a relationship” relationship, he brought up wanting to meet my family after only a couple of months.  Given my prior experience, my response was to question him about what game he was trying to play.  

Why would he want to meet my family? What was his ulterior motive?!

It was too easy.

Just four months after we started dating, my now husband and I drove to my grandparents’ house for dinner with them, my Step-Dad, my four sisters, and my nieces and nephews.

I had warned him about my crass Grandpa, whose three great loves in life, excluding Grandma, are mowing his grass, Donald Trump, and fighting with me about politics.  

I warned him my Grandma would be so perfect he would want her to adopt him.  

I warned him about how I would likely turn into a fire-breathing dragon when some of my sisters would inevitably attempt to bait me.  I warned him.

The thing about me is that I can present as being super sweet and quiet and agreeable, untillllll you learn, NO, I’m not really like that all the time.  

I have two personalities.  One is what I call “kindergarten teacher.”  Many people assume I teach kindergarten and have kids of my own.  Nope and nope. I get it though. I am a care-er to my core, I am creative, and I am just a nurturing little baby whisperer.  Seriously, kids meet me and just know I’m good people and will play with them. However, “kindergarten teacher” is only half of my personality.  

My other personality is what I call “boss.”  If you meet me in a class, or in a work related meeting, you might wrongfully assume I’m in charge of some things.  Nope. I get it, too, though. I can be terse, obnoxiously logical, and speak authoritatively— using periods instead of question marks.  In the real world though, I try to keep this side of me under wraps.

Until I reach my breaking point.


Nothing gets me to my true retaliation-rant form quite like 10 minutes or so of Fox News–the news channel exclusively played in my Grandparents’ living room, or an inevitable sass-off with my youngest sister.

All of this was explained to him beforehand, but he still wanted to meet them.  He was allegedly prepared to see past the “kindergarten teacher” version of myself.  It was a bold move. 

And it went exactly as I described it to him.  I told him so, and it was so.  

We had dinner with my family, crowded around my Grandparents’ dining room table.

This is how said dinner started…

My Grandpa said, “Sean, I already know I like ya.  Jessica said you are a nice conservative boy, so you’re pretty good in my book.”


There’s more…

My Step-Dad (whom I call Dad) said, “yeah, we’ve been hoping she would find a nice conservative guy who would help us unbrainwash her.  If it were up to her, she would have us give all of our hard-earned money to those people on welfare.” Insert some other generic comment about me being a Socialist, and so on and so on.  

This is when Sean met the true me.  

I got my pointer finger out and looked around the table at my family, and said, “raise your hand if you have ever been on any type of government assistance. Your hand should be up (point) and your hand should be up (point) and your hand should be up (point)!  We can’t act like we don’t know “those people on welfare.” Half of us at this table, at the very least, have been “those people” at one point or another. We can’t pretend like we are any better than those who need help now, or like they don’t deserve help when people in our own family did.  So yes, I believe in sacrificing a little bit to help people who need to be helped.”

Silence.  Much like after any textbook mic drop, there was silence.

Then my Grandma, like the sweet angel she is, politely changed the subject.  

Thus ended our discussion about politics, and we all ate something smothered in gravy, while my Grandpa drilled Sean about his job and his family and my sisters asked inappropriate questions they already knew the answers to.

When we got in the car to head home, Sean said two things to me:

“One, your grandpa is exactly like you described him.”

“Two, that. was. awesome.”  

I was afraid the sassy rant me would be what made him realize he, a conservative boy, couldn’t date me long-term. (I have literally been told, following a first date, that I was “politically dangerous,” and therefore they could not date me).  Instead, my fiery defense of my beliefs ended up being exactly what made Sean start falling in love with me.  

When I was not present, he also told his conservative Father about it, to which his Dad said, “good for her!”  He can appreciate a well-argued rant, regardless of whether or not he entirely agrees with it. I have grown to love him especially for it.  

Now, at weekly Sunday night dinners, my two favorite Rukavina men listen to the rants I have pitched in the week prior, and tell me they are proud of me.  It is why this year has included me standing up for myself, and the principles I believe in, more than ever before. They are constantly helping me to embrace my inner boss. 

What I have observed, in my soon-to-be thirty ancient wisdom, is some people who have experienced hardships understandably cannot wait to do all they can to separate themselves from the circumstances; they don’t want to be associated with the problem, or those going through it, no matter how far removed they are from it themselves.  An example would be people who have managed to dig themselves out of a financial hole and are then resistant to helping those in hard times; they claim they were able to pull themselves out of it on their own, and others should, too. I guess I can understand that. But it’s not how I choose to operate.

Instead, I use the memory of my hardest times to push me to help others who are still going through them.  I use the memory of all of the people who helped me make it, without turning to government assistance, to help others likewise.  

My husband, who has never experienced real financial hardship himself, has very sweetly and empathetically walked with me through some of my memories of struggle and allowed it to shape how we share our money and resources. 

It is also worth noting my husband has admitted he will have to vote for Elizabeth Warren in the next presidential election, if she gets the nomination, because of my massive student loan debt load.  

So, I ask you, who un-brainwashed who?  

Oh, What a Day: The Day I Needed School Supplies

When I was probably about 26 years old, one of my grandmothers asked me when I would meet a guy “so I didn’t have to go to school anymore.”  


One of my grandpas said: “Doesn’t she know you only know just enough to be dangerous?  You can’t quit college yet.”

But, on the real, the answer to her question: when I was 29 years old.  

As you may know, I just got married about four months ago (yayyyyyy, commitment!).  He and I grew up in very very different worlds, and it is still taking some getting used to on both of our parts.  

On my part, I have always been both fiercely independent and also on the cusp of running out of money (except when I have literally run out of money).  

As Sean has put it, he had parachutes on parachutes, for which we are both very grateful.  

Parachute guy and broke, independent girl get married and have to learn the dance of how much help parachute guy can offer to broke, independent girl without one or both parties becoming resentful.  I get aided by his parachutes sometimes, and I must admit it is very nice to feel somewhat secure for the first time in 29 years.  

Sean was the youngest of three boys. His Dad is a Doctor, and his Mom earned a Master’s degree in guidance & counseling and taught kindergarten students for about 40 years.  In other words, they were pretty much the most prepared parents to have ever existed.  

Alternatively, my single Mom didn’t finish high school, had me when she was 19, and then had my two sisters soon thereafter.  The woman supported three kids as a 21 year-old waitress, with no financial support from our biological father. I cannot even imagine.  

Then when I was six or so, my Mom married my step-Dad and they had two more kids.  If you have been counting, you understand there were a heck of a lot of kids to care for.  

While Sean and I grew up in were very different households, on paper, the place where I grew up seemed to be full of families just like his.  

Oldham County has and had the highest income per capita of any of the counties in lil’ ole Kentucky, and its reputation precedes it. 

To that point, years ago, at work, an angry parent called in and tried to argue her kid deserved more scholarship dollars simply because he graduated in four years and “nobody does that anymore.”  Already agitated from listening to her negativity and poorly argued badgering for a longggg time, I told her I had actually managed to graduate in three years, not four.  

Her response was to ask where I was from.  When I told her, she said, “well, to me, that explains everything.” 

She assumed I had achieved a fairly exceptional accomplishment because I came from an exceptional place, and not because I am an exceptionally hard-worker.  It was not very nice of her.

It is easy to assume if you come from Oldham County, you are well-off.   I was an exception to the rule. Growing up there, it was not a difficult place to feel shameful and hyper-aware of being really poor, even if you weren’t really poor and were just pretty poor. 

In my family, we did run out of resources like food and toilet paper at home sometimes, but pint-sized me usually chalked it up to my parents forgetting to go to the store to get what we needed (neglect) instead of them not having the money to pay for it (poverty).  Maybe that was true, maybe it wasn’t, or maybe it was a little bit of both.  

Whatever the true reason may have been, I often did not have what I needed.  

One of the earliest memories I have from school occurred when I was somewhere between ages five and seven years old.  I remember standing in the lobby of my elementary school, holding flimsy food stamps in my hands and collapsing into tears.   

My Mom had told me to take food stamps to the little bookstore run by the school and ask if I could buy the required school supplies for the year with them.  

My internal response: shame shame shame shame shame shame.  

Like hell did baby Jessica feel like flashing paper badges to prove she was poor to people at school, who would most likely feel awkward and not be able to help.  Like. hell.  

I did not want to ask, because I knew school supplies were not food, and I knew my elementary school was not a grocery store.  I did not know much, but I knew this plan was not especially well thought through.  

When my Mom later asked me if I had picked up my school supplies, I had to tell her I had not tried because I had been too scared.  I am sure the news was not well received. For better or for worse, she was never a warm fuzzy kind of Mom.  

I have no idea how this story resolved or how I got school supplies that year, if I got them.  I would imagine my school probably would have helped though, because my elementary school helped my family a lot when I was young.  

The principals would take me home from school when I didn’t get picked up from after school field trips, and after choir practice, and when I missed the bus home.  My teachers let me sleep through classes when they knew things were rough at home and could see I needed rest more than I needed to do crafts.

I deeply hated but appreciated all of it. 

On this day though, there was no saving grace.  It was probably the first time I was publicly confronted with being poor, and subsequently felt a lack of dignity.  It is one of my earliest memories, but not one I have reflected about very often; however, the same feeling of shame for being poor is something I have carried with me for over two decades.  

But also, while this memory and many like it have led me to a lot of embarrassment and shame, they have also helped to shape some of the boldest and best parts of me, too. 

As much as is within my power, I do not want those who are in need (especially kids) to feel like they do not deserve dignity and respect.  They do.  

Whether I realized the correlation or not, the day I stood in my elementary school lobby and bawled my eyes out is likely why I have worked so hard to rally my friends and family members to help single Moms in need get school supplies for their littles each year. 

It is likely why I sometimes have gone broke venmoing college students money, and why I helped one of my younger sisters with her college tuition for a while even though I could barely manage my own student loans. 

It is probably why I have never taken my education for granted, and why I have worked so hard to help a few special refugees and kids from Haiti pursue their own college educations.  I know how important education can be when you have next to nothing.  

It is why I am perfectly comfortable giving every bit of extra I have to help others who need resources more than I do (which sometimes, maybe causes me to live irresponsibly off my credit card).  I know what having no options feels like. I have felt the food-stamps in my hands and cried for having needed them. 

Last but not least, it is the cause of the big embarassing argument that, against all odds, caused my husband to fall in love with me.  

Oh, what a day. 

I’ll tell you all about it next week. 

Imposter Syndrome

Photo Credit: Caitlin Hon Photography

Since I started dating my husband about a year and a half ago, I have regularly felt like an imposter.  

He owns a home in a nice cozy suburban neighborhood, so now I kind of do, too.  I wanted to start blogging again, so he got me a new shiny rosegold macbook and a new-to-me camera without blinking (and only grumbling a very tiny bit about it). He also venmoes me money when I periodically run out of it.  With my solo income and student loans, it is not very hard to run out of money…

Since we got together, we have gone to a swanky Christmas gala his friends helped sponsor, and birthday parties where there are super cool custom-made ice luges.  When we plan vacations that include AirBNB stays, it is not unlike my kickass father-in-law to try to talk us into letting him put us up in a picturesque resort instead.  The hotbar at Whole Foods has become our lifeline. I don’t have to (but still will) almost exclusively shop at consignments stores anymore.  

My life is starting to look pretty darn cushy.  

Thus, imposter syndrome. 

In a couple of ways, I was privileged before I got married.  I have advanced degrees, which is a privilege (although, again, I will be paying off my catastrophic student loans indefinitely, so it doesn’t always feel like a privilege).  I’m white, which I know is the privilege.  I grew up in a beautiful suburban area just outside of Louisville, Kentucky that proudly offers some of the best public schools in the state.  

But there were struggles and challenges, too– many that I was not up to meeting on my own.  As a child, I was no stranger to anxiety-attacks or feelings of overwhelming helplessness.

Looking at me now, you maybe wouldn’t know it though. 

I am a listener (and have a secret Master’s degree in counseling), so people are prone to sharing their stories with me.  Something I am often struck by, is the way some seem to genuinely think they are the only ones who have ever suffered. There have been a few instances in particular, some of which I may write about in the future, where I have been left with the impression that some do not think I am tough, or have had any experiences nearly as trying as their own.  People seem to expect me to be shocked by their stories, and never to be able to relate.  

Surely I am not someone who has grit, or who has experienced hardships.  Surely. 

But I do have grit, and I have been able to relate.  I usually choose not to share though, because historically when I have opted to share my experiences they were often brushed aside or discounted because I was construed as a basic whiny girl with privilege.  

As a culture, we often make hardships into competitions that lead to unfair comparisons, “one upping” sessions, and can ultimately polarize us instead of bringing people together.  It shouldn’t be that way.  

I’m learning everyone has had, or will have, hardships.  People who have been on welfare, and people who go to private school, and people who don’t even understand their hardships count as hardships, and people who are cross-sections of any or all of those groups. And everyone else. Everyone.

Everyone has struggles. They just come at different times and present differently.

You may never learn that, though, if you aren’t open to being honest and truly vulnerable (not just pretend vulnerable) about yours.

So, without further ado, I’ll go first.

Tune in next Tuesday to read about one of my earliest experiences of shame. 

Oh, what a day.

Oh, What a Day: The Worst Day of My Life

When I woke up, the tone had already been set: it was going to be a real shit day.  I knew it and feared it and hoped against it anyway, because you can actually do all of those things simultaneously.  People and feelings are often complicated. 

The morning started by having holes drilled into one of my teeth, to fill in the lone cavity of my adult life.  The only thing inflicting more pain than the actual drilling itself was the feeling I had disappointed my angelic dental hygienist, Rhonda, by having a cavity.  She is so kind that I usually don’t even admit it when she hurts me during cleanings… and I am not a person who typically holds back. She is just so nice!

After the drilling and the self-inflicted shame, I walked across campus to my office where I could obsessively ruminate for hours.   Not unlike a monotonous game of ping pong, my thoughts bounced back and forth between 1. why I hadn’t gotten the job I had been turned down for the week before and 2. all of the possible ways the day might end.  

But I already knew how it was going to end, had known for a month how it would end.  It was going to end.

Before the work day was over, I trudged the half-mile to my parking spot and drove across town in my mega-old, air-conditionless car to go to the podiatrist.  There, I had a wart on my foot cut off and then burned with the acid of a crazy expensive African beetle, of all things. I am still not sure why I scheduled those two appointments on the same day, but it was not my best laid plan…

It is worth noting I am weird about feet to begin with, so someone staring at my warted foot with a microscope and then continuing to do hurtful things to a highly innervated area was just icing on the shit, anxiety-laden day.  This was my third or fourth visit to get said wart taken care of, so you can imagine my delight and horror. My warted foot felt hopeless, doomed to forever be disgusting. 

Following this appointment, I limped out of the office building to discover my keys were locked inside my car, because of course they were!  I had just spent $30 on a copay for my gross little foot, an actual fortune for my 24 year old self with a Master’s degree and a half and a job that paid me like $26,000 a year; now I had to spend even more money to have Pop-a-lock come and bail me out– which they did, approximately two hours later.

Two hours, in the heat of August in Kentucky, waiting and thinking and worrying and sweating profusely.  I remember debating if I should call or text my boyfriend to see if he was back in town and could swoop me up, because I really needed to be swooped up and cuddled a little bit; however, I don’t think I ended up deciding to do that.

My memory is fuzzy, but I don’t thinkkkkk I called him.  When someone leaves for a week long vacation during a fight, and then stays away for four weeks and barely communicates with you during that time, you start to get the impression they don’t want to cuddle you anymore.  Or swoop you up when your life is an actual wreck. Or decide they do want to marry you and let you have as many babies as you want. Or even just answer their phone, really.

This was the set-up for the day my boyfriend of three years broke up with me, after essentially running away for a month to dodge the inevitable.  My first ever breakup, with my first ever boyfriend. I am, of course, choosing to not remember those other times we broke up. I’m the one telling. this. story.

Finally, I was rescued by the company that capitalizes on flustered people locking their keys in their car, and returned to my apartment.  My ‘boyfriend’ and I had agreed to meet there in the evening to go for a walk and talk, after he made it back in town.

Then, just like that, there he was.

For probably three of the four weeks he had been gone, I had been building myself up for the disappointment of the break-up.  But then I saw him, and my heart told my logical brain to STFU because it wanted him back, earnestly.  

It was a weird weird feeling, seeing the person you love the most in the world, after not seeing them for a long time, and wanting to hug them but knowing better.  Instead, we awkwardly looped around my neighborhood while he worked up the courage to tell me:

You’re ready to get married and I’m not, so our relationship cannot continue.”  

What I am sure of: I cried a lot.  A scary lot. The third biggest cry of my life. 

What I am also sure of: I asked him if I could rub my buckets of snot on his shirt.

What I am certain of: he said I could.  So I did. I wiped my snot all over him, while he held me.

He broke my heart and ran away, yes, but he also let me rub my snot on his shirt when I was sad; therefore, I cannot pretend he was a cold-blooded monster.

Mid-snot rub, I looked up at the man who was holding me, with whom I had survived all kinds of hell over the course of three years, and had loved more than anyone.  Through sobs, I said, sincerely without intending to be mean: “you will probably never have sex again.”

And he said: “that idea has occured to me.”  

I don’t know if it would be funnier if I had intended it to be mean… but as previously mentioned, I did not.  I was just stating what I now understand to be a pretty rude sounding, intuitive prediction. 

While I am an introvert, he was an extreme introvert.  He was perfectly happy spending a lot of time alone, and filling the rest with his two best friends and his family.  He didn’t ever really seem to need or want people beyond aforementioned individuals. Save for my annoying friendliness and persistence, he probably would not have ever dated me either.  


If I, for one, can learn to not say every seemingly true thing that occurs to me and makes me sound like a socially-challenged witch, then surely he can have fallen in love again and be in a healthy relationship.  And I have mostly learned, I think. It’s a process…

Back to worst day: the entirety of this song and dance took about ten minutes, and then he left, snotted up– never to be seen or heard from again.  Not even once.  

He was gone.

There I was, completely alone, with a migraine from my cavity fill-up, producing more snot and tears than is possibly good for any one human, with a big old broken and bleeding heart.  I had nothing to do but attempt to limp back up to my apartment without completely alarming my precious roommate. It felt like the worst day of my life, and that day it was.  

I felt it all over again whenever well-meaning old people I only kind of knew asked me when we were going to get engaged and I had to tell them we had actually broken up, and every time I had to go to scary doctors appointments alone, and every time my best friend’s baby asked where he was in her precious innocent baby voice, and every time someone told me I had dodged a bullet with him when they learned we had broken up.  

It hurt like hell, for a long time. 

Then gradually, over the course of about three years, it stopped. 

It would be easy for people to look at my life and say this story had a happy ending, because I ended up married to Sean— a saintly man who always carries a handkerchief that can be acquired easily when my nose is extra runny; however, I would argue my happy marriage has nothing to do with this story.  

Good things do not cover-up or erase suffering.

But past suffering can squelch the good stuff, if you let it.

This breakup story did not end with a husband sweeping me off my feet, saving me from dying alone.  It ended with me starting my former blog as a way to cope, making the decision to try to redefine myself after the relationship ended, and it ended in therapy… several rounds of it, with several therapists (because not all therapists are actually even helpful). 

Time didn’t heal those wounds, nor did any subsequent relationships.  My decision to heal did, and it took me awhile to commit to it. 

My decision to go to therapy meant agreeing to look at myself through a microscopic lens to see ways I needed to grow, so I could try to be healthier in future relationships.  It meant being open to owning my shit, and accepting that life doesn’t just happen to me.  It meant acknowledging I sometimes give people less than they deserve, and I sometimes accept less than I deserve.  

Because of my hard work in therapy and my own introverted self-analysis, my husband doesn’t have to deal with any baggage from that relationship (don’t you worry, I do have other baggage he has the privilege of carrying with me), and instead can just laugh at a story he thinks centers upon my past foot problems. 

Now, I, too, can laugh about the “worst day of my life.”  

That day only ended-up being the third biggest cry of my life so far.  In fact, an even bigger whammy of a heartbreak wrecked me down the line.  

One day, I will tell you about my first and second worst all-time cries and my incontestable biggest heartbreak, but sharing those stories will take a lot more courage and obsessive editing than I have in me right now, or will likely have any time soon. 

For today, saying “shit” like seven times in a blog post, admitting I slept with my long-term ex-boyfriend, and owning up to having the worst possible social skills and saying accidentally hurtful things to people I love took enough courage.  

Oh, what a day.

We’ll see how brazen I feel next week. 

Oh, What a Day: The Day I Dodged a Bullet

Sometimes people with good intentions try to add a silver lining when you can’t see through the clouds; instead of making you feel better, it just makes you feel worse.  You can’t see in front of your own face, let alone all the way to the lining. Ever been there?

Have you, too, ever been struck by the painful irony of someone telling you how you just “dodged a bullet on this one,” or some other trite statement that means you should actually feel lucky when, in reality, you happen to feel like you’ve been shot point blank in the freaking chest and are gushing metaphorical blood all over the place? 

Everyone: “you are fine.”


Your inner narrator: “y’all, all was most certainly not fine– look at the context clues.” 

When this happens, not only do you feel like you have been shot, but you also believe you need to undergo a major surgery to remove the aforementioned stray phantom bullet which no one else is choosing to acknowledge is even there, swimming around inside you.  

It’s agony.

However well intended, “you just dodged a bullet,” translates as: “they were awful, I never saw this working out, I’m so happy and relieved this is finally over so you can finally move on to the next best thing.”  

Yes, I know, it translates to a heck of a run on sentence… 

Other, shorter sentences, “you dodged a bullet” seems to be code for:

Be happy (your relationship failed).

Be happy (you didn’t get the better paying job you had three interviews for and really really wanted and needed).

Just be happy

Be happy. 

Happiness, I have found, is not easy to attain when you feel like you have been shot.  Or when your emotional hurt starts to manifest physically. Or when the people who love you the most are too busy loving you and being happy for you to pause and remember such things as empathy.

Instead of dancing in the streets, as has been suggested, you just want to cry in your shower (and therefore do a tremendous amount of it). In the great wide world outside of your shower, you do the most human thing you can think to do: you fake it.  Sometimes for years. I did.

Being told by nearly everyone that I was lucky when I felt like my tiny world was over is exactly where I found myself on the “worst day of my life.”  Or, at least, the day five years ago I pronounced to be the worst day of my life. 

A few years and experience has taught me it wasn’t so very bad, in the grand scheme of things, but in the moment and for a long time afterwards it felt acutely and almost comically awful.  Now, thankfully, it is just really funny.  

I’m realizing lately much of the significance and meaning I’ve given to different days of my life, even some which occurred years or decades ago, has started to change.  Sometimes, as is the case for my worst day, time and information and good love and self-reflection can make days that felt awful at the time seem to be more or less trivial. 

I’m also discovering those same great things- time and information and good love and self-reflection– can cause you to discover those long ago awful days were even more painful than you ever realized, and can cause you to feel them all over again with a mega-punch to the throat.  When this happens, we all have the choice to let it hold us up indefinitely, or allow it to spur us on to do something productive about it once and for all (because we are alleged adults now, with agency). 

With this in mind, I’m going to start writing about all of it– the good and the bad days– and then this little introvert is going to share it on the internet, and maybe even turn my collection of days into a book or two.

I can’t wait to share about the worst day of my life with you soon, in my first blog post– I hope you laugh, I hope at least one person finds it relatable, and I hope beyond hope you never tell someone they dodged a bullet again.  (Unless it is an actual and literal bullet they have dodged– in which case, they are likely already aware of their amazing feat, sans your commentary).

Be on the lookout for “Oh, What a Day.”