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The Lesson in Losing

Updated: Nov 8

Hey Y’all,

As the plane's hum becomes a backdrop to my thoughts on this flight to Tapia, my mind drifts—not to the tasks that await, but to a chapter of my life that often feels like a distant echo, yet still vibrates with clarity in my quieter moments. I hail from the Deep South, a place where life's rhythm is set to the steady beat of tradition and community, where every "good morning" is infused with history, and every "amen" carries the weight of generations.

In the tapestry of the South, family and faith are the strongest threads, interwoven with expectations and unspoken rules. "First, I'd like to give honor to God," is more than a phrase; it's a testament to a life's cornerstone. We moved as a unit, bound by blood and belief, our connections as tight as the embrace of humidity on a July afternoon.

I paint this picture not for nostalgia's sake, but to offer you a glimpse into the crucible that forged my identity and my understanding of love and commitment. It's within this context that I faced what I once deemed my life's greatest failure, which, in time, revealed itself as a stepping stone to a success I had yet to comprehend.

The concept of a "whole" family—a married couple with children, united under one roof—was as rare in my childhood as a snowflake in the bayou. I observed the women in my life, pillars of strength and grace, yet often alone, their partners absent or fleeting. This left an indelible mark on me, shaping my resolve to one day build a family that would stand the test of time.

For a decade, I courted a woman who I believed was my destined partner. We walked hand in hand through the seasons, our love story unfolding slowly, like the petals of a magnolia reaching for the sun. When we finally said "I do," I was certain that the foundation we had built over those ten years was unshakeable.

But marriage, I learned, is not just a continuation of courtship. It is an entity unto itself, demanding skills and depths of understanding that I hadn't yet mastered. Our union, rather than being the culmination of a decade's love, became a mirror reflecting back at me all the ways I was unprepared for the very role I had sought to redefine.

Eight months—it took only eight months for the dream to unravel, for the seams of our shared life to fray under the pressures of reality. The divorce that followed felt like an unraveling, a solitary walk down a path strewn with the debris of my broken vows and the shadow of personal defeat.

In the aftermath, I was left with the shards of that shattered dream, each piece a lesson I had yet to learn. The journey back to myself was long, paved with the hard stones of introspection and the guiding lights of therapy sessions. I had to deconstruct the man I was to rebuild the man I needed to become.

And then, life, with its unpredictable sense of humor, introduced me to her—my second chance—before I felt the first chapter had fully closed. She stepped into the story amidst my reconstruction, willing to pick up a hammer and help me rebuild. Our love became a dance of healing and growth, a partnership that extended beyond romance into the realm of mutual redemption.

This story, rich in its layers and lessons, cannot be confined to the margins of a blog post. But if there's a morsel of wisdom to be shared, it's this: sometimes, our failures are not the end, but rather the beginning of a journey we couldn't have imagined. They are the fires in which our true selves are forged.

Keep pushing, keep dreaming, and trust that the path, however winding, leads to where you're meant to be.



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