A piece of a map in Zodiac (Part 3)
- Maude Paquette
- 2 févr.
- 4 min de lecture
The separation from my children’s father is undoubtedly the biggest challenge I’ve had to face so far.
For the first three weeks, I stereotypically (totally worth inventing the word) ate ice cream straight from the tub, consumed all categories of chocolate (Nutella, Lindt, Chipits—no discrimination), and devoured boxes of Kraft Dinner like a bottomless pit while binge-watching episodes of The Office and Desperate Housewives. I soaked in an unreasonable number of scalding hot baths—practically cooking my skin—burned through an entire case of candles down to the last millimeter of wick, and wore my ugliest (yet oh-so-comfortable) underwear along with my oversized t-shirts, so worn out they practically turned transparent.
I let my hair become disgustingly greasy with zero shame, allowed the boys to watch way too much TV, and danced alone in my kitchen to heart-wrenching songs in the middle of the night, volume cranked up, until I was completely exhausted and collapsed starfish-style on the floor, staring at the ceiling. I barely spoke to anyone. I wrapped myself in a little cocoon of solitude that I deeply needed. I did everything that, to me, represented an all-inclusive luxury self-care package. Greasy hair, but impeccable oral hygiene (gotta have standards).
After those three guilt-free, fully intentional weeks, I felt ready to move into the health phase. I reconnected with nature by hiking regularly, got back into daily workouts, cleaned up my social circle and my fridge. I established a routine with the boys, found my rhythm, my balance.
I like to say that when I left, I launched myself into the unknown—let’s be real, I pretty much flung myself off a bridge—and landed in a tiny survival Zodiac, floating on a stormy sea. A sea at the mercy of unpredictable weather, one that would throw some big waves my way before I could find a vessel less cramped than my Zodiac—or better yet, reach my next destination.
Seven months later, I’m still in that little survival Zodiac. I’m starting to feel a bit stuck because it’s time. I’m ready to begin evaluating my options. I stand at a crossroads, facing a blank page. Not entirely blank, of course—there are always a few comforting certainties to lean on (there always are, if you take a moment to look around).
I love these moments of big shifts, of major decisions. They force us to refocus, to make sure we’re still on the right path, that we haven’t dozed off at the wheel and missed an exit that really mattered to us. 2020, with the pandemic hitting the entire world head-on, brings a wave of renewal that’s pushing a high percentage of people to their own crossroads. Some are taking the opportunity to reassess their geographic location, others their mental and/or physical health. Many are revisiting every life choice they’ve made.
That project that’s been collecting dust for years—do we finally bring it back to life? That extra weight we’ve been ignoring, head buried in the sand (or let’s be honest, at the bottom of a chip bag)—do we finally get rid of it once and for all? That trip we’ve been dying to take, that move to be closer to family, that long-lost love we’ve let fade and that’s been dimming us in return, that burning new love we’re too scared to express, that career change that would actually make us excited to wake up in the morning, taking control of our budget and financial goals, developing that skill or talent that sets our soul on fire—do we finally go for it?
Most of us, myself included, face these moments of deep questioning alongside varying degrees of anxiety. And that’s completely normal, completely human. Sometimes, we need to pause, hit shut-down mode—ice cream tub and hot bath included—and that’s perfectly okay. I read something the other day that really stuck with me: No one benefits from your presence when you’re only able to give 2% of yourself. Recharge your batteries, then come back stronger.
In my case, I spent ten years building a reality that no longer exists. I have to reinvent a part of my world while considering that it also includes H&H’s world. I can’t just dock anywhere or climb aboard any random ship—I have certain parameters to respect. But I can start laying a new foundation, slowly, piece by piece. Or, to stick with my metaphor, I can begin building the hull of my next boat.
The sea I’m navigating is still rough at times. There will still be waves that feel strong enough to capsize me. There always will be. But I can build myself a big, solid boat, one where even the roughest waves won’t seem so menacing—so much so that even Gerry Boulet’s Marée Haute won’t send me into a spiral.
It’s all about trusting your GPS (I say, between two spoonfuls of Ben & Jerry’s). If there’s one thing I’ve learned through all this, it’s that it rarely leads you astray. And if the signal isn’t strong enough for the path to reveal itself clearly, right here, right now… Patience. It will. Eat your sandwich.
