My GPS failed (Part 1)

By Maude Paquette

I Lost My North.

For weeks that felt like months, my GPS shut down. My compass was gone. I couldn’t see clearly, and those were exactly the words I used when I tried my best to explain it to you: I don’t know where I stand in relation to my line.

"My line." That’s how I’ve imagined my process of letting go of relationships ever since I was old enough to conceive of such a thing. I have a point of no return, and once that line is crossed, there’s no turning back. It then becomes a matter of time before I gather enough courage to turn the page and move on. I’ve crossed that line twice before you. Relationships of roughly three years, without children, without real ties beyond shared memories and a familiar world. The first time, like the second, it took almost a year. Stocking up on courage takes time because I’m a little too attached to the comfort of my emotional security.

I never thought I’d cross my line with you. But during those long, disorienting weeks, my vision was blurred. After thousands of magical moments together, hundreds of stories to tell, dozens of arguments that made us grow, nine years of shared life, and two perfect children—I got scared. In the middle of this life I had always dreamed of, the one that became my reality thanks to you, thanks to me—I got scared. I was afraid of my damned line.

So much so that I started gathering my provisions of courage. I stockpiled them like a squirrel bracing for the brutal winter it knows is coming. I was slowly training my brain to accept the idea that soon, I would have to become my only source of everything—to avoid saying the words that felt so false in my head: I would be a single mother. A single mom. I browsed houses for sale within a budget I could afford alone, apartments for rent near our home to make this new approach to family life as harmonious as possible. I imagined myself drowning in heartbreak, waiting for our children to return from your place. But I also pictured doing my own grocery shopping, only picking what I wanted to eat. And finally! I imagined adopting a kitten, something I’ve dreamed of for so long.

At night, after putting the kids to bed, I gently avoided you. I hid away in our bedroom, pretending to be busy with work or Netflix. I kept myself occupied because, soon, I would have to find comfort in my solitude.

And yet, there was always this little voice inside me taking your side. When I pictured the day I’d have to accept that you would make space in your life—and in our boys’ lives—for another woman, it tore me apart. Out of jealousy, of course, but mostly because I still loved you. When I imagined your absence, the urge to talk to you about everything and nothing, and not being able to—I felt like I couldn’t breathe. When I thought about the emptiness of not having your warmth beside me every day, my chest tightened.

But then my brain would remind me of all the little things that got on my nerves. It reopened old wounds and made them bleed again. It told me I was tired of making compromises, of constantly negotiating, of having to justify my choices and desires. Part of me was screaming for freedom and independence, while the other couldn’t stand the thought of letting all we had built together end in a dead end. My GPS was dead, and my compass was truly broken.

With some distance, time alone, and much-needed rest, I realized—that wasn’t it. The truth is, when you stand at the center of the whirlwind that is parenting young children, it’s easy to get dizzy and lose your footing. The reality is that, in becoming parents, we were thrown into a terrifying and beautiful tsunami—one that swallowed up our lives as thirty-somethings, still a little selfish, still discovering ourselves and the world. And in the thick fog of responsibilities—kids, home, work, the overflowing calendar—it’s normal to lose your way. To feel suffocated. To have your insides twist into knots from the sheer too-muchness of it all.

So sometimes, we need to clear our minds. And that can happen in many ways. Through meditation, exercise, writing, or a simple walk. Through talking.

That’s what I told you when I finally regained my sight and tried to explain what had happened inside me: It’s like my life evolved faster than I did. I feel like I’m constantly chasing after my adult life—one filled with piles of laundry and doctor’s appointments—while deep down, I’m still just a teenager waiting for the bell to ring so I can run outside and play. And somewhere in all of that, I got lost. I mixed up the cards and convinced myself that we were the source of my unhappiness.

It had been a long time since I had faced a storm this violent. A full-blown existential crisis, raging through my heart and mind.

I’m lucky to have you by my side. And I am so incredibly grateful that you had the patience to wait for me on the shore. Because this storm? This one was mine to weather. If you had insisted on helping me row, we would have gone in circles. I needed to recharge my GPS. To fix my compass.

Now, my map has never been clearer, and the horizon has never looked more promising.