My Unfiltered GPS + A Leftover Sandwich (Part 2)

By Maude Paquette

Continuation of the text: My GPS Failed

And if my compass wasn’t broken after all? 

What if I had simply refused to listen to what it was telling me—raw and unfiltered—without considering how I was receiving the information? The truth was, I just wasn’t ready to look reality in the eye, to face its brutal clarity, stripped of any shade of gray. That gray had been deeply anchored in me all the while it took to realize that there would be no bright tomorrow unless I climbed the mountain standing in my path, riddled with steep, daunting trails I would have to bravely choose to walk. There was a dark and frankly terrifying forest to get through before reaching the clearing, and then the flowered fields, bathed in the dazzling light of better days ahead.

"Eat your sandwich," a good friend once told me. "When it won’t go down anymore, you’ll leave. You’re just not ready yet."

Six months have passed since my heart decided that I had gathered enough courage to finally pack it all up, carefully tucking it among the belongings of the life we spent ten years building together. I’m writing this from the pristine kitchen of my home—just mine. I savor my freedom as much as the morning coffee that now accompanies my awakenings, in the comforting bliss that has finally settled back into my heart and mind.

Of course, this new reality comes with its share of difficult consequences. I miss our boys every second they’re not with me. Undeniably, the most heartbreaking part of a broken family is the feeling of missing out on pieces of your children’s lives. The perspective I’ve chosen to help me cope with this heartbreak is to remind myself that if there’s one thing we undeniably succeeded at together, it’s our two little H’s. I’m fortunate to know that they have an incredible dad, that they are in excellent hands when they’re not in mine. And that, well, that is huge in itself, and I will forever be grateful to you for it.

It’s also worth mentioning that the time I spend with them now has completely changed. Their mom wears a smile almost permanently these days. Their absence is bittersweet because it allows me to reconnect with myself. I want to create again. I write. Essays, music, everything and nothing. I have the time to just take time.

I feel it, and I know it—happiness radiates from me again. It’s palpable. I was so… dimmed. And the tiny flicker I had left, I’ve fanned so much over these past few months that it has become a blazing bonfire. I have started looking forward to everything again. Looking forward to mornings, to nights. Looking forward to living.

I could choose to blame myself for not allowing this rebirth to happen sooner, but I fully accept the journey I had to take to get here. The future feels soft and bright. In my early thirties, I am more equipped than ever to recognize the right path for me at every crossroads life presents. Every blank page excites and inspires me. I know I can trust my GPS—it is an utterly relentless guide on the map of Maude.

The storm got the best of us. And you know what? That’s okay. So much beauty will forever flow through what we created together. And we’ll find each other again, here and there, from time to time, somewhere between the lives we will rebuild separately, to marvel at the existence of our little beings.

Thank you for walking this part of my map with me. I leave you my twenties and the promise that I will always strive to be the best mom I can be for H&H.

Be happy. I’ll do my best to be, too.

M.