With my oldest now reaching five, it’s been quite some time since I’ve celebrated New Year’s Eve in any meaningful way—six years, to be exact. Between pregnancy, breastfeeding, and the whirlwind of parenting, I’ve mostly let the occasion slip by. However, this particular New Year’s Eve was different; my kids left for their father’s home at 4 PM and wouldn’t return for another day. I decided to kick off the evening with a long-overdue shower.
For the past couple of months, I’d been in a rough place. Divorce mediation took over my October, followed by relentless trial preparations in November, which included not just tedious paperwork but also significant financial costs. My attorney arrived in court with seven three-inch binders on a dolly, and like many Americans, I found myself grappling with the weight of credit card debt. December brought a three-day trial, a stark reminder that only about 5% of divorces actually reach this stage. Following that, I spent six days apart from my little ones during the holiday season, navigating my first Christmas as a divorcee—a time filled with tears and a sense of loss. I even had one last trial day looming in January, proving that financial disputes are as persistent as they come.
But it was New Year’s Eve, a night where we traditionally shed the burdens of the past year and welcome the possibilities that lie ahead. I’ve always cherished this holiday, embracing the idea of change and the opportunity to celebrate; it’s a chance to come together, raise a glass, and toast to new beginnings—even if the very next day finds us back in our old routines. It felt liberating, and I loved every moment of it.
As I stood under the warm water, I reflected on past New Year’s celebrations. The last one I truly enjoyed was in 2008, spent in Costa Rica. We had planned to celebrate at a rooftop party in our quaint hotel, but the local power grid failed for two nights in a row, leaving us with a darkened rooftop view and just one apple to share. We listened to distant celebrations, watched fireworks, and reminisced about our previous adventures in tropical paradises. I recalled a night spent at the beach, where we mingled with strangers around a bonfire. I even sprinted into the ocean, skirt held high, believing a crab had nipped my toe in the dark. It had been a joyous time.
Until that moment in the shower, I hadn’t allowed myself to remember the good times we shared. The anger and resentment toward my ex had overshadowed any remnants of love, but standing there in the warmth, I felt something shift. Suddenly, I found myself whispering, “Holy cow, I used to love him,” as if this realization was utterly foreign. In that instant, I felt an overwhelming release, as if every ounce of pain and frustration washed away with the water. It was a visceral, transformative experience.
I loved him. And beneath all the anger, disappointment, and heartbreak, I uncovered a profound sadness, a tidal wave crashing over me. I hadn’t permitted myself to feel the depth of my own sorrow until that moment. As I leaned against the shower wall, struggling to withstand the surge of emotions, I cried for two days, avoiding the mirror, afraid of the ghost I encountered in my reflections.
That New Year’s Eve, I chose not to go out. Instead, I settled in, indulging in a peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwich at midnight alongside a bottle of champagne I’d found in the cupboard from happier days. I spent the evening watching Netflix and releasing a white Chinese lantern I had saved from the Fourth of July, all alone. It was both painful and cathartic—a bittersweet acknowledgment of the sadness I had finally embraced.
Yet, amidst this emotional storm, an unexpected realization surfaced: I could forgive him. Along with the wave of sorrow came an outpouring of forgiveness—not just for him, but for myself as well. I forgave him for being an imperfect person, for the hurtful things he said, and the apologies he never offered. I even found it in my heart to forgive his parents for their abandonment and for the hurtful words they had directed at me over the years.
This journey of forgiveness extended to myself, allowing me to release the weight of my own imperfections. I acknowledged the times I couldn’t let go, the moments I needed to prove my point, and the instances when I felt unheard.
All of this came to light because I let myself confront the painful truth: I loved him, and he broke my heart. This realization, while sad, was also liberating. I understood that while his actions were not acceptable, I would be okay. The past had passed, and a brand new day awaited, gleaming with potential.
(Raises martini glass) To new possibilities. For a fleeting moment, I will embrace change like an old friend, letting go of what no longer serves me, appreciating the present, and looking forward to a bright future.
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Summary:
In a deeply personal reflection, Jenna shares her transformative experience on New Year’s Eve after a long period of emotional turmoil following her divorce. Through a cleansing shower, she confronts her past, allowing herself to feel the sadness of lost love and ultimately finding forgiveness—for both herself and her ex-partner. The journey underscores the importance of embracing change and cherishing new beginnings, all while acknowledging the complexities of love and heartbreak.
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