If we keep passing down the legacy of martyrdom to our daughters, with whom does it end? Which woman ever gets to live? And when does the death sentence begin? At the wedding altar? In the delivery room? Whose delivery room—our children’s or our own? When we call martyrdom love we teach our children that when love begins, life ends. This is why Jung suggested: There is no greater burden on a child than the unlived life of a parent.
What if love is not the process of disappearing for the beloved but of emerging for the beloved? What if a mother’s responsibility is teaching her children that love does not lock the lover away but frees her? What if a responsible mother is not one who shows her children how to slowly die but how to stay wildly alive until the day she dies? What if the call of motherhood is not to be a martyr but to be a model?
Right there, on the floor, I looked deep into my own eyes. I let the Knowing rise and stay.
My children do not need me to save them.
My children need to watch me save myself.
I’d quit using my children as an excuse to not be brave and start seeing them as my reason to be brave. I would leave their father and I would claim friendship-and-fire love, or I would be alone. But I would never again be alone in a relationship and pretend that was love. I would never again settle for a relationship or life less beautiful than the one I’d want for my child.
I’d divorce Craig. Because I am a mother. And I have responsibilities.
I stood up off the carpet and called Abby. We had not seen each other since the night we met in Chicago.
I said, “I’m in love with you. I’m leaving Craig. I’m telling him today.”
She said, “Glennon. Oh my God. I am so in love with you. I’m so happy right now. And I’m so afraid for you. Are you sure you’re ready to do this? We’ve never even touched.”
I said, “I know. But I’m not leaving just because of you. I’m leaving because now that I know this kind of love exists, I can’t pretend it doesn’t anymore. I can’t unknow what I know, and I can’t unbecome who I am now. So I’m leaving—not just because I love you but because I love this version of me. The one that woke up when we met. I have to either leave him or myself. I’m going to leave him. Now that I know this, I have to tell him that I know. I don’t owe Craig the rest of my life, but I do owe him my honesty. It’ll be hard, but it’ll finally be the right kind of hard.”
That afternoon I sat down with Craig and I said—with tenderness but without apology—that I was leaving. I said, “Our marriage is complete. We have been the healing partners we were meant to be for each other. Our marriage has been a great success. And now it’s done. I’m in love with Abby. As soon as I knew, I needed you to know, too.”
He was very quiet, and after a long while he said, “Three years ago, you gave me more grace than I deserved. Now I’m going to return it to you. I want you to be happy.”
We didn’t stay in that place. The next few months were a roller coaster. But we kept coming back to: Grace for you. Grace for me.
Later, when he was ready, we sat down to tell the kids. I’ve hurt many people I love in my life, but that was the worst of it. I looked directly into my babies’ terrified faces and said, “I am about to break your hearts. Over time we will rebuild our hearts, and they will be bigger and stronger. But for now, it’s just going to hurt. Sometimes we have to do hard things because they are true things. Your dad and I want you to live the truth of who you are even when it’s hard and scary and painful. I am about to show you how that’s done.”
They cried. The news changed them, right there on that couch. I saw it happen. We held one another while we let so much burn. Craig told them, “It’s going to be okay. Abby is a good woman. We are going to be a new kind of family, but we are still going to be a beautiful family.”
He gave our children permission to love Abby, which was the greatest gift he’s ever given me. Maybe the greatest gift anyone has ever given me.
We told our families.
We told our friends.
All of that happened within two weeks.
Forty years, five months, and two weeks.
I learned how to be desirable very young. I learned how to match myself to the women on television. I learned how to highlight my hair, curl my eyelashes, wear jeans that made my ass look right, and stay thin by any means necessary. I knew how to become a billboard for myself, and after a boy had chosen me, I knew what to do next. I knew what kind of panties to be wearing and how to arch my back just so and how to make the right noises at the right time. I knew what sounds and moves would make him desire me even more and make him think I desired him. Sex was a stage and I was the player.
I knew how to be desired.
I did not know desire.
I knew how to be wanted.
I did not know want.
Until I met her.
After I told Craig our marriage was over, Abby flew to LA to be honored at an awards show. She was receiving an Icon Award from ESPN to celebrate her soccer career and retirement. It was an ending for her. I wanted to be there, as her beginning. “I’m coming,” I said.
We had not seen each other since the night we’d first met. We had never been alone together. We had never touched, except for the moment I’d grabbed her arm and quickly recoiled to stop the electricity. In the past month, we’d both let our lives burn for the chance to be together. More to the point, we set our lives on fire for the chance to become the women we were born to be.
The morning of my flight, I woke while it was still dark and prepared two bags: one to check and the other to carry on. In my carry-on, I packed makeup, a hair straightener, heels, and a white dress. I drove to the airport, suspended between an old version of myself and one I didn’t know yet. When the plane took off, I tried to read. Then I tried to watch television, but I couldn’t focus on either one. One thought was on a loop in my mind: You will be alone with Abby in a matter of hours, and you have never even kissed a girl before. I remember being especially afraid of the eye contact. I had never made eye contact while being intimate. I’d once told Abby that, and she had been shocked and sad. At the end of that conversation, she had said, “If we ever get to touch each other, please know that I will not let your eyes look away from mine.” I did not know if I was capable.
Halfway through the flight, I pulled my bag out from under my seat and walked to the airplane bathroom. I took off my sweatpants and sweatshirt, pulled on my dress and heels, applied my makeup, and straightened my hair. When I sat back down, the woman next to me looked over and asked, “If I go in that bathroom, will that happen to me?”
As the plane landed at LAX, my first thought was: Oh my God, we are finally in the same city. I took a cab to the hotel. When the cab pulled up, I texted, “I’m here.” Abby typed back, “Room 1140.” I put the phone away. I got into the elevator, pressed the buttons, then stepped out onto floor 11. I walked through the hallway and stopped in front of her room. There was a note taped to the door that said, “Come in.”