~ Elizabeth Lesser

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In the early 20th century, experiments on parasites revealed that when rose bushes infested with them died, the parasites, previously wingless, would grow wings. Once their source of food was dead, a metamorphosis took place, and they grew wings to help them avoid starvation and support them in finding a new source of food. 

 

For the last two years of my marriage, I knew something was terribly wrong. Despite my worry, anxiety and confusion, my husband continued to deny it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please stop. How many times do I need to assure you that everything is fine? I’m just tired and stressed,” he’d say. 

I didn’t buy it. The constant weight on my chest eventually landed me in the hospital. After three days of tests, the doctors concluded there was nothing physically wrong and recommended I see a psychiatrist. In other words, they agreed with my husband: It was all in my head. 

Well, they were wrong. Not long after my hospital stay, I was diagnosed with a condition called postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, a disorder of the autonomic nervous system. Everything that felt “off” in my marriage was expressing itself in my body and alerting me to a reality that neither my husband nor I wanted to see. 

There are moments in my life I will never forget—memories that are indelibly etched into my cell tissue; transformational times that stick to my psyche like glue. Watching my granddaughter being born, the day my mother died, and the day my husband finally admitted he was gay. 

I wasn’t crazy after all. As the words tumbled from his mouth, I could barely digest what I was hearing. In a flash, everything I believed in dissolved. The life I thought I was living and the future I dreamt of exploded in front of my eyes. My “source of food” was dying. 

I had no idea how I was going to survive it, but I loved him enough to know that I had to let him go. I had an enormous amount of healing to do, but first, I had to fall apart. Before I could imagine a new life, I had to watch the old one die. 

I needed to grieve, to crumble, and to retreat into my pain. To provide safe passage for my broken heart, I withdrew into the darkness. It was there inside my cocoon, alone with my despair, that I grew my wings. 

There’s always a greater purpose at work behind the scenes. Amid all the broken pieces, glimpses of hope began to peek through the cracks. I stopped myself from becoming “the victim” and emerged to see our breakup through Divine eyes.

Divorce tested my faith, exposed my vulnerability and reminded me of my strength. Sorrow forced me to face my greatest fears and my innermost insecurities. And my heart endured it all. The time I spent in that deep dark hole was the vehicle that initiated my return to wholeness. 

It’s been ten years now, and Mike and I are still close. We care about each other’s happiness and joyfully share in the blessings of our two—soon-to-be three—grandchildren. Through it all, we have remained steadfast in our commitment to recreate our relationship, rebuild our family and support each other through life’s challenges. 

Not long ago, I found out he is getting remarried. For an instant, that old familiar pain rose back to the surface, but it didn’t stick for long. This was the last attachment to what was my marriage. The final cords were being cut, and the gaping hole that used to reside in my heart was now a perfectly designed space, Divinely formed, for my wings. ❧

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