No one ever dreams of being a single mother of five kids, poor, and living paycheck to paycheck.
For me to want that more than I wanted my marriage says everything about how bad the marriage had become.
Leading up to the divorce, and for the next few years after, I really struggled with anxiety and depression. One thing I immersed myself in was music. Sad, happy, party, classical, hip hop, reggae – I liked it all. I could feel something in music. It could amplify my mood, soften it, or sometimes change it completely.
I made playlists for work, chores, running, working out, sad times, kid time, sing-along time, and anything else life seemed to require. It was the iPod era, and my tunes were organized.
Have you ever heard a song and it instantly takes you back to a specific moment?
That happened to me yesterday.
It was mid-morning, and I was in full yard-work mode. I had my teen boys working with me. Jackson was in the backyard, and Samson was out front with me. As Samson mowed, emptied the bag, and mowed some more, I trimmed hedges and pulled weeds. The physicality of it felt good. The sun felt good. Every so often, a light breeze would sweep over me and remind me that without it, I would be a sweaty mess.
I looked around the yard and noticed the progress we had made over the past few weeks. I noticed how nice the lawn looked after Samson had mowed. I looked at the piles of clippings I had made and how much more ordered the flower beds seemed. I felt pleased.
I grabbed the lawn rake and started pulling hedge clippings into better piles. As I began to rake, these words came through my AirPods:
“I won’t pretend to know what you’re thinking. I can’t begin to know what you’re going through.”
I started to sing along.
Then I started to think.
Wow, this song is old. I haven’t heard it in, gosh, maybe twenty years.
There was a time when that song had been an anthem for me. Members of my church, members of my family, and members of my soon-to-be ex-husband’s family had all come to their own conclusions about me, my ex, my marriage, and my divorce. It was a sad time for me, but it was even sadder for my children. Life had changed, and it was still changing.
I didn’t know if I could support my family. I knew my ex was not paying child support. I didn’t know if he was going to participate in our children’s lives, or if his new marriage and move to another state were his way of disappearing – and whether that would break the children’s hearts even more.
I just didn’t know.
And I was broke. I was working nights. I was working extra nights. I was so worn out. There wasn’t enough time to spend with my children, sleep, work, and somehow hold myself together.
I felt guilty for ruining my children’s lives – or at least that is what I believed at the time. I felt overwhelmed trying to know what was right and wrong. I felt responsible for everything, and still unsure if I was capable of carrying any of it.
“There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.”
Those were words I had clung to.
And now, here they were, playing in my ears.
I don’t know how long I stood motionless. A few seconds? A minute? Two minutes? I don’t know.
But in those moments, I felt my old life.
I felt the fear and uncertainty. I felt the sadness. I felt the loss of the house my children knew. I felt the doubt in my ability. I felt the fear of losing even more.
And as I felt all of those things, I also felt the breeze drifting cool across my warm skin. I felt the sweat on my neck. I felt the rake in my hand.
These were all things I had because I was working in the front yard of a house I bought. On my own. No man. No help. For my children, for my family.
I saw my house. It is a nice house. My yard – well, it is coming along. But it is my yard. This is the house where all of my children gather. A nicer home than I ever imagined I could buy, and certainly ever imagined I would buy on my own.
And it is full of love.
There is no fighting. No angry words. No fear.
There is a lot of love and patience and understanding and laughter and hugs and celebrations and growth.
I felt the pain from before, but my mind was also processing all that was different now. It was an amazing, epiphany-type moment. That light at the end of the tunnel was the sunshine I felt enveloping me as I stood in my front yard.
As Samson walked toward me, the moment started to fade a little. Then I noticed his lips moving.
Oh. He was talking to me.
I took out one of my AirPods.
“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you,” I said.
He asked, “Are you alright? You’re crying.”
I hugged him, and he put his willowy teenage-boy arms around me and hugged me tight.
He asked again, “Are you alright?”
“I’m more than alright,” I told him. “I’m good. These are tears of happiness. My heart is full.”
And then the moment was gone.
But it wasn’t.
Because that feeling of sunshine and light is still in my heart. That tunnel of fear, single motherhood, poverty, uncertainty, and not knowing if I was capable – all of those fears are now far behind me. I made it through that tunnel.
That moment in the yard simply showed me how far from it I have traveled.
So many more tunnels have passed. More will come. I am in one right now, actually.
Back then, my philosophy was simple: hold on and try to find beauty wherever I could. That was enough for that season. Sometimes survival does not look poetic. Sometimes it looks like getting through one shift, one bill, one bedtime, one hard conversation, one more day.
But I can feel the difference now in how I approach the tunnels.
Tunnels are strange things. Some are short. Some are long. Some are lit, and some feel impossibly dark. Sometimes, on a road trip, we hold our breath until we come out the other side, almost as if we can make the darkness pass faster by refusing to breathe through it.
Life’s tunnels can feel like that too.
Sometimes we hold our breath, waiting for it to be over. Sometimes we hate how dark it is. Sometimes, if we are honest, there is even a strange relief in the shade – a break from the blazing sun, from the pressure, from the noise, from whatever came before.
Perspective matters.
I don’t think the goal is to pretend the tunnel is beautiful. Some tunnels are painful. Some are lonely. Some are terrifying. But experience has taught me that I can keep breathing inside them. I can look for the small lights and be thankful within the darkness — not in spite of it. I can remember that darkness is not the same thing as an ending.
The darkness may dim the light, but it does not erase it. The tunnel may feel long, but it is not endless. Eventually, the light expands.
And one day, without even realizing it at first, you may find yourself standing in your own front yard, rake in hand, sun on your shoulders, surrounded by the life you were once afraid you could not build.
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