Unseen Shifts are Still Magical

Until the pandemic and ensuing lockdown, I don't know that I was able to ever be wholly authentic. I wore masks everywhere I went: The veneer of warmth and endless patience and wisdom for some friends; A cloak of silliness and adventuring spirit for others; The camouflage of someone calm and collected who knew how to run a business while I was at work; The façade of someone happy in my 14-year marriage.

My then-husband (Was-band) even commented in passing on how he could see me sorting through and shifting the masks. I was surprised; for the six years leading up to this comment, he had been so focused on himself —his illness, his hobbies, his income, his day trading (with my 401K money) —that his awareness of me as a person and not just a body to cook and clean and take care of him shocked me.

Even my makeup was armor to protect me inside. I would dutifully apply concealer, three colors of eye shadow, eyeliner, blush, four layers of mascara, and lipstick every day—even when I had no plans to leave the house. It was as if I needed to remind myself that I couldn't ever fully relax —that who I was at my core was not enough.

I was rewarded socially and professionally for these veils of mine. Friends and strangers flocked to my side and surrounded me, asking advice, or wanting to go explore a new hiking trail, or asking about business consulting. Nearly everyone I knew commented on how my personality felt like sunshine and joy, or how I had the power to transform the energy of an entire room, just by walking in with my wide, warm smile. And I adored these comments. I loved that others felt light and joyful in my presence!

But no one knew how I was suffocating inside.

These beautiful comments and compliments were a double-edged sword. On the one hand, I loved that I could make the people around me feel better just by being in the same room. On the other, it felt like a cage that I couldn't ever escape. I had built it around myself without a key. The more I was praised for my sunny disposition, the more I felt like I couldn't just show up authentically as I was in the moment. I felt like I owed something to everyone around me: And if I couldn't provide that service of uplifting, then I needed to be reclusive and wait for the stormier emotions to pass.

When the pandemic shut down the world in March of 2020, I finally allowed the masks to slip. All my distractions —work, happy hour with friends, dance classes, and travel—were put on pause. I rattled around my house, lonely but not quite alone, with a husband with whom I could not have an authentic conversation. It was the first time I really started to examine who I was, and what I wanted and needed out of life.

• • •

My marriage began to crumble three years earlier. My Was-band also owned a business and had someone working for him, running the practice. When she announced that she was moving back to her hometown in Alberta, Canada, he panicked. He had been struggling with some unknown sickness for which he refused to get a diagnosis, and I was his primary caretaker. He no longer felt capable (or wanted to?) manage his business on his own. The two of us sat huddled at one end of our Acacia wood table that could comfortably seat twelve. It had been a long time since the table had been full of laughter and jostling elbows.

The patio door was open a crack for the dogs to come back inside from the frigid January air. I wrapped my palms around the mug of coffee, spinning the pink cup around to read the gold writing: "Hello Gorgeous!" the mug cheerfully proclaimed. I listened to my Was-band explain that he wanted to sell his business and though he didn't ask for my thoughts, I murmured agreement that selling seemed the smartest course of action. He gesticulated wildly, not once meeting my eyes, but that wasn't unusual for him when he was talking. When he finally paused long enough to take a sip of his own coffee, I opened my mouth.

"Promise me that you won't just close the business without trying to sell it first. We still owe the investors—of which my dad is one—over a hundred thousand dollars in business loans and we need to talk to him before doing anything rash."

"Yeah yeah," he said, waving away my concerns. "I'm going to talk to a broker and list it for sale today."

I felt a prickle of unease —he had a history of impulsive decisions that negatively impacted our finances and our housing—but I tried to trust that his promise was worth something this time.

I should have heeded that niggling feeling.

That evening, when I returned from work, he was parked in front of his computer in the small office off the living room. He was playing a video game and greeted me distractedly over his commentary to his gamer friends. When that round was finished and he took a break from playing, he wandered to the kitchen where I was preparing Persian-spiced burgers and crispy-bottomed rice Tahdig.

"Hey," I said, my hands and wrists nearly numb with cold and covered with raw ground beef. I glanced over at him as he refilled his water glass and plunked down at one of the counter stools. His eyes were glassy, almost feverish.

"I found someone to take over the space and sublease," he exclaimed. "I gave him all the equipment too," he said.

I stopped mixing the meat and spices and stared. "What do you mean, 'you gave?'" I asked.

He shrugged. "It was part of the agreement of the sublease." He casually took a sip of his water. I pulled my hands from the meat bowl and walked carefully to the sink, breathing slowly to calm myself. I used my elbow to lift the kitchen faucet and squirt hand soap onto my greasy hands. When I finished washing, I dried them and sat on the stool next to him.

"I thought you were going to list the business for sale?" I asked gently. I was verbally tiptoeing. He had a temper that I didn't want to ignite.

"Eh, I changed my mind. There are so many practices for sale that we wouldn't get much of anything out of it. So I subleased, which will save us from paying $16,000 in rent through April when the lease it up."

I gaped at him. "Did you talk to my dad?" I asked. "We owe all that money…"

He shook his head. "I did what I needed to do. This was the best way."

My face felt hot and I started shaking. "But— "

He cut me off. "It's done. Let's move on." He got up from the counter and left the room, moving on so easily from such a big commitment, and leaving me once again to sort through the emotional ramifications alone.

I couldn't breathe and knew I'd scream if I didn't get out of the house RIGHT THIS MINUTE. I leashed up the dogs and left, slamming the door behind me so that it rattled the windows on the front of the house. Five miles of hilly walking trails through the wooded park later, I felt calm enough to use my words, and when I returned to the house, Was-band acted like he always did: mildly indifferent, and like nothing in his world had changed. I surveyed the pot of uncooked rice and the bowl of raw hamburger that I'd left on the counter. I wasn't hungry now.

"I'm frustrated," I told him as I stacked the pots next to the sink, unleashed the dogs, and poured dry food into their bowls. "This is the third time you've made huge financial decisions that affected us both, but without taking me into account. I feel like you don't think of me as a partner nor value my thoughts and feelings, and it's disheartening." He tipped his chin up and peered down his nose at me. This was the longest he'd let me talk since we were first dating. I took a breath for bravery and continued. "This could jeopardize my relationship with my dad. It's a HUGE amount of money to owe the investors. Plus, I no longer have the 401K money or a diamond engagement ring to sell to pay back the loan… I cleaned both of those out the last time you walked away from your job when I was trying to save the other house unsuccessfully from foreclosure —"

He interrupted. "That ended up for the best. I didn't like that house or that neighborhood anyway," he defended. "Plus we had the money, so it was fine. And living in my dad's basement wasn't that bad," he said. I sucked in my cheeks.

"The part I'm most upset about is that this morning, you promised me that you wouldn't just close it down or give away the equipment. You told me that you'd sell what was there at the very least, and then you did the complete opposite without even telling me."

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he insisted.

"But it does," I said. "When you continuously make unilateral decisions like this—huge ones that go against what you've just promised—I feel like I don't matter at all in this partnership, and I feel like I can't rely on your promises. That's not partnership. You decided that we'd foreclose on the last house. You decided that we'd buy this one, and I went along with those choices you made because I wanted you to be happy, but I also told you that that was the last time. It makes me feel like I can't trust you." My eyes prickled with unshed tears that I blinked away.

He rolled his eyes. "You're being far too sensitive," he said. "Calm down. It will be fine with your dad. He loves you. He won't make you pay back the loan." He took a step toward me as if to hug me, but I backed away. He shrugged, rummaged through the pantry cupboard to grab some beef jerky, and went back to the computer game he'd taken a break from.

We didn't speak for three days. Me, because I didn't know what to say, the realization that I felt neither valued nor important to the person I was married to, along with the violated trust, and him because he never felt the need to apologize in our relationship and was perplexed that I suddenly expected one.

If I'd been a braver person, I would have insisted on couple's counseling, or maybe ended the marriage then. But 14 years of shared history is a long time to just throw away. In my hopefulness and naiveté, I thought things would get better. 

They didn't.

Something broke inside me that day: Maybe it was the invisible red thread of connection holding us together. Maybe it was the realization that I didn't matter to him as a person in the way I wanted to matter to my partner, and wasn't valued as an equal participant in the marriage. It would take three more years for us to finally call it quits, during which I kept my masks and armor firmly in place, especially when I was home. 

After we officially divorced early in the days of the pandemic lockdown, I finally removed my veils and camouflage. I no longer needed to pretend. I wasn't seeing friends—too risky—and I didn't have to walk on eggshells or protect myself from someone who was supposed to be a teammate but turned into an adversary. 

I stopped wearing makeup. I started a deep dive into processing the unhealthy dynamics in my marriage, and how I contributed to them. I shed my masks hiding my vulnerability and authenticity the way a hatchling bursts forth from its shell. Hobbies were on pause, as were other distractions that helped me cope with the disintegrating state of my marriage, so I started finally doing the inner work. I began practicing yoga and meditating. I went on a two-week road trip to visit my mom in San Diego, meeting some friends on a hippie commune along the way. I pared down friendships and acquaintanceships from dozens of people always around…to the four people I felt like I could just be myself with and show up (over text message) exactly how I was feeling. 

I spent a year homeless, bouncing around from place to place. I survived a business betrayal from the person I trusted most who embezzled funds and then filed a retaliatory lawsuit against me when I initiated a police investigation. I fell into a deep, dark cloud of depression that still occasionally has tendrils of despair that lick up my ankles, threatening to pull me under. But through these challenges, I also learned a lot about myself. I learned how resilient I can be. I learned how to survive. 

Former friends occasionally reached out and expected me to be the same as I was Before. Those who couldn't accept the shift gradually faded away. I welcomed those who made space for the new, current, maskless me.

I eventually moved out of state and began dating someone new. I'm doing things differently this time: I no longer tiptoe about my needs. I don't stifle who I am or diminish my sparkle to not outshine him. I cry when I need to—even if it's over something dumb like a cheesy movie—rather than pretend to be strong and immobile. I share when something bothers me, rather than stuff it down and hope it goes away. I lead from a place of vulnerability. We talk about our boundaries and how we can help each other. We each encourage the other to show up authentically.

While there have been challenges, it's a heady feeling to finally feel loved and accepted for exactly who I am—by my partner, but more importantly, by me. And that feels magical.