One Year Later: Becoming Instead of Searching

One year ago, I was saying goodbye to a relationship that had once been filled with love.

We had spent two wonderful years building a life together, sharing a home and dreaming about a future. What followed was nearly another year of untangling ourselves from a heartbreak that never seemed to end all at once. Just when I felt as though I had finally found solid ground again, another little tug on my heart would pull me back into the uncertainty.

Heartbreak has a funny way of lingering.

Not because we want it to.

Simply because healing isn't a straight line.

But while one chapter was quietly closing, another one was about to begin.

Just a couple of weeks later, I boarded a plane by myself for London and Paris.

Looking back now, it remains one of the most extraordinary trips of my life. And the funny thing is... I wouldn't change a single thing about doing it alone.

I figured out the trains and the Underground. I wandered museums for as long as I pleased. I stood in front of Big Ben, completely overwhelmed that I was actually seeing it with my own eyes. I walked through Westminster Abbey in quiet awe. I wandered streets I'd only ever seen in photographs.

Then I boarded the train to Paris.

On the final day of the Tour de France, I somehow ended up standing front row on the Champs-Élysées for the grand finale. Not because I had planned it perfectly, but because I shared my umbrella with a stranger's sweet grandmother while we waited in the rain.

We couldn't speak each other's language.

We didn't need to.

Kindness speaks every language.

That moment has stayed with me because it reminded me that some of life's greatest gifts arrive without an itinerary.

Over the past year, I've continued to live alone.

And honestly? As I sit here on my patio overlooking the Ravenel Bridge, preparing to move in a few months — after over two years of living alone again…

I've loved it.

There was an unexpected little hiccup over the past few months that temporarily disrupted the peace I had carefully built. Life has a way of reminding us that we can't always choose what finds us.

But we can choose what we keep.

Overall, this year has been one of the happiest of my life.

Not because everything was perfect.

But because I discovered something I hadn't fully appreciated before.

Peace is incredibly beautiful.

I've learned to enjoy my own company. I've filled my days with long walks, books, sunsets, travel, learning, healthy food, quiet mornings, and conversations that leave my heart feeling full instead of heavy.

Most of all, my world has been transformed by one tiny little girl.

My granddaughter.

The little person who calls me "Honey."

Next week I'll arrive in Atlanta on her twenty-seven-month birthday while my daughter and son-in-law enjoy a well-deserved vacation together. I'll have an entire week with my favorite little sidekick.

She is potty training now.

Her vocabulary has exploded.

She carries on the sweetest little conversations, and every time I'm with her, I find myself seeing the world through fresh eyes again.

Children have a remarkable way of simplifying what truly matters.

Watching her has taught me something unexpected about love.

Someday she'll grow up.

Someday someone will love her.

And whenever a man enters my own life, I've realized there is only one question I really need to ask:

Is the way he treats me the way I would want someone to treat her?

If the answer is no...

That is all the red flag I need.

If the answer is yes...

That is the green flag I've been waiting for.

Because real love isn't confusing.

It doesn't cheat.

It doesn't lie.

It doesn't make you feel like an afterthought.

It doesn't leave you wondering where you stand.

Real love is steady.

It is honest.

It is joyful.

It is passionate.

And perhaps most importantly...

It is the safest place you'll ever land.

It leaves very little room for doubt.

Would I love to find my person one day?

Absolutely.

A life partner.

Someone to cook dinner with, travel the world beside, laugh with, grow old with, and hold my hand during ordinary Tuesdays.

That would be lovely.

But not if finding him costs me the peace I've worked so hard to build.

Not if it requires me to shrink myself.

Not if it asks me to accept less than I would want for the little girl who calls me Honey.

So maybe he'll find me someday.

Perhaps in the produce section at Whole Foods.

Or in the seat beside me on a delayed flight.

Maybe while I'm walking across the Ravenel Bridge as the sun begins to set.

Maybe at Patriots Point.

Maybe on Shem Creek.

Maybe enjoying a stroll downtown.

Or maybe our paths will never cross.

And if they don't...

That will be okay too.

Because I'm no longer searching.

I'm becoming.

Becoming healthier.

Becoming wiser.

Becoming stronger.

Becoming more peaceful.

Becoming more myself.

The greatest surprise of this past year is that somewhere along the way, I stopped waiting for life to begin.

I realized I was already living it.

After everything my body has endured...

After cancer.

After surgeries.

After heartbreak.

After learning to rebuild a life more than once...

I wake up deeply aware that simply being here is a gift.

I don't intend to waste it.

Every sunset.

Every passport stamp.

Every long walk.

Every laugh with my granddaughter.

Every ordinary Tuesday.

They are all part of a life I once wondered if I'd get to have.

And that makes this season feel less like waiting...

...and much more like arriving.

Perhaps that's what healing really is.

Not finding someone else.

But finally finding yourself.

And discovering that the life you've built is already wonderfully, beautifully enough.

Until next time...

Honey 🍯

Still collecting stories. Still choosing joy and still believing that every beautiful life—and every beautiful love story—is written one chapter at a time. Somewhere between the sunsets, the passport stamps, and time with my granddaughter, I'm quietly writing a novel that I hope will someday offer readers an adventure, a little romance, and a gentle reminder to never give up on hope.