I Was Done, But I Wasn't Finished

The sheets were turquoise. I remember that — because it was my only sheet set. One set, fresh out of the plastic, as I quietly made peace with having less. Dark brown veneer IKEA Malm bed frame centered in the middle of a mostly minimal room. A gallery wall of empty frames above my head that I'd hung months before and never filled. I kept meaning to. Couldn't ever decide what belonged in them.

My master's degree — freshly printed, a corner protruding out as it sat in the cardboard envelope. I was lying underneath those empty frames, watching other women on television navigate life from exactly where they were. The mishaps and the successes. My son left for the summer — his first away, my first without him — and my childhood bedroom was peaceful in the way that burdened minds can't afford. Too much open time. Too much quiet. So I filled it the only way I knew how. I turned on the TV and let other people's lives keep me company.

That's what functional depression looks like from the inside. You hold it together so completely, so convincingly — and then fall apart like a $2 suitcase the moment your child walks out the door. Only to pull yourself back together with duct tape before he returns.

I'd followed God’s plan back to Atlanta — not knowing I had the courage to do what He was asking, but certain that whatever waited on the other side would be better than what I was leaving. My marriage was already done in my heart — I was clear about that. From the outside, we looked like everything was working. I just wasn't one of the things that was. What I didn't know was whether this stay-at-home mom had what it took to walk through what came next. Divorce is a decision. Everything after it is a reckoning. I was lying in bed, with partially stale chip crumbs on my shirt, looking for something — anything — that could show me a woman had done this and had come out even better than her previous life.

That night, somewhere between episodes of Girlfriends' Guide to Divorce, He dropped a request right into the center of my chest — "You will do this." The main character, Abby McCarthy, was fictional — stylish, sharp, writing her way through a blown-up life and making it look possible. And I was lying there in a bleached pajama shirt on my turquoise sheets, duct tape barely dry, asking myself if I could do what she was doing. My immediate answer was no. But my stomach had a different opinion. It wasn't a full rolling boil — it wasn't that loud. It was the simmer just before. The kind that means something is already brewing whether you're ready or not.

I picked up the phone and called my girl. Because that's what I do. Before I build anything, I speak it out loud. “Nilka!” I said, as she answered. “Do you think I can write for a living?” “Yes, absolutely!” She said excitedly. Then without missing a beat —“But, will you?”

I didn't follow it. Not right away, anyway. Instead, I followed the path of logic. I'd gotten that degree to tell other people's stories — athletes, brands, reputations. Turned out I hated PR. But building something from nothing? That part I couldn't put down. So I built my boutique branding and marketing agency, made ends meet, and complained. Losing myself every step of the way. It stripped me to nothing — hair turning grey, self worth thrown to the wolves as chow — while sitting alongside pro athletes, nonprofits, universities, and entrepreneurs I'd once only admired from a distance. From the outside, it looked like I was on my way. On the inside, I was a malfunctioning robot. No matter how much I fooled myself, this wasn't the drop — not the thing God had requested of me. I knew the difference and my body was showing all the signs.

Then, years later — after the agency, after the personal ups and downs, while side questing with Single Parent in the City — a conversation with a friend cracked something open. I told him I planned on getting married again. That I refused to be known as the single parent for the rest of my life, which was why Single Parent in the City remained a side quest. That divorce wasn't even the hardest thing — losing myself was. I knew that what was coming — the unlocking, the new experiences, the versions of Charlene I hadn't met yet — that was the part nobody talked about. His reply: "Change the name."

So I signed a new name on everything.

Love, Charlene.

Not a blog. A vow. A front row seat to what it looks like to navigate life from exactly where you are — joyfully, lovingly, and with everything I've got.

Because I know what it is to stand in the rubble of a life that exploded and have to move forward anyway. We are not starting over — we are moving forward from the decisions we make. The bills don't disappear. What you built doesn't vanish. It lays there waiting for you to put it in the trash bag or move it to its new place.

We are not becoming anything. We are evolving into the person we see in our hearts. Constantly. Endlessly. That is the ride.

Joy and love are not rewards for a life well-lived. They are the practice that makes a life worth living.

If your stomach is already at a slow boil, you're exactly who this is for. I'll see you from the front cart.

And I have all the love in the world to give as we ride along the way.

Love, Charlene