Launched Out Into the Deep

Much like this year, April 2023 flew by. After the cruise I was energized to take on the single mom game again. But man, those were long, exhausting days. I don't recommend being a pregnant, single mom of 4 kids, working part-time during the manic energy of spring time. Fortunately, this year our kids didn't play any big commitment sports like soccer or softball. I may be projecting, but through the heart ache of ending a marriage and breaking a home, there's this compulsion to spoil your kids in anyway possible, at least there was for me. It's like, If I couldn't give my kids the most important thing of all, a home with a mother and father who love and respect each other, I'll give them xyz... So last spring it ended up being rock climbing and horse riding lessons.

At the end of those long, tiring days, after the kids were asleep, I was busy typing out my talk for a youth conference I had been invited to as the key note speaker. Back in the fall of 2022, I had spoke at a youth fireside on the topic of chastity. I had had the framework for this talk in my mind for a few years and finally asked if I could give it. (If you'd like to read the talk, click HERE) This talk was well received and word travelled to the church leaders in Cardston, where the conference was being held. I'm one of those strange people that actually really enjoys public speaking, so when I heard I was being considered to speak for 5 stakes worth of youth, I was thrilled. When I was finally officially asked to speak, I remember thanking President Nunn for asking me and saying, "I really needed a win." But anyways, what was originally a 15-20ish minute talk needed to be around 45 minutes, so I had my work cut out for me.

After the cruise is also when I started seeing a counsellor. I'm fortunate enough to have a Family & Community Support Services office in my community, which is where I connected with a counsellor. FCSS offers 10 FREE sessions with their counsellors. I don't recall any ground breaking revelations or life changing advice, I mostly talked about the situation I was in and was encouraged to begin "finding myself" again. After a particularly emotional session of counselling, I took my kids to the play group happening afterwards. I had made the mistake of dressing Zuzu in her "big sister" shirt we used as the pregnancy reveal to our kids. I was definitely NOT ready to reveal this news to other people, but I was quickly found out and enthusiastically congratulated. What a dichotomy of feelings that time was. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... My happy news of a pregnancy went hand in hand with the news that my marriage was ending. A smart person would have just accepted the congratulations with a smile and changed the subject. What I did was burst into tears and then have to explain that I was actually also getting a divorce. We left immediately after that conversation. But it was a conversation I encountered many more times. Fortunately, the tears no longer accompanied it.

The end of April is also when I had my 20 week ultrasound. I don't recall telling Jon the date of the ultrasound, but that morning he had texted me asking if he could come to it. My answer was no, which I felt justified giving for two reasons: 1. Jon blatantly chose to cheat on me after finding out that I was pregnant, and 2. After the truth came out, Jon had the nerve to say that he didn't want more kids. But it was still hard to say no. That afternoon, I turned off "Find My Friends" to ensure that I went alone. And then I did something bold: I chose to NOT find out the gender of my baby, which was something Jon always made us do. I was proud of myself for being nonconfrontational and a peacemaker, but I could still find little ways to be petty, ha. He later asked if there was a way he could find out the gender, by contacting my doctor or if my mom could find out and tell him. The answer was still no.

The time finally came to give my "Launch Out Into the Deep" talk. This talk was about setting out into adulthood bravely and boldly, being unafraid to be different. It included the infamous chastity talk, but at the end I felt inspired to put a different spin on the quote, how not all the "launching" we do is voluntary, sometimes we get "launched." This is what I said:

Before I close, there is one last interpretation of “the deep” I want to share with you. There will come “deeps” in your life that you do not choose to “launch out into.” Whether you have chosen to remain on the shores of life or have valiantly launched yourself “out into the deep,” you will encounter trials, adversity, pain and unwanted change. This is inevitable. There is no “Get Out of Trials Free” card here on Earth. Some of your trials will be consequences of your own actions, while others will be the results of factors beyond your control. I have no doubt that some of you sitting in this room have already encountered some of the greatest hurts that this life has to offer. My heart goes out to you.

 

I’m no different than you in this regard. I have had heartaches and heaviness, sorrow and suffering. Something I may possess that you have not had the time to acquire is the blessing of retrospection. I’ve lived long enough that I can look back on my trials and remember the light that was at the end of each tunnel, something you may not have discovered yet as you trudge through the thick of your adversities. There have been trials in my life that have convinced me I would drown in the downpour of my tears, that I would be forever flooded with fear, and spend the remainder of my life in the shadows of an overcast sky of overwhelm. You may be able to relate.

 

But I want to remind you, as residents of southern Alberta and southeastern British Columbia, each of us is familiar with the importance of rain in our areas. Usually around this time of year or further into the spring and summer, our church leaders will bring our attention to the dire need of moisture, whether it is to aide in the growth of crops or to help reduce the risk of wildfires. If we haven’t been already, we’re encouraged to pray for rain, perhaps even organized as a stake to fast for the life giving and sustaining moisture we need. We beg with our Father in Heaven for the rain because we know the blessings that exist once the rain clouds have cleared away. So it is with our trials. The overcast mind, the downpour of emotions, what appears dark and cold and dreary, is what brings us some of our richest blessings once the clouds part.

 

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf said: “Adversity helps to develop a depth of character that comes in no other way. Our loving Heavenly Father has set us in a world filled with challenges and trials so that we, through opposition, can learn wisdom, become stronger, and experience joy.”

 

I promise you that I have yet to encounter a trial that has not blessed me, refined me, and brought me closer to my Saviour. As a young girl, the terror of discovering my beloved dog dying in a beaver trap prompted me to utter the most earnest prayer I had in my life. Without that trial, I would not have been blessed with the lifelong testimony that Heavenly Father hears and answers my prayers, as my dad was able to free and save my dog. Years later, my dad’s life would be in peril after a horse accident. Multiple doctors encouraged my mom, sisters, and I to say our goodbyes. After accepting that my father’s life here on earth was likely over, my testimony of the Plan of Salvation and eternal families was carved into stone upon my heart. I knew I’d see my dad again. Fortunately, our family was gifted a miracle and my dad is still here today. As a young newlywed, my mental health took a turn for the worst. As I trudged through what my doctor called a “major depressive episode,” I became convinced that the joy and light I had felt earlier in my life was essentially over. As darkness consumed me and almost my marriage, I managed to direct my faith towards my Saviour and the advice and care of my family and doctor. As the clouds began to part, I realized that that trial had gifted me with a newfound depth of compassion and Christlike love for the people around me. As I stand before you today, I again find myself encompassed by the rain clouds of adversity. 2023 has been the year I found out I was pregnant with my 5^th child and discovered that deception and broken covenants would bring the end to nearly 11 years of marriage. The rain and my tears have seemed to never cease this year. But I know from experience and from a hard-won testimony of the Gospel that the sun WILL eventually come out and that I WILL find myself blessed for my faith and endurance. By no fault of my own, I have been “launched out into the deep,” and it is hard, but I know when I return to the shore that I will return a refined and richly blessed daughter of God because of it. So it is with you. There are deeps you get to choose to pursue, and there are deeps that you will be thrown into. Choose to see the trials you endure for the rich blessing of moisture that they are. The sun will always come out after a rain. And the trials you have endured will be for your benefit.

*

Band Cruise

Back in September 2022, I had started a new job. Jon was back in school full-time and we needed some sort of income, fortunately the Junior High was hiring. Thus began my brief sojourn as the "Band Aide" - the Teacher's Aide to the Band Teacher. Up until this point in my life, I would have told you without hesitation that my favorite job I ever had was lifeguarding. I'm pretty confident my new favorite job is being the "Band Aide." I owned the heck out of my nickname too. For Halloween I made a giant "band-aid" costume using those foam mattress toppers. I cut out two Kristen-size pieces for my front and back and had a hole for my face, slits in the sides for my arms, and a hole in the bottom for my legs. I was like a giant band-aid mascot and I thought my costume was hilarious and amazing until some mean flute player in grade 12 said, "What are you? A pad?" Then I was much less confident and rather sheepish that I didn't just dress like a hippie like the rest of the Jr High staff. Live and learn.

Anyway, my biggest responsibility as the Band Aide was to plan the upcoming Band Cruise that the grade 9-12 band students could go on during Easter Break. Had I ever been on a cruise? Nope. Had I ever planned a trip for 50 people? Nada. But I somehow managed to do a pretty bang up job. We were still coming out of Covid and figuring out travel restrictions. I made phone calls I never dreamed I would. Ever phoned the American Centre for Disease Control (CDC)? I have. Phoned airlines, cruise lines? This girl has. I also communicated with chaperones and parents several times a week, making sure every imaginable form was completed. The band teacher and I also held notary nights and information meetings. I had to assign hotel rooms and cabins. It was a huge endeavor but I made sure we were prepared air tight and the whole entire cruise went off without a hitch. Minus the horrible weather and sea sickness... but more on that later.

So last Easter Break I was the pregnant teacher's aide joining a group of 40ish teenagers and their accompanying chaperone parents. I believe the entire group was 54 people. We met at the high school at 1 am on a Sunday morning and arrived in Orlando, Florida that evening. That first night away hurt. Once we arrived at the hotel, all the other adults snuck away to call their significant others. It seemed like everyone had someone and I didn't. I wasn't going to call Jon to tell him I made it. I did call my kids, but that just didn't feel the same. It was the first time since everything started that I felt the acute sting of loneliness. It wasn't that fun. 

The next day we boarded the Independence of the Seas and as soon as we set out for sea it felt like the boat became a giant paint shaker. And not once had it occurred to me that I should pack medicine for motion/sea sickness. I felt awful. Fortunately my roommate was a godsend and shared her meds with me. As I sat in the fancy dining room that night at my assigned table, I was actively focusing all my energy into breathing in, breathing out, looking at the table, and encouraging myself into thinking I felt fine. And I was doing alright until the young man I shared a table with took his first bite of escargot and then exclaimed, "Mmm! It's like a meaty gummy bear!" At which point I discreetly barfed in my napkin and made a drunken, teetering walk back to my cabin. And although I felt like death, I couldn't help but notice all the "wet floor" signs, ambiguous splash marks running down the sides of garbage cans, and dark splotches on the carpeted hallways. I wasn't alone. Me and a few thousand people were trapped on a never ending amusement park ride.

The next morning we were supposed to port at Nassau, Bahamas. When we met as a group at 8 am to make plans for the day, we all looked grey. The captain then came over the intercom to let us know that it would be too dangerous to make port that day and we would be having our "day at sea." Talk about a sucker punch to the gut. The prospect of getting on solid land had been the light at the end of the stuck-on-a-ship tunnel and now we were still just stuck on a ship. I know some people cried haha. I literally just laid in bed all day and napped. It felt like I was being rocked in a cradle. As the day went on, word got around that the night before the cruise was short staffed since even the cruise workers felt sick. That it took them hours to clean up all the throw up, again, because they were short staffed. And that the captain of the ship had said this was the worst April weather he had ever seen in his entire career. Lucky us!

The next day we docked at Coco Cay, which is a private island owned by the Royal Caribbean cruise line. We got to soak up the rain on cloudy beaches, but at least we were on solid ground. That night I did something I had dreamed of FOREVER. I don't know why, but I have spent the majority of my adult life wanting to sing karaoke and the opportunity never presented itself until I was on a cruise. So I got on a stage in front of a bunch of strangers and belted out Lady Gaga's "You and I" to the best of my ability. It was a hoot.

On Thursday we finally docked in Nassau. I spent the day tagging along with the girl I chaperoned. We snorkeled, explored the markets, and got sun burnt. Then that evening the kids performed their bandly duties and we watched the play Grease. All in all, it was a good time. I'm glad I went. It stunk to feel sick, but the stories are pretty hilarious in retrospect.

The only picture I took of myself the whole entire trip

Oh, for our travel days I had the privilege of designing a dorky matching shirt we could all wear. As we were boarding one of our flights home, a flight attendant asked me, "What instrument do you play?" and it made my life complete. She had mistaken me as a band student. I told her I was a teacher's aide and thanked her profusely.

When I finally got home in the middle of the night, there was a giant poster welcoming me home and some helium balloons. Jon had been staying with the kids and I was oddly moved by this gesture. How thoughtful of him to go through the effort of helping the kids welcome me home. Maybe there's hope? Is this him trying? I soon found out the next day that my mom had actually helped the kids do that, it was all her idea and effort. It's a weird feeling to still be grateful and thankful and feel loved, but just not by the first person you assumed it was. Oh well.

*

Peacemakers Needed

Last year General Conference happened before Easter. We're more pagan members of the church and don't make a great effort to watch the Saturday sessions, but I always read them afterwards. Although I didn't watch conference on Saturday, I distinctly remember texting a cousin of mine that day who had the same calling as me. Planning a summer camp is one of the biggest tasks a Young Women's Presidency has to do and we were chatting about what each of our wards were thinking of doing. And for the first time since accepting my calling, I felt some anxiety and dread. I was 4 months pregnant at this point, I was going to be 7 and 8 months pregnant during the summer. But camp was important and I was committed and we were going to have fun dang it.

For some reason on Sunday I got it in my head that Jon would come out that morning to watch a session with the kids so he could play "Conference Bingo" with them. I even bought candy I knew he would like. Had he said he would? No, but I had told him he was welcome and assumed he'd jump on a chance to spend time with the kids. As 10 am rolled by with no sign of Jon, I did some snooping on "Find My Friends" and discovered he was doing hot yoga. Again, he never said he'd come, he didn't owe me squat, but this marked the beginning of feeling disappointed for things I had no right to be disappointed in.

Conference was what it usually is. Except this time felt like the first time my kids actually listened and grasped "Conference Bingo." We sat on the floor together with little bowls of candy and excited whispers whenever a word like "prophet" or "faith" was uttered. It was one of the those moments where you feel so sublimely happy to be the parent of such smart and good and kind kids, but also a little sad that this moment didn't look like how you envisioned it would when you were first married and having babies.

Now, it's a fact of life that when you watch General Conference with young children, you really don't hear much of the talks. There's shushing and potty breaks, scolding for eating too much candy, random questions to answer, etc. When it came time for the last speaker, President Russell M. Nelson, I made a point of telling the kids this was our Prophet, that this was the most important talk of the whole conference, that if they could listen and be quiet for one talk, this should be it. And they were.

Perhaps I'm speaking for myself when I say that usually after General Conference I feel like I've been gently scolded and lovingly encouraged to continue doing my best. If you were to ask me how I felt after listening to President Nelson's talk "Peacemakers Needed," I might tear up and tell you that it felt like he was speaking to me and that he was patting me on the shoulder and telling me I was doing a good job. Over the course of the past 3 months, I had so, SO many reasons to be angry, spiteful, and filled with contempt. Anyone would have agreed that I was justified to curse and yell, to kick and scream, to release a maelstrom of justified indignance. But I had chosen to sit. To be still. To be quiet. To be calm. And it irritated some people. I was urged to lash out. I was encouraged to take a stance, to make rash decisions, to reimburse pain. I didn't have a word for it while I weathered the storm, but I did now. I had been a peacemaker. I had done my best to make the pain, hurt, and contention stop at me.

The disappointment I had felt evaporated. Hearing that talk was such a blessing. That afternoon we went to my parent's house to watch the afternoon session and have dinner. My bishop contacted me between sessions asking to speak later that afternoon. When he came over I genuinely assumed he needed to talk to me about upcoming Young Women camp things and catch me up on Ward Council business since I had missed a meeting. I was dumbfounded when he kindly explained that he was releasing me from my beloved calling as Young Women's President. In an attempt to take an edge off the devastation I was trying to mask, he asked how I had enjoyed conference. I told him how President Nelson's talk had been a gift. That I felt seen and recognized.

After the bishop left, I found my mom in the kitchen with tears in her eyes. As soon as they saw the bishop, my parents knew I was being released. They knew how much I loved my calling. And like me, they knew that my release was an olive branch as my life was unravelling at the seams. That didn't make it hurt any less though. This marked the beginning of my circumstances changing in big ways, in ways that almost felt like I was being punished for Jon's actions. I was losing my calling, losing my church keys. Soon I'd be losing my sweet little home, losing the keys to my home. I had done nothing wrong, but I was losing all the things that I had loved so much.

I Would Do Anything For Love, But...

Eventually word began to spread about my situation. I was quickly overwhelmed by how lucky I am to be surrounded by good, loving people. Ironically, when Jon and I were newly married he had a very strong opinion that small towns were the worst. Everyone knows your business and everyone gossips. I mean, he wasn't wrong. But I didn't think he was right either. Yes, I was guilty of talking with my parents about the people in our orbit, but it was rarely malicious or judgmental. For the most part it was just a genuine interest in what was taking place in the lives of people I knew, questions I would ask someone in person if I bumped into them. Admittedly, there were times the conversation became more "gossipy," which was usually when someone made a freaking stupid, completely avoidable mistake... Perhaps Jon's words were a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Anyways, soon enough I became the very fortunate recipient of more love and service than I could fathom. I had friends hire a cleaner to come to my house twice a month. Another friend brought me more groceries than I had ever bought at once for our family in my entire life. Another friend brought me a pop and sat and visited with me. And another friend invited me over for dinner. I'm positive I'm missing many more acts of kindness, these are just what I managed to write about in my journal. If I missed anyone, I'm sorry! And still so grateful!

The night I went to a friend's house for dinner, Jon came out to Raymond and had dinner with the kids and put them to bed. When I got home from my Young Women's activity that night, Jon and I awkwardly danced around having a conversation.

"How are you doing?"

Not good. I told Graeme (his roommate) why we separated. He's really mad at me.

"I'm sorry."

Yeah, I'm worried he's going to kick me out.

"Shoot, I'm sorry."

Painfully awkward silence.

Have you thought at all about what you want?

"What do you mean?"

About maybe getting back together?

*Shocked and a bit speechless*

"Uhh, not really." - Meanwhile, what's going through my head is how much easier the last couple weeks have been without the mental gymnastics of keeping up appearances, waiting for him to change, waiting for an apology, etc.

I realized I needed to be honest, despite how hard it would be to say:

"I guess I don't really see us getting back together. I'm sorry."

And then it happened. After almost 3 months of deceit, indifference, and apathy towards our marriage, Jon finally showed remorse for his actions. And it was devastating.

As a parent, you're used to seeing your kids hurt. They get hurt physically and you comfort them. They get their feelings hurt and you hold them. You are constantly, day in and day out, rushing to the aid of your beloved children. Underneath it all you even know that it's good for them to encounter a little hardship and opposition here and there, but at the end of the day, you'd do ANYTHING to take away what ails them and make their life easier. What you don't see very often is your spouse in pain. Even after all the heartache Jon had put me through for the past 3 months, seeing him awash in regret and remorse was like a knife in my chest. Simply put, I still loved him, he had been my husband for almost 11 years. And I wanted to take that pain from him so badly, it hurt me to see him hurt. I guess Meat Loaf sums it up best, because I would have done anything for Jon in that moment, but I couldn't see us getting back together.

Fortunately the conversation doesn't last much longer as we're both now in tears. As Jon goes to leave, he turns back and utters his first sincere apology. And I believed him. He really was sorry. But it was too late.

After he left I started sobbing uncontrollably. All the pain I had felt up until this point seemed miniscule compared to this moment. And I couldn't bear it alone. I called my parents and they quickly came over to sit with me. To talk me through what I had just admitted to Jon. To help me hold up under an emotional burden I thought would crush me.

When I was finally composed, they said good night and I got myself in bed. Which is when I began to remember the night Jon refused to tell me he loved him. And how he had sat there and watched me weep. How? How could he do that? Because seeing him fall apart earlier that night had been more than I could bear. 

Finding Our New Normal

I'll admit my journaling gets a little hit and miss at this point. I was officially a single mom. I would compare that first week of becoming a single mom to the first week of having your first baby. You have no idea what you're doing, but you're shell-shocked and operating on pure adrenaline, so you're getting by. I apologize if my words aren't as well organized from this point forward. 

For the first few days after Jon moved out, he would drive back to Raymond in the evenings to see the kids and help with bedtime. After nearly a week of this I asked him to please stop, as this really wasn't sustainable and the kids needed to begin getting used to our new normal. Usually after he'd leave I'd spend another hour with my oldest girls. They would tearfully ask me why things had to be this way, why I couldn't forgive their dad, and why did dad break promises that made him have to leave. I chose to elaborate a little to our oldest, Sheriff, asking her what she knew about the promises you make when you marry someone. When you're married, should you kiss other people? Should you fall in love with other people? She answered with a stern "No!" To which I explained that these were things that her dad had done. After a pause, she asked again, "But can't you forgive him? I know he's sorry and he wouldn't do it again!" And then I broke her heart a little more, telling her how I had forgiven him once before when she was a newborn baby. 

These conversations killed me. How do you balance protecting the innocence of childhood and helping your kids make sense of what's happening? Why their world as they know it has broken into a place of despair and confusion? I honestly won't know if I handled things right until my kids are grown and look back on this time in their childhood. But if you're wondering what I did, it's this: I cried openly with them, I let them know how sad and hurt I was too; I acknowledged that I wished things were different too; and, despite not knowing what the true outcome would be yet, I made a conscious effort to never say anything that would give them the idea that mom and dad might get back together. And after a time of acknowledging our pain and grieving together those nights, I did my best to swing the conversation to something positive. What do you want to try? If you could do anything, what would it be? 

Which is how my kids ended up doing the most random, and admittedly expensive, extra-curricular activities that spring. Logan and Gibb did rock climbing (and Zuzu too, ha, we paid drop-in for her and she got to pretend she was in the class). Sheriff did horse riding. My parents often told me I was too soft of a mother, that I let my kids get away with too much. Little did they know, separating from Jon made me even softer. If I couldn't give my kids a home with a mother and father who stayed together, I would do everything in my power to give them anything else I could. 

Shortly after Jon moved out, it was Zuzu's birthday. By now, I had been pregnant long enough to share the news with the kids. I decided to do this by giving Zuzu a shirt that said "Big Sister" for her birthday. Unfortunately, I made the rookie mistake of putting the t-shirt in the same bag as her real, toy present. When she opened it, she literally grabbed the shirt and threw it over her shoulder. We had to stop her from digging the toy out of the bag and redirect her attention to the shirt. Even the older kids who could read were too preoccupied with seeing what was in the bag. After showing the kids what the shirt said, it still took them awhile to really grasp what we were trying to say. Eventually Logan caught on and the kids got what we were saying. "You're having a baby?!" It was the most underwhelming pregnancy announcement ever. 

Worth mentioning is the fact that Jon was still a (semi-) welcome guest at my parents house. Zuzu's birthday festivities happened at my mom and dad's. Jon sat at the table with us for dinner. In fact, I'm pretty sure he shared a Sunday dinner or two with us as well after he moved out. I owe my parents, especially my mom, a debt of gratitude for allowing this. From the very get-go all of my decisions have revolved around "what is best for my kids?" And that answer has always been helping facilitate a relationship with their dad and striving to have "normal" family time despite our "less-than-normal" circumstances. I realize now that what I asked of my family, to choose peace for the sake of my kids, was an incredibly big thing to demand. Although I may have been cut the deepest, they too were aching to see someone they loved be hurt. Yet I demanded that they ignore their pain and be around Jon for my kid's sake. I'm sorry I asked so much. But I'm so, so grateful you complied.

And then one week had passed. I had survived one whole week of being a single mom. Of working part-time, running a home, caring for kids, all the single mom things. And truth be told, it was the easiest week of the entire year. I mean no harm or offense in saying this, but it literally felt like I had one less kid to take care of. And I realize that I am partially to blame for that. Over the 10+ years of our marriage, I had become the type of partner that looks after their spouse like a child. Instead of asking for help, I had rationalized why Jon was too busy or couldn't do something as well as me, so I should just do it myself. Jon didn't just become this person, I helped him, heck, I might have even pushed him to it. And that's not healthy for a relationship. But in my defense, there had been times in the past that I tried to communicate grievances or hardships and Jon would just shut down. I had been conditioned to grin and bear it, because trying to talk through things was never worth the trouble and inevitable silent treatment.

HELL

Quite frankly, I don't know how to write about this without disassociating a little and robotically regurgitating what I remember. So, here goes nothing.

After telling Jon he needed to move out as soon as possible, he was able to reach out to a friend at school and secure a room in his apartment. He would be moving out the coming Thursday and Friday when he had spare time. Thus, on Monday, it was time to start preparations. After the kids were in bed, I had arranged to go speak with our landlord to let him and his wife know the state of affairs. Before I left, Jon got a little emotional. His actions and their consequences were suddenly clear and he began to realize there were things he would inevitably miss if he was no longer living with the kids and I. "When I was helping Zuzu get dressed this morning I realized one day she's just not going to need a pull-up anymore and I'm not going to be here for that," he said as tears ran down his face. I was crying too. This, THIS type of realization was what I waited so long for Jon to have. The understanding that his selfishness was going to cost him dearly. But it never came until it was too late, and even then, I don't believe this dawning on him earlier would have been enough to convince him to fight for our marriage. He had convinced himself so thoroughly that he was unhappy with me, that he couldn't see how happy he was with his kids. 

As Jon and I stood in the kitchen wiping tears from our cheeks, our oldest two daughters wandered in and were alarmed to see both mom and dad crying. Oh, it's nothing! Don't worry about it. We'll explain a little later. Go back to bed. I can't imagine the amount of trepidation that filled their sweet hearts after seeing something like that, but they obeyed. After that I drove to the landlord's house. I had tears already streaming down my face as I knocked at their door. They quickly whisked me into another room and both husband and wife sat with me. I managed to choke out that Jon had cheated, that we were separating, that he was moving out, that I would be moving in with my parents eventually. They were shocked, speechless, and tears streamed down the other woman's face as well. There was a small silver lining to this though. My landlord also happened to be a very good friend and the Stake President, the church leader that presides over all the Latter-day Saints in Raymond and the surrounding area. He offered me a priesthood blessing which I gratefully accepted. Not a day has gone by that I have not felt the strength and power that that blessing endowed me with. 

Some other preparations included speaking to the Principal at my children's school. I gave him a heads up even before my kids found out. It was important to me that their teachers be aware of their pain and struggles and that they have access to the school counsellor. I also sat down with my boss. My work at the junior high started at 7am two days a week. Without Jon in the home to get the kids on the bus, I wouldn't be able to get to work that early. Both principals were kind and understanding.

On Tuesday my daughters were still curious about the night before, asking why Jon and I had been crying. Again, we tried to soothe them into not worrying about it, that they would find out soon enough as we had decided to tell them the night before Jon moved. After putting my kids to bed, I went to a friend's house. I was bawling before I even arrived as it dawned on me while driving that I had just experienced the last "normal" bedtime with my kids before their hearts would be broken and their worlds changed. I'm grateful to have spent this evening with friends who opened their ears and arms to my pain.

And then it was Wednesday. Perhaps I haven't encountered enough pain in my life to accurately gauge things, but this was without a doubt the most painful, devastating night of my life. My daughter's curiosity was killing them by this point. We reassured them we would tell them at bed time. I'm fairly certain Jon and I were both crying by the time pajamas were on, teeth were brushed, and prayers were said. We sat in the basement living room of our house, the floor was littered with toys. I sat on one side of the room, Jon on the other. And then we broke their hearts. Dad is moving out. He's going to live in Lethbridge. He has broken important promises and has to leave.

I'm trying so hard not to feel things while I type, to be the robot I said I would. I've said before that I've forgiven Jon, but maybe that is inaccurate. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive him for making me face this moment in my life, where we ended a small portion of the ignorance and delight of our kid's childhoods. This hour or so of a Wednesday evening in March will forever be my most personal version of Hell. Everyone cried, everyone except Zuzu. She played with the toys while our words and new reality floated blissfully over her head. Occasionally she would ask a question, she was upset that dad was leaving, but really didn't grasp the reality of that. As for the older three kids, they alternated between Jon and I. Sheriff came to me BEGGING me to forgive Jon and let him stay. Logan clung to Jon for dear life and choked out through tears that she wished this was a dream, that she wished this wasn't real. Gibb begged his dad not to go, to stay. I may never understand how Jon didn't foresee that all of his actions were leading to this very moment. And it was all avoidable. I had waited as long as I did, I let him hurt me and crush me as long as he did so I could prevent that night from happening. 

There have been times where I'll flashback to this night with such vivid recollection that it feels like I'm back in that basement. My chest will get tight like someone is sitting on me and my eyes will fill with tears before I even realize what's happening. Is this what is referred to as a panic attack? PTSD?

We let the kids skip school the next day. My sweet Sheriff set to work making a list of all the things we needed to do as a family one last time before Dad moved out. Unfortunately, Jon was so busy packing that he only participated in half of one activity. I honestly can't remember what else we did that day. Jon came back to help with bedtime, but after leaving I remained in Sheriff and Logan's room for at least an hour trying to console them through my own tears. On Friday my parents had the kids and I sleep over so they could help me with bedtime. Gibb had been holding up okay, but after not seeing Jon really at all that day he broke. Instead of tears, he rampaged for an hour. He screamed, he threw things, he hit me, he yelled at me. And I stayed with him and just took it, stopping him from wrecking anything or really hurting me, but staying until his anger turned to anguish. When he finally calmed down I held him as he broke and admitted that he was so, so sad and missed his dad so much. I cried with him. I cried a lot with my kids.

Let There Be Light

Mid-Marchish last year I took a trip to Calgary with the kids while Jon stayed home to study. My sister Hannah was visiting from Tofino, so we spent time with her and the kids had fun with their cousins. I was so spoiled the entire time I was up there. Jon's sisters watched my kids so I could spend time with my sisters. We shopped, we ate out, we visited. My mind was distracted. I even got a massage, it was so wonderful I fell asleep during it and woke myself up when I snored. When it was finally time to drive home we were all tired from playing so hard for two days. I texted Jon to let him know we were on our way. He let me know he was going to a friend's house in Lethbridge, but would be home when we got there so he could help me put the kids to bed.

As I made the trek back to Raymond, I texted Jon two more times to let him know where we were. We just turned onto the Granum road. We're passing through Lethbridge now. We also had each other on "Find My Friends," so I was sure he'd be keeping track on that too. As I got closer to home and watched him on "Find My Friends," I began to realize he wasn't going to beat us there. In fact, he wasn't moving at all. Fortunately, my mom and sister came home with me to help unload four exhausted and grumpy kids and get them ready for bed. 

It's hard to describe what I felt at that moment, as I wrestled my sleepy babies from the van, into their pajamas, into their beds. As they cried because it was uncomfortable to be woken up and taken from the warm van. As they asked me where their Dad was. As I could feel how angry my mom and sister were for me while they helped. As I kept looking at a stupid blue dot on my phone that refused to move and acknowledge where it should have been. I probably felt every emotion you could imagine: anger, disappointment, frustration, self-pity, and more.

It wasn't until after the kids were in bed and my mom and sister gone that Jon texted me. He had missed my texts, he was sorry, he was on his way home. Half an hour later he sheepishly walked through door, apologizing that he didn't get home in time to help. By then I was half numb, but knew we needed to talk. I told him he hadn't given me any sign that he wanted our marriage to work. His response infuriated me: "You haven't either." And there it was. The indignation, the fury, the wrath of a woman more than slighted, thawed from the permafrost of courtesy and etiquette. 

What happened next could best be described as a monologue; I wish the words that flowed from my mouth could have been transcribed for me to read over again and again. I told Jon it wasn't my job to let him know I wanted to stay married, I wasn't the one who had messed up. I hadn't wandered, he had. I was offering him an olive branch all this time to step up, to step back in, while he had been vainly waiting for me to beg him or something, who knows. I listed all the ways he could have let me know, all the ways he could have made amends, and he didn't. You could have apologized, you could have shown remorse. You could have deleted What's App, deleted her number, quit messaging her. You could have asked your clinical instructor to change your cohort so you wouldn't be around her. But you did NOTHING. I asked him if she had been at his friends. "Yes." Did you know she would be there? "Yes."

That was the last straw. There was the light. I had told him he could wait until the end of the semester to move out, but now he needed to leave ASAP. And the monologue continued. I told him we were pretty well passed the point of reconciling. That he had chosen the wrong thing over and OVER again. He could have stopped and made things right when I told him I was pregnant. But he kept cheating. He could have stopped when he saw how devastated and hurt I was when he wouldn't tell me he loved me. But he kept making the wrong choice. He could have stopped when I patiently and kindly talked to him when I found out he had a crush on someone, when I encouraged him to "get out of Vancouver." But he kept making the wrong choice. And even now, that night when I needed his help to unpack and put kids to bed, he made the wrong choice again. And he was speechless as per usual.

The Atonement

As I continued to "sit in the dark," waiting for a direction or any kind of inspiration, I could feel myself beginning to lean towards the direction of divorce. Instead of being relieved that my gut was finally telling me something, I found myself wondering why the scales weren't being tipped in the other direction. Why didn't I feel like repairing my marriage was the right thing to do? And because I'm a deep thinker, this triggered a whole Rube Goldberg mental machine of questions until I found myself asking the biggest question of all:

Do I not believe in the Atonement of Jesus Christ?

I'm fairly certain the majority of my readers are members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but if there's someone who has ventured here and isn't, allow me to explain.

I am a stout and steadfast believer in and follower of Jesus Christ. I have a testimony in the reality of His existence and that He lives, even now, as a resurrected being. I believe in the miracles He has performed and continues to perform. I strive daily to emulate His example of love and kindness. Teaching my children about Jesus and how to be like Jesus is my life's biggest priority. I am humbled by the magnificent gift of His Atonement and believe that because He died for me, I am able to be perfected in Him. Not yet on this earth, but each week as I partake of His sacrament I am given the divine gift of renewal, a fresh start, a clean slate. Unfortunately, because I'm human, I mess up. I yell at my kids, I swear under my breath, I think something unkind. But each and every week that I remember Him and take the sacrament, I get another chance to do my best. To begin again. To forgive myself. To try to do better. I believe all of this and I'm immensely grateful for it. As a recovering perfectionist, it is such a breath of fresh air to be able to accept Jesus' grace and offer the same to myself. It's okay to not be perfect, it's okay to try again. I am greedy for forgiving myself and getting a fresh start. Which brings us back to my dilemma: If I believe in forgiving myself and fresh starts through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, doesn't the same apply to my marriage? Do I not believe that I can forgive Jon and we can begin again? That my heart can be healed and made new?

The answers to those questions were incredibly complicated. Yes, I believed I could forgive Jon, I had done it once before. But no, I could never, ever see myself loving him with the same naive and reckless abandon that I had over a decade ago, or the same seasoned, calm, contented love I had come to know as we worked side by side to raise a family and build a life together. He was no longer a safe place for me. Yes, I believed my heart could be healed. But no, it could never be put fully in his hands again. The reality of my situation was beginning to dawn on me. No matter what forgiveness or healing I could find through the Atonement, I would be insecure, guarded, and hesitant with Jon for the foreseeable future.

In addition to these complicated yes-no answers, there was other rhetoric fogging my mind with confusion. My aunt I spoke to on Valentine's Day told me about forgiveness. About a woman who had forgiven her husband. About the Tutsi people of Rwanda who had survived the genocide and forgiven the very people who had killed their loved ones and families. What was I lacking if I couldn't comprehend the sort of forgiveness that enabled others to remain steadfast in their situations?

These weren't just passing thoughts. They weighed on me heavily. I'd cry trying to talk through my thoughts with my parents. I'd cry as I read my scriptures or wrote in my journal. It wasn't until I spoke with my Bishop that these thoughts were quieted.

I'm sure everyone thinks this, but I really do have the best Bishop. He checked in with me often. His family welcomed my kids over with open arms. Although it seemed like every time I sat down in his office I'd just cry and mumble, I really did leave feeling more direction and peace than when I entered. After explaining to him my confusion and doubts regarding saving my marriage, the atonement, and forgiveness, he made some really powerful points. First, that I don't need to reopen myself up again to be hurt to truly forgive someone. And second, just because divorce is the last choice I want to make, it's still not a wrong choice. I finally realized that Jesus never meant for His Atonement to be the reason someone continues to put themselves in a situation that hurts them time and time again. I can still believe in forgiveness and being made new AND protect myself.

That afternoon I left my Bishop's office with my doubts and fears quieted. If I had to pinpoint a moment where I realized that I was likely going to get a divorce, this was it. The light was beginning to appear. And less than a week later, Jon would do something that pushed me towards it.

Sitting in the Dark

Not a lot changed following Jon's revelations that Valentine's Day week. At least outwardly. Inwardly, I was navigating life like a person who has survived a bomb going off. You know how they portray that in movies? The high-pitch ringing, teetering camera angles, muffled speaking or sounds in the background, unrecognizable bursts of light? It was like that. Ultimately, I was the one who had to determine what was going to happen next. But I had no idea what to do. So I chose to "sit in the dark."

Sitting in the dark meant accepting there simply was no direction at that time, that I had no clue what to do. So often in life we're expected to make these kneejerk decisions, especially ones where emotions are running high. If you or a loved one are deeply offended, you need to strike back instantly. You're expected to almost lash out. But that just isn't me. I'm not an impulsive person. So I continued to live each day as if nothing had changed, all while waiting for a light to appear and lead me out of the dark. I figured there were two different lights that could appear, and by "light" I mean a future I could imagine happening. Because at that point I really couldn't imagine anything beyond surviving in that status-quo, fugue state of pretending nothing had happened.

There were two different "lights," almost like opposing ends of a tunnel, I waited on while sitting motionless in the dark middle. At one end, the light that would lead me out of the dark would be a life where I moved forward with forgiveness, reparations, counselling, and remaining married. At the other end, the light would be moving forward with separation, divorce, and single parenthood. Until either one of those lights began to shine, I let myself become comfortable in the dark. Here are some things that happened while I sat in the dark:

> I waited for Jon to make an ounce of effort. There had been no apologies, no signs of remorse. He did begin speaking with a counsellor, so good for him on that, but by and large Jon was a case study in apathy. I recall one time speaking with him and trying to make sense of his actions. He told me, "I thought our marriage was over," as if we had both been on the same page and it justified what he had done. Every so often after our kids were in bed, he would broach the subject of, "Have you decided what you want?" I can't begin to express how big of a mindf**k that question was. It makes my blood boil now just remembering it. There I was, nursing a broken heart, running a home, caring for kids, providing the only income, and now it also fell on me to determine the outcome of our eternal marriage. Well gee Jon, I wanted you to stay faithful. It was all up to me to make a massive decision while Jon remained apathetic and not showing a vested interest in remaining married. I mentioned that I couldn't make a decision because I had no idea if he wanted in or not, to which he neither confirmed nor denied. I'm under the impression that he perceived doing the bare minimum of continuing to exist in the same home as me and the kids meaning he was willing to entertain staying if I told him that's what I wanted. But that wasn't enough, so I waited and waited, giving him chance after chance to redeem himself. One of our last "have you decided what you want" conversations I snapped in a way. I told him I was waiting for him to show a sign he wanted to remain married, and then I listed a bunch of ways he could have shown it: you could actually delete her from your phone, quit messaging her; you could ask to be switched out of her clinical group at school; you could apologize and show remorse. To which he said nothing and continued to do nothing. He would later attribute this to being mentally unwell, which I frankly find offensive to people who have or do actually struggle with mental illness. Like myself, the spouse who was diagnosed with depression yet never once ever entertained ideas of infidelity. There's a difference between being mentally and morally unwell.

> I spoke with a beloved cousin who also happened to be a counsellor. After summarizing my situation and answering some of her questions, she began to explain how things that I had just accepted as Jon's idiosyncrasies were actually forms of abuse. I shudder to write that word though. There's a spectrum of abuse and I rightfully reserve the word to more accurately define the unfathomable acts of verbal, physical, or sexual abuse. But what I had accepted to just be parts of my marriage were actually forms of emotional abuse. Stonewalling, or the "silent treatment," in particular. For years, whenever I tried to have difficult conversations or bring up grievances I would be met with the silent treatment, which would last until I couldn't take it anymore and apologized to Jon for bringing up whatever I had. This in turn conditioned me to keep things to myself because whatever I felt or had to say honestly wasn't worth the inevitable silent treatment. 

> I brought on another emotional pallbearer. While walking laps of a church, I shared the sorry state of affairs with a friend. She was horrified. I still had no idea what I was going to do and I asked her, "Is it even possible to stay married after two affairs?" To which she responded that she actually knew a couple that was still together even after more than one affair. And me being me, a comparative and competitive lunatic, took this to mean that if someone else can do it, then so can I! Mind you, that was all me - at no point did my friend make it seem like I should because someone else she knew did.

> I woke up one night to Jon touching my waist. It repulsed me. I shifted out of his touch and gently pushed him back over to his side of the bed. Yes, this entire time we continued to sleep in the same bed. When you go to sleep at vastly different times and share a king size mattress, this is feasible. Another day Jon texted me asking if I ever thought of being intimate with him because he was "struggling." I was speechless. I guess this meant he was no longer having romantic rendezvous on campus, but how in the heck was I supposed to feel drawn to someone who had hurt me so badly and done nothing to repair our relationship?

> I visited my sisters. As I've said before, sisters want blood. If there was anyone whose own remorse and pain came close to my own through this ordeal, it was my mom and sisters. I was strongly urged to kick Jon out, to throw all his belongings out the door. One sister even offered to pay movers to come and take all of his stuff away and change the locks. I was chastised for not doing anything, for letting Jon continue to make a fool out of me. There were tears. One sister even excused herself with, "Being around you right now isn't good for my mental health." Later that day I revealed to the remaining sister my motive for being slow to act. We both couldn't help but laugh at how messed up it was that I was pregnant. When the other sister learned about this factor, she became more understanding of my impulse control.

> I eventually came to the conclusion that Jon needed to move out. And like the kind and thoughtful wife I was, I said he needed to find a new place to live when his current semester of school ended. Because what kind of wife would kick her unfaithful husband out while he was in school? 

> Another night I woke up to see that Jon had fallen asleep with his phone still on. In all of our almost 11 years of marriage, Jon had always been open about what his passcode was to unlock his phone. Now it was a secret. As I navigated away from the video he fell asleep watching, I realized he had installed the "screen time" app blocker, something he had never used before. This still didn't deter me, as I knew I could open his blocked messaging apps for one minute. Except, sometime between his blocker turning on and then he had already opened those apps for one minute. I was truly blocked from seeing anything. He was still truly keeping secrets. As a last resort, I decided to look at his texts. What I found was an exchange between him and his sister. He was lamenting what his life would be like if we ended up separated or divorced. His sister's response was damning. 

We All Start Out Knowing Magic

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I know I said I was done this week, but I just remembered another story from this week I want to document. 

While speaking with my aunt on Valentine's Day, she mentioned a couple whose marriage had survived a spell of infidelity. I knew them, but who I really knew was the sister of the wife in that marriage. In fact, she was a good friend and we worked together.

I don't recall exactly what day, but sometime that Valentine's Day week I found my friend in the Junior High School staff room. I honestly had no idea how to broach the subject ("Hey! So your brother-in-law cheated on your sister, eh? How'd that go?), so I didn't think I would. In any case, I was happy to sit a moment and just have some company.

My friend was getting ready to teach a class on writing (she's a beautiful writer, I loved wandering into her classroom during the lunch hour and reading any examples she had slapped on the whiteboard). She had prepared a handout with a segment from the book "Boy's Life" by Robert McCammon to help them see how storytelling can be lyrical, beautiful, more than just getting a reader from point A to B. Since she was busy, I knew now probably wasn't a good time for a conversation so I asked if I could read the handout. This is what I read:

"I wanted to set my memories down on paper, where I can hold them. You know, I do believe in magic. I was born and raised in a magic time, in a magic town, among magicians. Oh, most everybody else didn't realize we lived in that web of magic, connected by the silver filaments of chance and circumstance. But I knew it all along. When I was twelve years old, the world was my magic lantern, and by its green spirit glow I saw the past, the present, and into the future. You probably did, too; you just don't recall it. See, this is my opinion: we all start out knowing magic. We are born with whirlwinds, forest fires, and comets inside us. We are born able to sing to birds and read the clouds and see our destiny in grains of sand. But then we get the magic educated right out of our souls. We get it churched out, spanked out, washed out, and combed out. We get put on the straight and narrow and told to be responsible. Told to act our age. Told to grow up, for God's sake. And you know why we were told that? Because the people doing the telling were afraid of our wildness and youth, and because the magic we knew made them ashamed and sad of what they'd allowed to wither in themselves.

"After you go so far away from it, though, you can't really get it back. You can have seconds of it. Just seconds of knowing and remembering. When people get weepy at movies, it's because in that dark theater the golden pool of magic is touched, just briefly. Then they come out into the hard sun of logic and reason again and it dries up, and they're left feeling a little heartsad and not knowing why. When a song stirs a memory, when motes of dust turning in a shaft of light takes your attention from the world, when you listen to a train passing on a track at night in the distance and wonder where it might be going, you step beyond who you are and where you are. For the briefest of instants, you have stepped into the magic realm.

"That's what I believe.

"The truth of life is that every year we get farther away from the essence that is born within us. We get shouldered with burdens, some of them good, some of them not so good. Things happen to us. Loved ones die. People get in wrecks and get crippled. People lose their way, for one reason or another. It's not hard to do, in this world of crazy mazes. Life itself does its best to take that memory of magic away from us. You don't know it's happening until one day you feel you've lost something but you're not sure what it is. It's like smiling at a pretty girl and she calls you "sir." It just happens."

I don't think I made it to the end of the first paragraph before the tears started to fall. I didn't know the words to describe it, but I too have always believed in magic. My patriarchal blessing describes me as "having an exuberance for life." I love it here, and I've done my best to carry what little magic remained from my childhood into my parenting and adult life. But there I was, every day that year getting "... farther away from the essence that is born within us." My magic had been stripped and broken down into something unrecognizable. I didn't even realize it until I read that. I was in survival mode and I didn't know if I would ever feel the magic again.

Imagine my friend's surprise when she looked up to ask if I liked it and she found me with tears running down me face. Part of me thought I could pretend I was crying because it was such a beautiful passage, fortunately I was saved from playing the fool when my friend asked, "Oh no! What's wrong?" And I just went for it, "How did your sister and brother-in-law stay married?" 

Truthfully, I don't really remember a lot of the conversation that followed. I summarized the state of affairs in my marriage. I explained how my aunt mentioned her sister as the gold standard to follow. She shared how hard it was as a sister to watch her endure that pain and remain faithful (there's something about sisters I tell ya, they want blood). I took two things away from our conversation:

1. The transgressing spouse has to have a massive change of heart. They have to want back in. They have to also choose to repair the marriage.

2. The importance of emotional "pallbearers." You never see a casket being dragged to the final resting place by one person. I don't think the task can even realistically be accomplished by less than four people for a deceased adult. All I did was talk with a friend for roughly 10 minutes and the figurative coffin of my dying marriage felt more bearable. There was nothing she could do for me besides listen, maybe pray, but just by her knowing what I was going through, I felt lighter. We really aren't meant to carry heavy emotional loads alone, just like a casket cannot be transported by a single person. At this point going forward, I began to slowly invite loving friends and family members to be pallbearers to the heartbreaking burden I was carrying. I'm so, so grateful to the people in my circle who stood beside me, took a handle, and made my burden lighter.

Where Things Get Hazy

As you can tell, a lot happened this week one year ago. And quite frankly, I'm not having a lot of fun writing it all out. But it has been good for me. Writing is so cathartic. I'll admit that I had been craving the release of writing about all this for quite sometime, probably since last summer. But I couldn't bring myself to put things into words because I knew how poorly Jon would be portrayed. Despite everything, I felt like I needed to protect him. I needed to make his life easier. I needed to keep him happy. For so long his negative behaviors dictated my actions. So even while he was actively hurting me and destroying our marriage, even after we had separated, I couldn't detach myself from that way of thinking and acting. Today, if you tried to talk crap about Jon with me, I probably wouldn't engage. I would smile and let you say what you want. Probably nod and half-heartedly agree. But still, deep down there is this urge to placate him, even when I really owe him nothing. 

I have tried really hard to write factually and not emotionally. It is not my goal to make you hate my soon-to-be ex-husband. If anything, please realize I am entrusting you with something almost sacred. My darkest moments and the burning, white hot coals of my refining fire. If even I can say I have forgiven him, I expect only "he that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone." Jon will be a part of my life in its entirety. For my kids' sake, I demand that he is treated with the same dignity you grant a stranger. No child deserves to see their parent spat upon and scorned. My children have been robbed of some of their innocence throughout this ordeal, I ask that they be the ones who come to terms with the details of their parents marriage ending when they are adult enough to read this blog and ask their dad some hard questions. 

With all that being said, this is the part where things get hazy. At the beginning of 2023 I was determined to start journaling regularly again. Ironically, for the first time in years, I was writing daily in a journal at the same time that my world came crashing down. If you've found yourself wondering how I could remember things so well, that's why. At this point my entries became understandably sporadic. So, to ease the burden of blogging with so much detail and summarize what happened next, I'm going to bullet point things. I need a break.

> The day after Valentine's, I found the gumption to ask Jon to let me look through his phone. I found deleted texts, which included I love you's, and a deleted screenshot of an Instagram post. The picture was of her with her boyfriend, one of those obligatory Valentine's Day posts. I asked Jon what that was about, did it upset him that she posted that? He told me that he had called things off, that it was over, he broke up with her on Valentine's Day in the afternoon. Honestly, to this day, I don't know what to believe and Jon didn't offer up much else. This is incredibly confusing, because it was that night, Valentine's Day evening, that Jon told me the thought of a future with this girl excited him. Truthfully, if Jon had told me more in explanation of how things "ended", I probably wouldn't have believed him. This is the point where I began to not believe a single thing he said.

> Since Jon had "broken up" with the other woman, I found myself suddenly at a loss. On Valentine's Day it was easy to start telling myself that we were getting a divorce. He dreamed of a future with someone else! But hearing that he was no longer "with" her made me assume he probably didn't want to leave anymore. And if he didn't want to leave, then what? Correct - it was my job to make him happy and take care of him. 

> My oldest daughter Sheriff's baptism was scheduled for that Saturday. At that point in time, only my parents and sisters knew about the dumpster fire happening in the Ruiz home. There was a part of me that genuinely thought we could all put on happy faces for her as we gathered Jon's family and mine. My mom pointed out how unfair it was to my family that we had to pretend to be happy just for the sake of Jon's family. That they deserved to know too. I told Jon he needed to tell his parents and sisters. Following that it was easy to realize that postponing Sheriff's baptism was in the best interest of everyone.

> I FaceTimed my parents one last time before they came home. I said I needed to tell them something and then started bawling. My mom guessed it - "You're pregnant." And my answer was, "I'm so screwed." Mom, Dad, I know you're reading this. I'm sorry for ruining your Arizona trip last February. I'm pretty sure my mom cried in Arizona just as much as I did back home. She at least had a pool to cry beside. I'm lucky I have the parents that I do because that call ended with them reassuring me that I have nothing to worry about. That they would look after me and my kids. And they have ever since.

> My sister texted asking if her name was Marissa. I replied with, "Yes, it is, but please don't message her. Leave her alone." And in my heart of hearts I truly believed that simple request would be respected. I must have forgot that saying about how Hell hath no fury like a woman... whose sister has been cheated on. An hour or so later, Jon marched into the room I was sitting in and chewed me out for telling our sisters Marissa's name. It took me a second to even remember that I had confirmed it, and before I could even really compute what was happening, I was apologizing. "I'm sorry! I told them not to message her! I didn't think they would." Followed up with, "Tell Marissa I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to happen." The irony of this situation is suddenly hitting me as I type this. I apologized to the other woman.

Valentine's Day 2023

Valentine's Day is a doozy to navigate when it comes two days after your husband admits to an affair. Honestly though, I had a good day. It was around 8pm that night that my heart started to break. I needed to talk to someone, anyone. I needed a hug. I felt a loneliness and despair I had never felt before. One of the hardest parts about this whole unravelling was how my parents were in Arizona. I've never asked Jon, but part of me wonders if he intentionally waited until my parents were gone to spill the beans because it was easier for him. It made things monumentally harder for me.

I was at a youth activity that night and as it drew closer to ending, I began to panic. I didn't want to go home to Jon. I didn't want to keep the Bishop away from his wife any longer than he had been. I tried to see if a friend at the church wasn't busy and could talk, but she was swamped with her own activity stuff. And so I got in my van and just drove. Drove with tears in my eyes wishing I had anyone who could help shore up all the hurt I felt inside.

My aimless driving took me to my Aunt and Uncle's house. They had been my second parents growing up, their home my second home. I broke down to my aunt and got a hug. And then I got advice. She spoke of reconciliation. Told me about another couple and how they had managed to keep their marriage intact through similar circumstances. Encouraged me to go to the temple and that Heavenly Father would tell me what to do - that Heavenly Father wants families to stay together. Truthfully, at this moment in time I was beginning to accept that divorce was my best option, it was clearly what Jon wanted and it's what I had told him would happen if this happened again. So hearing this advice was disorienting. 

Eventually I drove home. Jon greeted me with asking how my aunt and uncle were, since we had "Find My Friends" on our phones. What came next was wildly different from every other conversation Jon and I had up to this point. He did most of the talking. He told me how the things he used to look forward to with excitement in our marriage, things we'd do together, he now dreamed of with her - that a future with her excited him. He said how me taking care of everything was actually not good, I should have let him take care of things too because he's also an oldest child and likes to take care of people. And he brought up something the professor said in the psychology class we took together as newly weds. Remember how he said that an oldest marrying and oldest is the least compatible marriage? Yeah, I get that now. I sat there listening to him justify all the ways that our marriage couldn't work. When he finally ran out of reasons, the only thing I could think to say was, "Our marriage is dead." I then added, "You are the bad guy in this situation. No matter how this story gets told, you are the bad guy. When are kids are old enough, they will find out that you are the bad guy." And then I left the room.

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The Years Between

It might be easy to assume that all the years between the two stories in my last post were sad and hard. This was not the case. In terms of punctuation, Jon's infidelity in 2014 and then nine years later in 2023 were not an opening and closing set of brackets that held years of heartache and hardship in between. They were more like "periods". The affair in 2014 ended a blissfully unaware stage of our marriage for me. But a new sentence followed. I forgave, but I also gave myself space to grieve and always openly communicated with Jon when any moments of insecurity took hold of me. The new sentence was different, but it was still the story of what I thought was a happy marriage. When it happened again in 2023, it took me a long time to decide if another sentence would follow, or a new paragraph. But I'll get to more on that later.

When I say that I forgave Jon, I mean it to the fullest extent of the word. And I mean that I did it both times; I've forgiven him for the second transgression as well. The best way I can describe forgiving a spouse for being unfaithful is through a hiking analogy. Because who doesn't love hiking?

So, we're all on this great big hike called life and it is awesome and amazing. Sometimes it's all uphill and hard, sometimes there are breathtaking views, and sometimes it's as fun and easy as sliding down a great stretch of trail on snow. And then sometimes, for the sake of the analogy, you're handed a giant boulder to carry. These giant boulders are handed to you when you've been hurt by another person, whether it's infidelity, betrayal, abuse, etc. Now the hike doesn't feel very fun because you're stuck carrying this immense burden on top of the already taxing journey of your hike. So you have a choice: you can keep carrying the boulder or you can set it down, take a picture of it, and continue on your hike. The people who choose to carry their boulders aren't very fun to be around. They like to tell you how heavy it is, how rude it was for so-and-so to hand it to them, or maybe even brag about how strong they are for carrying it around. The people who take a picture of the boulder and leave it behind are happier. Because the boulder isn't taking up all their attention and energy, they're able to move forward faster and further. Sometimes though, when the trail gets tough or they're contemplating how far they've come, they might pull out that picture for a minute to remember: That was a hard boulder to carry, I remember when so-and-so handed it to me. If so-and-so is still on the same trail, they might show them the picture too. Not to hang it over their head though - if they're marching around waving the picture for everyone to see they might as well still be carrying the boulder - but to say, Remember? This hurt. Please don't hurt me again.

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So when I say I forgave Jon, I mean I set that boulder down and took a picture of it. I let go of any feelings of resentment and anger, but I still allowed myself to grieve and I spoke openly with Jon as I did so. Jon also actively sought my forgiveness. He was apologetic and remorseful. He stayed by my side. Slowly but surely my heart healed, and slowly but surely our relationship was nursed back to health by the both of us. What followed were some of the best, but hardest, years of my life. We had three more babies together. We relished parenting and spending time with our kids. We moved to southern Alberta. We eventually moved out of my parents house into a little farm house of our own. We went on the greatest road trip to Tofino. But we also navigated Jon going back to school. Jon searching for jobs. Ups and downs in my mental health. Jon unsuccessfully applying to medical school. Me navigating a hard year of babysitting. Me serving a big calling. And Jon tearing his Achilles tendon. 

Throughout these years, there were a small handful of times that I grew anxious, that I brought the picture out and talked to Jon. The most recent time was shortly after Jon began nursing school. After a summer spent healing his Achilles tendon, Jon was finally cleared to exercise again and he did so with a vengeance. It wasn't a good day unless he had worked out twice. Weights and a swim. Weights and a run. And then there were all these new people he was suddenly best friends with. I'm planning laser tag for my class. I'm going out to eat with my class. What I had initially perceived as excitement for forward momentum and new found confidence, I began to see as Jon changing. On a rare night where we were both going to bed at the same time, I confided in Jon that I was feeling insecure. That I worried I would be set aside and hurt again. Jon quickly dismissed this, I promised I would never do that again. I love you and the kids too much.

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2014

I'm 25 and pregnant with our first child. Jon and I are expecting a girl at the end of June. Both of us have finished our degrees; mine in Recreation, Jon's in accounting. I work the opening shift as a Team Lead at the Mount Royal University pool, Jon works as a Registries Agent. The tumultuous beginning of our marriage has levelled into smooth sailing, my depression is treated and I'm thriving, we're thriving. We're making friends, a co-worker of Jon's had us over for dinner and games not too long ago. Pooja made the most delicious curried chicken and she gave me a beautiful anklet from India, where her and her husband are from. Life is good.

Except I'm growing uncomfortable with how often Jon communicates with Pooja on an app called "Snapchat." What do you even talk about? He shows me a picture he took of the kitchen counter with a finger-scrawled smiley face and "Hi!" written across the screen. It seems harmless enough, but why not text? Why even message a co-worker outside of work? I know Jon would lose it if I messaged a male co-worker the way he does with Pooja, he's even told me he's afraid I'm cheating on him with a guy from work. So despite my reservations, I let it go. When you're the spouse that almost destroyed your marriage with your poor mental health, you'll do anything to make amends and keep the peace.

Eventually I reach my breaking point. Blame it on the pregnancy hormones; my discomfort has reached a place where I need to say something. I calmly communicate that I'm uncomfortable with how often he messages Pooja, I'm uncomfortable with their relationship in general. Jon dismisses everything I say, I'm stupid to have tried to speak to him about this while he was gaming. I leave and cry. Fortunately, Jon clues in and finds me, sees my tears and comforts me. I'm so sorry, I promise I'll delete Snapchat. Nothing is more important to me than you. I'm grateful, I'm mollified, I'm in love.

The due date is near, I go to stay with my parents since I'll be delivering in the Raymond hospital. Jon stays behind a few more days for work. When he finally arrives it's with a giant bouquet of roses in hand. I'm so excited for you to have our baby. I'm happy, I'm excited.

I'm a mother. Labor drags on into the early hours of the morning, between contractions I look over at Jon and ask him if he is okay. Our little girl is here, we are a family of three. Those first couple days of motherhood are a blur; I stare at my baby, I'm careful with my tender body, and I'm filled with joy and gratitude. 

My baby is three days old and we have a family reunion to attend. We're still at my parents and they have a cistern, water is to be conserved. Jon and I hop into the shower together, I barely recognize my body. Everything hurts, everything sags. And soon, everything is anguish. Jon chooses this moment to tell me that he didn't stop messaging Pooja. That he actually download Snapchat again and kept it hidden on his phone. That eventually they started sending each other pictures of their bodies. That she kissed him at work. That his boss could even tell that something was happening and told him to, "Think about Kristen."

I am ugly crying, sobs wracking my body. I can no longer stand, I sit in the tub as the shower continues to run. Jon is crying too, repeating again and again that he is so sorry. That he never meant to hurt me. My family can hear me, they're knocking on the door trying to shout over the sound of the shower, "Kristen? Is everything okay?"

The joy of new motherhood is muted now. My happy misty eyes have been replaced, tears stream down my face as I struggle to bear another pain. I'd rather have given birth twice, physical pain I can handle. This new pain of betrayal, a broken heart and crushed spirit, is crippling. Somehow I find the strength to tell Jon that if this ever happens again, I will take our baby and leave. Through tears he swears it will never, ever happen again. He loves me and our new baby too much to lose us.

2023

Life is still heavy at the moment due to our marital issues, but I am confident and optimistic that Jon will choose me and our family. Jon will "get out of Vancouver." It's the Sunday before Valentine's Day. I have a Ward Council meeting to get to, Jon will stay behind and finish getting himself and the kids ready for church. We're both standing in our bedroom and I need to leave soon when Jon says he needs to tell me something. Remember how I told you I have a crush on a classmate? There's more I didn't tell you. And by "more," he means he lied to me.

It's more than a crush. We've kissed. We sext. We make out in study rooms at the U of L. She's 22 years old.

I am blindsided. And I'm going to be late for a meeting. Fortunately, going into shock is an excellent way of masking all of your emotions. I tell Jon that I need to tell the Bishop everything because I have a really big calling and ask him if that is okay. He says it is and then I leave. I sit through Ward Council. When it ends I ask my Bishop if I can talk to him. And as soon as the door closes and we both sit down, I start to cry. Jon is having an affair. This is the second time he's done this to me. I don't know what to do.

He tells me I have some tough decisions to make. He tells me how much he loves me and my family. To illustrate this he explains how he believes that in heaven he'll be able to look out a window from his family's mansion and see the mansions' of the people he loved on earth. You're going to be next door to me in heaven, just like you are now (but relatively speaking, because we both live on farms - our daughters walk across a field to play with each other). And then he tells me how he could see Jon was distancing himself from the church and had been doing it for quite sometime. 

Somehow I manage to clean myself up and calm down. I carry on. But inside my mind I can't stop thinking about the 25 year old Kristen who mustered up all the strength and courage she had while holding her newborn baby and said: "If this ever happens again, I will take our baby and leave." Except this time, there are four of them and one on the way. 

A Break Through

When a marriage becomes strained there comes a point where you both begin navigating on autopilot. You take care of the kids, the chores, the home. You compartmentalize the aching side of you that has no freaking idea what is going on. Sometimes the aching breaks through and tries again to ask for answers.

The next time I tried asking for answers was an average February evening. The kids were in bed. Jon and I sat on separate couches. I asked how he was doing, to which he responded, "Not good." I don't know what was different about this time, about this question, but he eventually opened up and we had an actual conversation that shed some light on our situation. He asked if I remembered that time back in December when he accused me of having a crush on a lifeguard I supervised. Uh, yes, of course. You don't exactly forget being accused by your spouse of having a crush on a kid.

It turns out, Jon had been trying to strike up a conversation that night about how he had developed a crush on a classmate in his nursing program. And what better way to break the ice on such a topic than to first accuse your wife of doing the exact same thing. Surely she could relate? Well, turns out I couldn't, but finally having an explanation for his behavior the past couple months trumped any need to set him straight in that regard.

As a girl, a great deal of your conversations growing up revolve around crushes and feelings and affection you wish to bestow. You talk about it with your friends, your cousins, your siblings if you're lucky. It is a very surreal experience to ask your spouse these sorts of questions pertaining to someone other than yourself. 

Does she know? Does she have a crush on you too? "Yes, I think her feelings are reciprocated."

Is she single? "No, she has a boyfriend."

Does her boyfriend know? "She's told him she's not as invested in their relationship as she used to be."

Has anything happened between you? "No. We talk, she knows I'm not happy at home."

How did this revelation and these answers make me feel? Relieved. So, so unbelievably relieved. For almost two months Jon had lead me to believe that he was miserable just being married to me. That no matter how I tried to communicate and connect, it wasn't enough, I wasn't enough. I blamed myself for his unhappiness, chewing myself out for getting so tired in December. I should have never played Stardew Valley. I genuinely felt responsible for how our marriage had been crumbling. Now I knew the real culprit was the emotional affair he had begun. Realizing I wasn't to blame felt like a giant weight being lifted and I suddenly had an idea of how to go forward, how to start making things right.

Let's get away for Reading Week, my parents will watch the kids! "No, I don't want to."

Although I now knew what was going on, Jon still wasn't very receptive. Fortunately, I felt calm and confident, things were going to work out. It was then that I suddenly remembered something Jon had told me from when he lived in Vancouver and worked at a ski hill before we met. Due to his surroundings, he had begun to question things about himself. As his questioning became more intense, he realized he needed to leave and immediately moved home. I likened this experience to his current situation, he needed to "Get out of Vancouver." To remove himself from continuing any sort of relationship with this girl. And I was so, so sure that he would, because the last time he had cheated on me, he did.

Hanging in There

You may be wondering what the aftermath looked like from Jon choosing to not say he loved me. Here are some snippets:

- I tried to talk to Jon. Which was as productive as trying to have a conversation with a King's Guard outside Buckingham Palace. The most I ever got out of those conversations was, "I'm not good at communicating," followed by stony silence. Sometimes I got a half-hearted, "Should we try counselling?" which I realize now was his way of pretending to have an ounce of investment still left in our relationship. I must have sensed his apathy in the suggestion, because I immediately starting warning him that counselling was not a passive endeavor. It took effort, we would be given homework, and he would have to face a lot of uncomfortable truths about our relationship that he had taken for granted all these years (ie. I do EVERYTHING, you are a "silent treatment" savant, etc). Mind you, I was on board, but something felt off. This might have been where I realized I couldn't take the reins and do everything like I had for the past 10+ years. I needed to see some initiative. I have no doubt that if I had put my foot down and did everything, made the counselling appointments, forced Jon to engage in our homework, and kept up the appearance of a happy home, we would still be together. Jon had the gall to sabotage everything, but didn't have the guts to walk away.

- My family became fiercely protective of me. It didn't take long for my sisters to hear what happened. And then my phone blew up when they did. Leave him! You'd be better off without him! You could easily find someone better! Fortunately I had a lot more impulse control and really didn't believe anything they said.

- I tried texting Jon. Maybe he would have more to say if it wasn't face to face. This is the best I got:

To which I then got... nothing.

- My kids noticed. At least they noticed that mom was suddenly spending a lot of her time in bed napping and crying in the afternoons. Logan had a friend over to play and I overheard her say, "My mom cries all the time, ha ha!" Fortunately that was all they noticed at this point. I could handle being a crying laughingstock if it protected their little hearts and childhood as long as possible.

- I tried. I asked Jon out for a date. Even secured a babysitter that wasn't Grandma and Grandpa (because they had just left for 2 weeks in Arizona). I was ready to put everything I had into that date: try to make him laugh, flirt, connect, talk about lighter things. But as soon as he got home he let me know that he had invited another couple that were friends of ours. Okay. A double date isn't what I had in mind, but baby steps are okay. I could take him out again next weekend. In retrospect, I see now that another couple was a buffer. Even in my efforts to get closer, I was still being held at arm's length. But it felt like we had fun, the mood lifted a little, Jon seemed happier. And I would become lulled away into thinking things were improving.

If I had to sum up everything with one picture, I would choose this:

I was the cat, hanging in there. And Jon was shaking the rope.