Sleeping Solo: One Woman's Journey into Life after Marriage by Audrey Faye Page B

was proud of, shorthand
for something in my life that mattered deeply and named an important piece of
who I was.
    “Divorced” is just not that kind of word.   It’s all about who I’m not, a singular
declaration that I no longer live in the country of people who are
contractually hooked up with a mate.   It’s a word that conjures breakage and separation and
disconnection.   A
lack of something, or the ending of it.  
    Seriously?   That’s like describing my gender as “not a boy”, or my favorite desert
as “not cake.”
    At this point in my life, I get to choose my own darned
adjectives.   I wanted one that’s a
kindred spirit—something that offers people a one-word taste of who I
might be and an invitation to lean in and find out more.   “Divorced” is just not that kind of
word.
    “Single” is accurate, but it feels a little bit like
something escaped from an accounting manual.   And in my role as a mom, announcing that
I’m a single parent immediately triggers some combination of wincing and hero
worship.   People know that’s a
really hard job.   It makes the word
heavy, somehow.   Laden.   A solitary bearer of
burdens wandering through the universe of pairs.
    Words of loneliness, heaviness, lack.   These weren’t the words of my newly
blooming life.   The last eight
months have been this astonishing trip into being…
    Alive.
    Joyful.
    Daring.
    Light.
    Juicy.
    Effervescent.
    Brave.
    Which is a lot of words, and I use a lot of them fairly
often to describe me and my life these days.   But none of them are my one word to use
for the land that has replaced “married.”
    In the end, I solved this problem the way writers often
do.   I went for the thesaurus.   Started somewhere I can’t remember and
made my way down the strange, often meandering links that connect one word to
another.   It’s an occupational
hazard, this search for a word with just the right shading, just the right
nuance of meaning.   One precise enough to matter and familiar enough to communicate
widely and well.
    Let me just say that there are some really crappy words
attached to the idea of being a circle of one.   But I found my word.   Savored it.   Felt my ribs expand in the joy of
rightness.
    Solo.  
    That’s me.
    Solo.
    I love this word.   It’s a little bit feisty, and it carries whispers of daring flights in a
bright blue sky and a performer stepping alone into the limelight.   It sounds like a choice, and it isn’t
afraid to ask to be seen.
    Embracing solo.   I’m a writer, and I know the power of
words—and yet somehow, having this “solo” word in my grasp surprised me
with its importance.
    It helps me to stand in acceptance.   When I feel lonely, I know that’s part
of the territory of traveling solo—and I remember that marriage could be
lonely too.   I’m also learning to
trust that this moment of lonely will be followed by one that
is different , and that some of the beauty of the connections I’m growing
in my life comes from the contrast with the solitary moments—and yes,
even the lonely ones.  
    It helps me stand in completeness.   My family is a trio now.   One parent and two
kids.   That’s all we need to
be.   There are other layers and
constellations that make all our lives richer—their dad, extended family,
friends and mentors.   But I don’t
need to apologize to my kids for parenting solo.   It is not a lack.   It’s different than what I thought I
wanted for us, but it’s not a second-class choice.   I’m an awesome mom leading an
interesting life, and I feel really good about who I can be for them.
    It helps me take myself less seriously.   I’m not writing the next great Canadian
novel right now, and that’s okay.   I
probably still dance like an awkward white girl, and that’s okay too.   I’m doing lots of things that stretch my
comfort zone or downright toss it out the window.   I’m taking more time to play and to play
hooky, to be