I’ve always been a sensitive person; crying at commercials, emotional, full of my own feelings with room to carry others, too. In the last year, though, my cup o’sadness has been overflowing.

My dad died, and so did my emotional capacity. There was no room for other sad shit, nothing that cut too deep, no space for things that made me wallow in my deep well of emotion.

Surface level stuff was the best I could handle – yes, no, let’s ride it out. This has been protective in a lot of ways, and in my recent self-reflection, I wonder if it’s been detrimental in some ways, too.

In the months after my fathers death I ended my long term relationship, living alone for the first time, ever.

I reached peak burn out at a job I had loved for a long while.
I had a whirlwind summer romance.
I drank entirely too much tequila.

I quit the job.
I decorated an apartment for just me.
I took another job that was a mess.
I started a private practice.
I withdrew my PhD program application.

Most of these things were valid, I know that. I can identify a lot of the “why” when I think about them.

The most detrimental thing is, I guess, not knowing what was what.

Was I making decisions? Choosing what was best for me, what felt good and made sense? Or was I skating … just skimming the surface of things and sorting them so they could move to a complete pile.

I still don’t know.

I spent months after my last birthday unable to focus, unable to engage in anything that required my sustained attention. I couldn’t force myself to do anything, exhausted all the time, losing my train of thought. More weight gain, less movement. A lot of lazy couching and subsequent body aches.

A little more therapy, an intake with a psychiatrist, talk of depressive episodes, a new medication and it finally feels like the sun is coming up again. It’s not likely to dry all my tears, but hopefully it will shine on the bright spots and keep the good things growing.

I feel like it’s a common sentiment that a woman shouldn’t ever move for a guy. I don’t know where I picked up that impression but in different circles over the years it seems to be shared advice.

Twice in my life I have moved “for a guy”. The first time was in 2002, the second in 2011. Neither of these guys, for different reasons, are part of my daily life now, but I have no regrets.

In 2002, my father was transitioning to a new position that would be relocating him (+ mom & 2 brothers) almost a thousand miles away. I was old enough to not live with them never mind need to move with them. I considered that I wouldn’t. I’d get an apartment with a friend or two, keep waitressing, keep dating my boyfriend and just figure it all out. That narrative changed one morning as my father drove me to pick up my car. I can still picture us driving down route 1, near the Mexican restaurant where I worked, to the car dealership where the repairs were being done. He never said “you should …” rather, he told me all the things that I could be or do in a new place, without putting down what I wasn’t doing or being in that one. I remember when I got out of the car he told me to “just think about it” and in true me fashion, that’s all I did. Think it over, think it under, think it sideways, think it inside out. Every green light where a driver hesitated too long, I thought about Wisconsin. Every customer who answered my “Hi how are you guys?” With “diet coke” or “don’t we get chips and salsa?” I thought about packing my car full of the things I needed and following my family west-ish. Every time my then boyfriend didn’t call when he said he would “I could be doing this same shit in Wisconsin” – so I did.

I spent almost ten years living in Americas Dairyland. I met a lot of great people, finished my bachelors degree, got my first masters degree, dated and broke up a few times with a handful of guys, and eventually rekindled an old connection that turned romantic and had me back at my waitressing job thinking “I could be doing this same shit in Massachusetts” – so I did.

In 2011, I moved myself from Wisconsin to Massachusetts to share my long distance boyfriends apartment with him. We talked about it as a trial of sorts (even though we already trialed the summer before!) and gave each other permission to call it quits. We didn’t. I met a lot of great people, waitressed a bit, worked as a nanny, had weight loss surgery, some cosmetic procedures, learned how to manage my money better, got another masters degree, went on many outdoor adventures, learned about myself, started a career and learned, both unfortunately and fortunately, how to live alone.

Both of these men, and the overall experiences raised me; helped me get to the next trajectory for my life and I wouldn’t change a single thing about those moves.

If anyone ever tells you not to do something, consider the benefit of it to you in the long run and recognize that the persons reservations are likely about them, not you. Hell, I’m hoping to meet another guy to move for and find my next home soon! (kidding!)

I’ve talked, and written, a lot about how I made myself small over the years. How I would literally crouch my big body in photos or in groups to not be the largest person, to not call extra attention to myself. I have skipped events and not spoken up, for fear of taking up too much space, too much room.

I don’t do that anymore. Not in what feels like years. Now I fill up any space I am in, I embrace others, I invite discussion, attention, I sprawl myself out wherever it is I feel like I can. I am my authentic self and I push everyone to be. I spend almost every day encouraging adolescent girls to stand tall, to not take the shit, to not be ashamed about their body, to not be dependent on a man, to not make decisions for their lives based on the expectations of those men, to not make themselves small, ever, for anyone.

Imagine my surprise one April morning when I heard my own words to one of these girls, I heard myself saying things that were true, they were honest and heartfelt, and she believed me and hung on every sentence. What a fraud, I remember thinking about myself later in the afternoon. I am talking this talk and not exactly walking the walk, I think that I should be saying these things to myself.

When I met Steve, I was, small internally, but a whole lotta girl on the outside. I had a big mouth and a strong personality but my self-esteem was in the toilet. I didn’t like my body, I had no career prospects, I was financially unattractive and overall just floating (or sinking!) through life. Years before we were together, we first met and spent a few days across a summer hanging out and then we lost touch. He was the one who got away, I searched for him on the internet in it’s clunky early days, I wrote emails to his last known email, I called the old number I had for him.

When he resurfaced in my life, it was like coming up for air. I loved him instantly.

I don’t know what my thought process was like; this is 13 years, eighty pounds, a bankruptcy, a second masters degree, a dead dad and a professional license ago. I didn’t know who I was. We didn’t know who we were.

There were, I know now, things that I expected to have or experience in my life that did not coincide with the things he wanted or expected. I conceded. Unknowingly, unwittingly, but just the same, I moved as an us. I doted, I did the things that would keep us an us. I went along with most things, not out of pressure, honestly, but because why not, why not do XYZ, this is what a relationship is. We called ourselves ‘team awesome’, the ones who didn’t care about petty things, silly things, we went against the grain, non-traditional, cool kids. It was perfect. Until I was sitting across from my therapist processing yet another series of dead dad emotions. I was talking about how I wished my father had the opportunity to have done more these last few years, how life is short, how I hope he didn’t die with regrets … how I don’t want to die with regrets.

I spiraled, briefly.

Who am I? Outside of my relationship? I know what I have accomplished and what I’ve done, but this has been the last dozen years of my life, am I living and loving this life or am I going through the motions? Was I truly anti-things, did my statements reflect my own beliefs, or was I operating as part of a unit, what happened to my loud-mouthed autonomy? When people would ask about our relationship, about marriage or a baby …. we don’t want those things I’d say, or we don’t care about that. Did I care about those things? Did I numb things about myself for acceptance and love? Am I a fraud? Did I force it? Do I swallow it? Do I put it all out there?

What. The. Fuck.

I unraveled, briefly.

I am shining a light on all these parts of myself now, and of my relationship, our relationship. I have begun examining my role in my own disappointment and how that has impacted the relationship, and the person I care so deeply for. I started with one small concession, let’s say, not celebrating a hallmark holiday. I gradually let myself slip through the cracks and I share this not because I am proud, but because in an effort to have what I wanted, keep who I wanted, I made concessions – and they are not the same as compromises. In a relationship, they can be life-altering for both parties, so I guess it’s a cautionary tale of sorts as my deep dive into self-reflection has caused some waves and now we are both holding a flashlight.

Choose yourself first, every time. Not because you’re selfish. Not because you don’t care about another person. Not because you are the only one who matters. But because if you lose yourself, you can’t fully connect with another person, you can’t be authentic. Choose yourself before you give away the pieces, so you aren’t trying to fit them together years later.

You can’t be half of “team awesome” while you’re wearing the “team who the fuck am I?” jersey.