They say love is patient, but babaaaaaay divorce paperwork will test your salvation.
After eight years together and seven years married and wearing betrayal like a weighted coat, letting go feels like dropping a $10K bill into the ocean—and just when you reach to grab it, a piranha leaps out and snatches it away. There’s no going back. Not even if you wanted to.
I thought marriage—the second time around—would be full of surprises, affection, and a daily sounding board. Instead, it felt like stagnant water with one sole rower keeping us afloat and me talking to myself.
So here I am: rebuilding, relearning, re-everything. Washington State, bless its procedural little heart, makes you wait a full 90 days before you can even finalize a divorce. Raggedy. I could’ve been free by now, had my soon-to-be-ex not spent nine rounds avoiding the process server like it was tag at recess. So yes, I’m irritated.
I winced when my therapist—a doctor, mind you—named him a narcissist who love-bombed me at the beginning. You could’ve held my hand for that, sis. She read him for filth! Somewhere between crying in the car and dancing at the lounge, that same therapist looked me dead in the eye and said, “We ain’t taking this ish into 2026.”
And she’s right. No ma’am, no ham, no spaghetti, no spam. We’re not dragging expired energy into the new year.
So I’m still flirty at this big age of 46, glowing under bar lights, dancing, meeting new people—remembering that I still have rhythm and joy. Turns out, healing doesn’t just mean crying through it. Sometimes it looks like lip gloss, a little body roll, and saying yes to life again.
I’m still discovering what Lynette Sheree Evans likes—me! No influence, no polling the community; just me and my own likes and wants.
If nothing else, this chapter has taught me to love the mirror again. I stopped waiting for perfection before taking pictures. I started wearing blush—because apparently that’s my thing now. I buy outfits simply because they make me feel good, not because I need a reason. The scented oils, the brows, the waistline that reappeared after the stress left—all of it, mine again.
And yes, the DMs are active. Maybe I’m one love-bombing, dismissive-avoidant man away from true love—ahem. But this time, I’m side-eyeing them ALL while I wait.
Because even hard lessons look better in good lighting and a little body oil.
