Leaving for Good
When I left Illinois in 2007, I thought the hardest part was behind me.
I didn’t yet understand that leaving isn’t a single act — it’s a thousand quiet choices that follow.
The move home to Minnesota was supposed to be my fresh start.
New air, new rhythm, old roots.
But freedom doesn’t come with a manual — it comes with the weight of what you’ve carried.
That first summer back on the farm felt strange.
Familiar, but foreign.
The same gravel driveway I’d raced down as a kid now led me back as a grown woman with two children, a broken marriage, and a future I hadn’t yet imagined.
From my 2007 journal:
“I’m getting my life back on track and that’s the important thing. Possibilities are endless.”
I wanted to believe that — and some days, I did.
But there were just as many nights I sat in my childhood bedroom, watching my kids sleep beside me, wondering how I’d rebuild from here.
Bills piled up faster than I could pay them.
Co-parenting became a battlefield fought across state lines.
Court orders, travel schedules, and phone calls that ended in silence.
There were moments I questioned whether leaving had been the right choice — but then I’d see my children’s faces in the morning light, safe and smiling, and I’d know: it was.
Because leaving wasn’t about escape.
It was about survival.
It was about choosing peace over pretending.
There were glimmers of hope, too — small wins that felt enormous back then.
A steady job. A decent car. Laughter around the dinner table.
I began to recognize myself again — not the wife who couldn’t breathe, but the woman who kept showing up anyway.
Still, the loneliness was real.
I missed what I wished marriage could have been — not what it actually was.
That’s the thing no one tells you about starting over: you grieve the dream, not the person.
From a late 2008 journal:
“I feel stronger, but tired. It’s like I’m building a new life one brick at a time — with bare hands.”
Those years between leaving and loss — 2007 to 2009 — were my rebuilding years.
They were messy and holy, humbling and hard.
I was learning how to pay bills, how to set boundaries, how to be both mother and provider — and somehow, still, myself.
Looking back, I see that “leaving for good” wasn’t about the drive north or the divorce decree.
It was about reclaiming something I hadn’t realized I’d lost:
my voice, my worth, my will to keep going.
Because leaving isn’t the end of the story.
It’s the moment you stop begging to be saved and start saving yourself.
If you’ve ever packed up your life without knowing what comes next…
If you’ve ever left something that looked stable but felt like suffocation…
If you’ve ever stood on the edge of your old life and whispered, “I can’t go back” —
you’re not alone.
With heart,
Rebecca
