He was visiting for a conference, I took him to Berry Park in Williamsburg. While drinking whiskey on a rooftop he paused for a second and said: “I have to tell you something.” Next thing you know he had tears in his eyes.

“You’re expecting.”

I just guessed. He nodded and internally I broke again. “You couldn’t fucking prevent that? Even just for a little longer?” I responded as softly as I could while staring at the Manhattan skyline, crying.

For God sakes, our divorce wasn’t even final yet. I was doing so well and I got hit with another curve ball.

So I picked myself up again, alone.

But I quickly healed. I dealt with the celebration of her arrival, her birth and her presence from afar.

I met this little life a couple of weeks ago. I gave her a squeeze, made her laugh and all was well. All the shit I’ve been through, all the hurt I’ve ever felt, all the bullshit I’ve been dragged through was water under the bridge, because her father and I are exactly where we are supposed to be—divorced, and living our own lives.

When we first separated people told us we were brave, for seeing where our lives would take us individually. I hated this commentary. Fuck you, this shit hurts like hell. Don’t call me brave—I’m just trying to survive.

But I begun a life I would have never had the opportunity to experience had I stayed, had we tried to salvage a sinking ship. I saw amazing places, I met beautiful people, I made lifelong relationships—I thrived.

The storm is finally fucking over. Skies are clear. I navigated through it just fine. Better than fine, I killed this shit.