Author: David B Sloan

I had a vision of who she could be—
Glorious and kind and motherly;
But it wasn’t her vision, it was mine.

I gave her children, a home, and my love—
A place where the vision could flourish;
But it wasn’t her vision, it was mine.

She tried to fulfill that vision—
It was beautiful and grand and laudable;
But it wasn’t her vision, it was mine.

I celebrated her like a queen—
And showered her with praise;
But it wasn’t her vision, it was mine.

She felt small and weak within that vision—
Not because she was inferior;
But because it wasn’t her vision, it was mine.

Now she walks her own path of self-discovery—
And I can let her go;
Because she now lives her vision, not mine.

Joy is not far away—
Close enough to haunt me;
But I’d sooner rot in misery
Than admit defeat.

I still love the woman I knew;
she is gone.

Or maybe—
she was never there at all.

My wife studied my heart,
learned the shape of my longing,
then stitched herself into it
like a costume.

For twenty-six years
she played the part
until the seams split open
and someone else stepped out.

Now, what do I do with that?

The woman I married still lives;
the woman I loved does not.

Or worse—
she never existed
outside my need to believe she did.

I have spent half my life
loving a ghost.

Will I ever learn
how to love someone real?

Here I am digging a grave —
A place to lay my old self,
That body that no longer serves me.
With each layer of dirt,
The earth gets harder —
Progress gets slower.
Must I really dig six feet down?

All day, digging, my arms ache,
The shovel grows heavy in my hands.
I try to climb out for a break,
But I can’t.
I need to rest.
So I lie down, doze off to sleep.

I dream of dirt moving faster than before,
Only now it does not leave the grave
But enters it —
And it is not me that moves it.
Layer by layer the dirt finds its place,
And I find mine—underneath it.

Then I awake.
I long to climb above the dirt,
But six feet of earth press down on me—
Too much to bear.
I can’t move,
I can’t breathe.

And so I drift off back to sleep,
With no hope of rising again.
The only life coming out of this grave
Will not be me, but the grass
That feeds on what I once was.
And so I rest — not in peace,
But in the work of my own hands.

I fought to become the husband and father I wanted to be.
I fought to put bread on the table.
I fought to keep her happy when she was depressed.
I fought my anxiety when she pulled away.

I fought to save the marriage when she said she was leaving.
I fought to get out of bed when she was gone.
To go to work,
To make dinner for the kids,
To earn enough to keep us afloat.

I fought off fears that the kids would leave me too.
I fought to find friends who could hold my pain.
I fought to be “normal” again.
I fought off depression and loneliness.

I fought to find myself—
to unlearn the self abandonment I had taught myself.
I fought to help the kids unlearn it too.
I fought the urge to lean on crutches instead of learning to stand.

After decades of fighting, something is different.

Peace.
Hope.
Strength.
Security.

I don’t need to fight anymore.

I can just be.

For twenty-six years, we had a good run;
I thought we were perfect, that she was the one.
But I brought to adulthood the traumas of youth;
I needed to heal, but hid from that truth.

So I had to hit bottom to ever be free;
Only by losing could I ever find me.
Divorce cut me deep — that much is true;
But suffering the pain, I finally grew.

When she left, I couldn’t understand why,
My pain so great, I could only cry.
I thought I found a redeeming grace,
“I’ll find someone better to take her place.”
But no substitute could satisfy,
No better love would get me by.
So now a truer way I finally see:
Redemption comes in discovering me.

While many look for lips to kiss on New Year’s Eve,
I look for something deeper.
I do not need a romance to help me escape my loneliness;
I choose, instead, to stand fully present with myself.

Many enter the New Year grasping for a moment of hope,
But my hope goes deeper.
It is not borrowed for the night
Nor found in the warmth of another’s breath.

Yes, I would love to taste lips,
To feel the quiet electricity of connection,
To discover the mystery that lives between two hearts—
But not at the cost of myself.

So I choose to cross the threshold whole—
Not chasing connection, not afraid of being alone,
But grounded in the hard-won knowledge
That I am already enough.

I don’t need fixed, for I’m not broken.
Let’s rethink the story I’ve spoken—
A tale of hurt and shattered dreams
Can become a story that teems…
With life anew, born from the grave,
With dreams I never thought to crave.

My canvas clean, paintbrush in hand,
I start again—not what was planned.
And as I paint, I find new joy:
For what I paint is that little boy—
The one I lost while trying to be
Everything else except for me.

Dear future wife,

I think of you often.
You inspire me to become the man I’m meant to be.

Sometimes I try to find you,
But maybe I wouldn’t recognize you now—
Not until I fully see myself.
I’m getting there.

I work on myself every day.
I reflect on why my first marriage ended after 22 good years.
I stopped listening. I stopped validating.
I thought we were fine, but I wasn’t fully attuned.
Please know—I fought for her.
But I had to lose her to find myself.

And now, I’m working to be ready for you.

I know you are brilliant,
And I look forward to deep conversations,
Where ideas stretch us and questions linger.
I am sharpening my mind for these moments.

I know you are compassionate and kind—
The kind of woman whose presence softens a room.
I’m becoming a better listener,
The kind of man that a woman like you deserves.

I know you’re a feminist—
Strong, independent, and beautifully yourself.
I admire that and am learning to let you be you.

I know you love to laugh, to be playful,
To get a little ridiculous sometimes.
I can’t wait to be silly with you—
To dance in the kitchen or wrestle on the beach.
I am learning to let me be me,
So we can let our guard down and be silly together.

I know you are beautiful,
Though I’ll see it more easily than you do.
And I’ll remind you often,
Not just with words, but with how I look at you.

I know you long to travel—
To wander trails, chase sunsets, and discover something new.
I am immersing myself in nature and learning to enjoy it more.

I know all these things about you
Because I’m starting to see what makes my heart sing
And I won’t settle for anything less.

But honestly—
I don’t know you half as well as I’d like.
I long to learn you slowly, fully, joyfully.
In the meantime, I’ll keep learning myself.

And when we’re both ready,
We’ll find each other.