I wish someone had told me: You will throw up before and after every divorce negotiation call for a year. You will lose half of your hair, and it will grow back gray in a halo of friz. You will go into unbelievable, unprecedented debt. Your son will ask you to see “the happy face,” and you will see in the mirror of his eyes how unconvincing you are. You will not sleep for two years. You will stand far to the side of your body, not trusting its capacity to bring you pleasure. You will blame him, and then you won’t. You will be devastated, and then you won’t. You will forgive yourself, and then you will forgive him. You will find a practice and then a path that starts with simply dealing with the dishes in the sink and moving on from there. You will go on a lot of stupid dates. You will slowly come back into focus as yourself, though a fiercer and gentler version. You will have learned how to allow what is. You will have learned how to become who you are. You will look back at the ocean you have struggled across, flopping and gasping, and you will see how strong and clear you have become. You will kiss the dry ground.