I often woke up disoriented, emerging from dreams where everything was as it once was. My former spouse and I were happy again, sharing meals in our favorite restaurants or running together along the Chicago lakefront. In other dreams, we were apart, with one of us suggesting reconciliation. Sometimes we were long divorced, with one of us encouraging the other to embrace a different life. On certain nights, he reappeared as the charming, attractive man I once loved. In others, he was embittered and resentful, reproaching me for the decision to end our marriage.
The dreams felt so real that upon waking, I was convinced I'd returned to my past life. As my eyes gradually opened, I expected to see the large, glass, block window, with its light streaming in opposite my bed against the wall. I braced for the familiar, slight chill that always lingered in that bedroom. However, reality brought me back to my larger and warmer current bedroom. It took a few moments before it set in. Right, I'm here, not there. Despite being happily married to my soul mate for several years, the dreams of my past were persistent, creating a sensation of straddling two lifetimes. In this liminal space, my current and past worlds mixed uncomfortably, leaving me confused.
In my dreams, I saw a canvas blending past and present—people and events tangled in a way that defied logic. I glimpsed scenes from my old home, but my current husband stood there, speaking to me in the kitchen. My ex-spouse suddenly appeared at the seafood restaurant where my husband and I celebrate special occasions—an impossible encounter. Time unraveled, and sometimes both men were there together, sharing the same moment in the same space, though it made no sense. I yearned for the canvas to clear, to erase the remnants of the past and reveal only my brighter, happier, present life.
But erasing the past from my canvas wasn't possible. Along with the dreams, memories from that time resurfaced unexpectedly. In an instant, I was back on vacation with my ex-husband and stepchildren, wandering the historic streets of Charleston, South Carolina. We marveled at the grand, tightly packed wooden houses from the 17th and 18th centuries, wondering about the cost of a light blue home with white shutters near the ocean. As we strolled along the waterfront, the sun warmed my face until the cool shade of the nearby park offered relief. We posed for a family photo on an old cannon, smiling beneath the towering ancient trees—a picture that became our Christmas card that year. Looking at our happy faces, I couldn't imagine that this family would break apart just a few years later. As I mused on this, the sound of a closing door or the cat's meow abruptly snapped me back to the present. I was in my current home, no longer living in that distant memory.
As the holidays approached, vivid recollections always emerged. The memory of running in the annual Turkey Trot race in Chicago with my ex-spouse came to life, our breath visible in the chilly November air as we stood at the starting line. After the race, the scent of turkey filled the kitchen as I cooked dinner, trying to have everything ready simultaneously. The scene shifted to a later time, where we gathered around the large, antique cherry table as a family. This memory was like a rich painting, with the warm hues of sweet potatoes and the vibrant red of cranberry sauce, all laid out on a tablecloth decorated with autumn leaves. After the feast, crumbs sat next to half-empty serving platters and nearly bare plates. For a moment, these memories offered a portal to the past, allowing me to relive those times with startling intensity.
The dreams and persistent recollections from almost ten years ago left me feeling ashamed. It felt like a betrayal, as if I was cheating on my husband in another realm with my former spouse. These voyages into the past made me wonder about my commitment to my new life. Did they indicate unresolved issues needing attention or a need to reconcile something with my ex? Did I have lingering feelings for my former spouse or dissatisfaction with my current situation?
Sifting through my memories, I noticed a pattern. The happy moments shined vividly, causing the tougher times to recede. I overlooked some of the deepest hurts—when my family sidelined me from crucial decisions, like choosing my stepdaughter's college. When they neglected me during an illness, or when my stepson broke my heart by saying I wasn't his "real mother" and then swearing at me. The recurring arguments with my ex about how my stepson appeared to have a drinking problem or how his swearing at me was unacceptable. We circled the same unresolved issues, like an endless loop. These experiences, among others, led me to end my fifteen-year marriage. Despite its moments of happiness, it was ultimately unfulfilling. I didn't want to go back.
I talked with friends to see if they were experiencing similar things, and many admitted the past also crept into their present lives. Some confessed to dreaming about old lovers, despite being happily married for decades. One close friend and I discussed this issue as we sat eating overpriced appetizers in a vegetarian restaurant. She relayed how she recently talked to her ex-husband, whom she divorced over twenty years ago. Although she harbored deep resentments toward him, and they rarely spoke, she agreed to encourage their son to reconnect with him. Her surprise at making this concession highlighted the complex, enduring bond they still shared.
"How could I have let him back in?" she wondered.
Her experience provided me with clarity. "Because he never really left," I finally said, speaking for both of us. "You're holding on to him. Remembering the good and the bad—your wedding, married life, and the divorce. All those experiences, all the feelings you've had for him, are still inside you. They don't just disappear. He's a part of you, just like you're a part of him."
Our conversation helped me release the shame associated with my recurring dreams and memories. In the painting of my life, the past and present were inseparably intertwined. This understanding came into sharper focus recently when my husband accepted a professorship far away. His departure left an empty space in my daily life but also resurrected the pain of past losses. In his absence, I mourned the distance between us, but I also grieved for those who had long since faded from my life: my father who passed away over two decades ago, and my mother, whom I lost last year. The resurgence of these sorrows showed the past was a fundamental part of me.
I have carried the echoes of those I've loved long after they left my life, whether through death, divorce, or the gradual drift of time. Revisiting my past revealed how deeply these experiences shaped my identity. Despite the end of my marriage, the roles my ex-husband and stepchildren played in my life's story remained significant. There are small moments I'll never forget—consoling my stepdaughter when she burst into tears after her lucky penny encased in glass shattered, laughing with my stepson over a silly movie, and enjoying family dinners at the big cherry table where my ex-husband praised my cooking. These memories, along with the influence of that past life, are a testament to the importance of those relationships. I've realized we live layered lives, existing simultaneously in both the past and present. Though we move forward in time, our paths don't follow a straight line. Instead, they spiral, circling back to past moments even as we embrace the future.
I've heard people say to make a "clean break" from the entanglements of past relationships, situations, or careers. "Move on," a friend once said to me when I explained how I felt trapped by my past. But was it truly possible to disentangle oneself completely from a life once lived? For me, "closure" was not possible. I could throw away every possession from my past life, move to a new location, create an entirely new world. But I could not abandon the memories that made me the person I am today. Those memories colored my language and perspective, like the subtle undertones or specific lines that influenced a work of art, invisible at first glance yet vital to the overall impression. I continued to use certain phrases my ex-husband uttered even after we divorced. "The future is so bright, we'll have to wear sunglasses," he said many times. His advice to view the future with optimism was certainly a perspective I incorporated into my outlook. When I started feeling down, that statement would pop into my head, and I'd try to see the sunny side of things. It always enhanced my mood.
Just as an artist struggles to add new strokes to an intricate painting, I couldn't fully erase the imprint of the past—its texture, shape, and lines remained. Nor could I simply start with a new canvas. I had to work with what was already there. Accepting that the past would always influence the evolving picture of my life was essential. While some lines might fade with time and new layers would gradually reshape the image, certain parts might never change.
Because the past remained so visible, I've approached my current life with greater wisdom. In challenging conversations with my husband, I controlled my anger and avoided saying things I couldn't take back—a crucial lesson from my past marriage. With my new stepsons, I chose kindness over criticism, having been too harsh with my former stepchildren. I had empathy for these young men because I realized they had their own struggles with the dissolution of their original family. Thus, I strove to be more compassionate, to listen more attentively, and to judge less than I once did. As a result, conversations with my stepsons have been truly delightful. They have confided in me about their romantic interests and sought my perspective on their life choices. They joke that I'm their "evil stepmother."
Looking through the lens of the past, I'm filled with gratitude. The support and empathy my husband offers are things I now deeply cherish, having lacked them in my former life. Even after all these years together, he still seeks to understand me. His eagerness to attend my high school reunion, to learn about my early years, warmed my heart. He encourages me in my writing, reads drafts of my work, and sometimes seems to understand my emotions better than I do. Always ready to console or uplift, he offers a steady presence I never take for granted, knowing how absent these things once were.
When I look back, I realize that change has touched everything, whether I wanted it to or not. I can't return to the past or relive those pivotal moments; those important relationships ran their course, and nothing lasts forever. This truth reminds me of my own evolution. The person in those memories is no longer me. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't reoccupy those old spaces, rekindle those relationships, or relive those times—they're truly gone. This understanding, though tinged with sadness, makes me value the present even more. I find joy in the little things—enjoying a warm cup of coffee, walking to the lake with my husband, or petting my cats. Knowing I can't predict the future, and that change can come unexpectedly, I hold on to these moments as they come.
As I lie beside the man I love in our shared home, I embrace the peace that comes from knowing each memory, every past embrace, has brought me to this moment. Every life I've lived, each hope and dream I've cherished, even the versions of myself I barely recognized—all have led me to this time of contentment.
As I gaze now at the painting of my life, I see the past and present represented in vibrant colors, diverse lines, and varied shapes. The image isn't what I imagined. But I'm working on it. I can't alter it overnight, but it changes with significant experiences. Greeting the morning light in my bedroom, I am grateful for the links between the past, present, and future. I've been experimenting with different colors. And I'm taking a class on how to work with watercolors. I now pick up the brush, ready to add more experiences to the painting, eager to see how they will blend with the colors of yesterday, creating the vibrant painting of my life.