The Space Between the Old Story and a New Choice
There are moments so subtle, so fleeting, that you might miss them entirely—especially if you're speeding through life.
This morning held one of those moments for me.
It started with a graduation dinner. My daughter just finished high school, and like we had done for the boys, I wanted to celebrate with something special. I suggested we go somewhere a little fancy, something that marked the occasion. My ex-husband mentioned that our daughter wanted Shake Shack. After a brief flicker of resistance, I agreed—only to find out he had changed his mind.
So I offered a middle-ground suggestion: a place that served both burgers and more upscale fare. A win-win, I thought. But in the end, he chose an Italian-sounding restaurant I’d never heard of. I said “okay,” and let it go.
That night, the restaurant’s menu was… underwhelming. The girls and I ended up ordering flatbreads. The boys had steak. My ex chose the branzino. We tried to make the most of it, sharing in laughter and celebration, but I left feeling a little disappointed. The food wasn’t great. The flatbread was $20. Still, we celebrated my daughter—and that mattered more.
I left early to help my youngest study, telling my ex I’d Venmo him my share. This morning, I texted to follow up, and he responded with the total: $220—my half.
Wait. What?
The entire meal had cost $440. For a moment, I was stunned. I had flatbread. I barely ate. How was my share that high?
And that’s when it happened.
The moment.
That small, quiet space where I could feel the old story rising: “Of course. He picks the most expensive meal and I pay. Here I am again, the suffering sacrificial lamb.”
I’ve lived in that story.
The one where love and money are entangled.
The one where I give, and give, and feel unseen.
The one where resentment simmers beneath the surface.
But this time, something was different. There was space—just enough space—to see it all. And in that pause, something softened.
I remembered that my boys both ordered steak.
I was happy they got to eat what they loved.
This wasn’t about paying for him.
This wasn’t a sacrifice.
It was an oversight. An honest mistake.
He even apologized for picking the wrong restaurant and not checking the prices. And he offered to pay more than half. I could see all of that now. Because I paused. Because I didn’t react from the old script. Because something inside me had changed.
This healing journey is slow.
So. Very. Slow.
But that’s the beauty of slowness.
It gives us the space to integrate—to titrate—what’s real. It gives us room to make a different choice, not through force or resistance, but because something deeper has shifted.
And maybe that’s what healing is:
Not the absence of the old thoughts, but the presence of something new.
A pause.
A breath.
A tender moment where you realize:
I can choose differently now.
