My pantry? It’s a sight to behold. After receiving a beautiful set of glass containers from my kids for Christmas, I promptly went out and snagged a few more. There are no stray bags of chips or cereal boxes cluttering the shelves; everything is neatly tucked away in stylish containers on freshly painted white shelves, adorned with cheerful polka dots that I added myself.
To the casual observer, my life appears flawless. Friends marvel at the photos I share, sending messages like, “How do you manage it all?” or “Can you help me organize mine?” They see the surface beauty but are oblivious to the mother behind the scenes who is grappling with a profound sense of loss, spending hours arranging her pantry to distract herself from missing her children.
What they don’t witness are the tears shed in silence, the moments of emptiness that I strive to fill with cleaning and organization. Since my divorce, my coping mechanisms have morphed into a fierce dedication to tidying up and curating a life that looks perfect. While others might turn to wine or binge-watch shows, I find solace in ensuring my home is ready for guests at any moment.
Staying busy has become my refuge, a way to evade the memories of family dinners and cozy evenings spent watching shows together. Ironically, during those times, my life felt more organized despite the clutter because I didn’t feel the need to maintain an appearance of being the successful single woman managing life post-divorce.
I’ve attempted to mend the fractures caused by my separation through small changes—like getting lash extensions or rearranging furniture; I’ve searched online for the perfect decorative pillows. I can coordinate my outfits down to the last detail, but I struggle to shake the sorrow that lingers.
To an outsider glancing through my Instagram or peeking through my doorway, it might seem like I have everything under control. But the truth is, I simply have more time without my kids. And with that time comes a flood of emotions that I feel compelled to address, often through superficial means.
No amount of organization or a well-coordinated outfit can mask the ache of not having my children with me daily. I may present a polished home, yet it doesn’t equate to happiness. I’d gladly trade the perfect manicure for a day filled with my kids’ laughter, their chaos, and their love. Those moments are worth more than any semblance of order I can create.
While my ex and I have moved on from our marriage, my heart aches for the days I spent with my kids. I grieve for those moments, and the feelings sometimes strike unexpectedly. A whiff of dandelions can send me spiraling back to a time when my son would pick them for me, prompting me to buy flowers for the table. Other times, the silence of a vacant house makes me reach for the remote, only to be hit with a wave of nostalgia when “Wheel of Fortune” plays. In those instances, I find myself diving into organizing a closet, hoping that it will alleviate some of the pain.
Every time I confront this sadness, I feel the need to take action, to create or improve something, as a way of regaining a sense of control. I can’t change the fact that my kids aren’t home every night, nor that I don’t prepare their meals or get to shower them with affection whenever I wish. But I can scrub the floors or polish my nails, and for now, that’s the best I can do.
This article was originally published on January 20, 2020. If you’re looking for more insightful content, check out one of our other blog posts here, and for expert advice on home insemination, visit this link. The CDC is also a great resource for pregnancy information found at this page.
In summary, though my life may appear picture perfect on the outside, it masks an ongoing struggle with grief and longing for my children. The tidiness and organization are attempts to fill the void left by their absence, but the truth is, I would trade it all for the chaotic joy of family life.