We call ourselves The Healing Collective, though for now, it’s a small planning committee of us three: Jeff, Lesley, and me. It was Jeff’s idea. He believes divorce doesn’t have to be all tears and grief. Maybe we can laugh, build friendships, and have some fun while mending our brokenness.
Honestly, that hope is what’s keeping me here. Healing is hard enough, why not reach for some joy along the way?
And I’m grateful Lesley’s in this with me. Jeff pulled us in for planning the same night he suggested our first group outing, saying he valued our perspectives. I do trust Lesley. She’s been by my side since the bleak winter of 2023, and sharing this past spring with her made everything feel less raw. That she’s a nurse too, working in New Jersey like me, makes it feel a little safer.
For days we toss ideas back and forth in our chat. Our first video call to plan the outing is unexpectedly easy. Lesley’s jokes break the ice, and soon it feels like old friends, not new wounds. Jeff sits in his office, pointing at a map of the Appalachian Trail. He shows us the section he hiked after I mention my love for the outdoors.
Nature. Trails. I’m all in.
Lesley laughs about maybe hiking the Hemlock Creek trail again, if the park adds more dirt this time. Last time, she says, the trail was just a sliver of a path next to a sharp drop, barely enough ground to trust with your life. She jokes about demanding more dirt, and the laughter feels good.
We eventually narrow down our options and settle on axe throwing and trivia at Bullseye and Brews. It was Amy’s idea, another member of our divorce group, and I know she’ll be thrilled we picked it.
Axe throwing? I silently beg the universe for axes smaller than me.
A few days later, I’m at Henry Forge Preserve, letting the planning group know it’s a perfect spring day for hiking the trails. I sink into my chair with a book, sunlight warming my skin, the spring breeze threading through my hair. For a moment, I almost forget all the things I’m carrying.
Then my phone buzzes. It’s Jeff. “Henry Preserve is practically next door. I live five minutes away. Let me know the next time you’re around. Send me a selfie.”
A selfie? My stomach tightens. I scan the trail, suddenly wondering if he’s nearby. Is this anxiety, or something else? Something like anticipation?
Jeff sends a photo of himself mountain biking somewhere else, and I exhale, relief washing over me. Yet the pressure lingers. Lesley has already liked it. So I give in, but only partially, sending a picture of my book and my sunlit sneakers.
“Wait! That’s your feet!” Jeff replies instantly.
I send back a laughing emoji. No further explanation. It’s almost time to head home, anyway.
Over the next few days, our chat becomes a stream of selfies: Lesley alive and smiling from Hemlock Creek. I like her photo, Jeff does too, joking that he’s glad she survived the harrowing trail. Then he sends one of himself—glasses on, that familiar dorky grin.
Part of me wonders, what’s with all these selfies? Is it about proof or connection? Can’t I just capture a photo of the river?
Later, I’m on the Valley Heritage Trail, pausing at my favorite spot near the Canal Education Center. Ducks and geese fussing on the shore while the Lehigh River’s current hushes my thoughts. I breathe deep, battling self-consciousness, then snap a selfie—me, squinting at the sun, river rolling behind.
Lesley likes it. A moment later, Jeff follows: “There she is. Finally.”
Something flutters in my gut. “There she is,” he’d written. As if he’d been waiting. A warmth spreads through my chest, and I’m almost smiling. It’s only as I start for home that the smile fades.
The last person who was with me on this trail was Reginald, and now the ghost of his presence feels heavier. Reg’s voice drifts up in my mind while the echo of his footsteps lingers beside me. Sometimes, if I’m still enough, I hear his laughter tangled with the breeze.
Suddenly, the trail feels longer. Emptier.
We had passed through here after he came home from Arizona, promising change. He’d stared at the river, letting me take pictures of him as the ducks waddled by. He looked so peaceful, and for a moment, I had let myself believe things might be different.
But a year changes everything. We’re not together anymore. And here I am, walking this trail alone.
This post is part of a fictionalized memoir. The emotional experiences and themes are drawn from my life, but all names, identities, timelines, and circumstances have been altered, obscured, or combined to protect privacy — including my own. These writings are not meant to diagnose, label, or describe any real person. Instead, they illuminate relational patterns that can occur in emotionally imbalanced or narcissistic dynamics. Any resemblance to actual individuals is coincidental or intentionally obscured. The intention is healing and awareness, not identification. These posts are for storytelling purposes only and do not constitute professional advice.
The images woven through My Journey and The Lessons are my own photographs — moments I captured on trails, in forests, beside rivers, and under open sky. They are pieces of my story and are not to be copied or used without permission.
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