I rush home from work, my keys fumbling in my hand and my mind already halfway out the door. Tonight is our first group event, and the thought of axe throwing sends nervous flutters through my stomach. Not the bad kind, exactly. More like the feeling of standing at the edge of something unknown, wondering if my feet will find solid ground.
We are meeting at Center Square Market, and I hurry down the street, my phone buzzing against my palm with messages from the group chat. The notifications feel like proof that I’m a part of something, that I’ve been invited somewhere. It has been so long since I belonged to a “we.”
When I arrive, I spot most of them gathered around the tables. Cody and his wife, Gracie, are laughing at something on his phone. Abigail’s signature braids swing as she turns to greet me while Lesley waves from across the table. And Jeff.
Hugs fly in every direction, the kind of enthusiastic embraces that still surprise me, making me wonder when I became someone people were happy to see. The table overflows with snacks—Abigail’s home-baked cookies arranged like an offering, and a box of chocolates Jeff proudly displays.
Finally, Amy and Brad stroll in. I hug Amy first, then turn to Brad. His arms close around me, and he grins. “I didn’t realize how short you are. You’re the same size as my ex-wife.”
The words land like a small stone dropped into still water. Not this again. The casual comparison, the label. I feel the familiar tightening in my chest, the old instinct to shrink into whatever box someone else had built for me. But I’ve been practicing something new. I shrug it off and state, “Well, you know what they say… good things come in small packages.”
He laughs. I force myself to laugh too, and let it go.
It’s time to head over to Bullseye & Brews. Game on.
After snapping a group selfie, we meet our instructor, Gabe, who walks us through the rules and safety measures of hatchet throwing. My stomach tightens. What if I miss the target completely? Or worse, let the axe fly backward, taking somebody out. I can already picture their polite, pitying smiles.
Please, God, don’t let me make a fool of myself.
My first few throws are rough. Some don’t even hit the board. Others land embarrassingly low, the hatchet thunking into the wood like a disappointed sigh. Gabe comes over, offering advice. “Loosen your grip on the handle,” he says. With this sharp, heavy blade in my hands, the idea of relaxing feels crazy, reckless, impossible.
But he just smiles. “Trust me. Loosen your grip and follow through on the release.”
I nod. Take a deep breath. Try to remember that I’m allowed to be bad at things, allowed to be new. This time, the hatchet spins through the air and sinks into the center of the target. Bullseye.
Elation rushes through me, bright and unexpected, as the group cheers. For a moment, I’m not a woman recovering from a broken marriage, not an ex-wife or a disappointment. I am just me, standing in my own competence, surprised by my own strength.
The night blurs by in a whirl of games and laughter. I play air hockey with Amy, Skee-ball with Abigail, thanks to Jeff’s generosity with tokens. Then I take on a shooting arcade game with Lesley and Jeff, somehow ending up the last one standing, defending my team against pixelated villains. For the first time in ages, I feel at ease. I’m actually having fun, the kind that doesn’t require pretense and performance.
Maybe Jeff is right. Maybe these group events could become a regular thing. Maybe I can finally have a social life, one that doesn’t involve people who know Reginald, who look at me with pity or curiosity, or the silent question of what went wrong.
The other girls jump into a trivia competition. The rest of us tag along while Gracie and Cody say goodnight, their departure a small reminder that some people still have intact marriages to return to. Brad buys a round of drinks, and we dive into another round of trivia, the questions circling the table.
Lesley sits beside me while Brad sits across from us. Between questions, Brad mentions commuting to New York, and I share my own I-78 horror stories. We swap tales of traffic jams and alternate routes that only lead to more traffic. There’s something real about him, someone I can relate to.
When a trivia question asks about the Egyptian god of the sun, my fascination with world religions gives me an edge. “Ra,” I answer, and the word feels like a small claiming, a reminder that I contain knowledge.
Everyone stares. “How do you know that?”
I admit my obsession with theology, the years of watching documentaries, searching for something I couldn’t name.
Jeff, ever the showman, says, “Excuse me, not everybody studied theology. Not everyone would be as knowledgeable as you.”
His tone is teasing, but it gets under my skin, finding the tender place where I’m still learning my intelligence is not something I need to minimize. I scrunch my nose, annoyed. “Sounds like you’re keeping score, Jeff,” I reply coolly. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like we’re on the same team anymore.
As the night winds down, I say my goodbyes. Abigail walks with me to the parking lot since we parked side by side. She vents about her soon-to-be ex, the betrayal still fresh, the wound still open. I get it. Her pain is raw, and I understand that ache intimately. I carry plenty of my own.
The next day at work, I find myself replaying last night’s laughter and easy company, the way it felt to be seen without history. On impulse, I text Jeff, “Thank you for cheering me on last night. I realize I can try new things and actually enjoy myself. Even laugh at my silliness.”
He responds almost immediately, “You’re welcome! I’m so pleased with all the fun we had! Thank you for being you. I respect you very much, and when you speak, I listen. I’m going to remember this group when I’m home alone and lonely on a random Friday night. So glad we made these connections.”
There is that line again. “When you speak, I listen.” But this time, instead of smiling, I feel a knot of unease in my gut as I reread all of his words. It was so subtle I could almost convince myself I’d imagined it. He’s just lonely, I thought. He has Brad for support. It’s not my problem to solve.
I sent a lighthearted reply, “LOL! Appreciate your honesty. Thanks for listening. Glad you had fun last night, Mr. Numbers.” He’d spent half the night calculating scores while the rest of us just played, looking truly bummed when my team beat his. The nickname felt right.
No response. Not even a like. I shrug it off, or try to.
Later that evening, Jeff finally messages back, “Want another stretch activity tonight??? My son and I are meeting some people before grabbing food. You’d be great at climbing given your size, but it’s 1000% something uncomfortable!” He adds a link to a rock climbing gym.
He actually puts a number on “uncomfortable.” I hesitate, my finger hovering over the screen. What does this invitation really mean?
I take a few deep breaths and answer, “Hey! Just got home from work. The place looks like fun, definitely a new experience for me, but I’m exhausted. Fridays are usually busy for me. I’d try it another day when I’m up for a challenge. Thanks for inviting me. Enjoy your evening!”
It’s honest. Maybe one day I’ll try it, but I’d rather go with my kids. The thought of rock climbing brings a flash of memory: Reginald at an Arizona retreat, leaning over a cliff as he rappelled with his group. I remember the video of him conquering his fear of heights, with that huge triumphant grin on his face.
For a split second, I feel proud of him. The feeling surprises me, tender and complicated, before I tuck it away.
A few minutes later, Jeff sends a heart emoji to my last response.
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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