It all started when I was eighteen years old, out with some friends looking to get something to eat. My friends had been to this restaurant before and had seen my ex-wife there. They thought she was pretty, so they wanted to go again that night. I wasn't aware of this, but I went along with them.
We sat down at our table, and luckily, she was working that night. At first glance, I was like, wow, she is beautiful. As the night went on, I started to notice she was good at her job and took it seriously. I admired that and remembered thinking, why can't I end up with a woman like that? I felt a spark of longing — not just for her, but to be more like her, to fit into the grounded, practical world she seemed to inhabit. I didn't yet realize that this longing would later lead me to hide parts of myself, like my spirituality, in an attempt to create the stability she craved. That night, I saw her as a reflection of what I wanted to become, but I couldn't see how trying to mold myself to her world would eventually dim my own light, a lesson that would take years to unfold.
We ate and left, and a few days later, I went back with my cousin with the full intention of getting to know her better. Walking into the restaurant and seeing her right at the front felt like a cosmic nudge. It was as if the universe had placed her there, whispering that this was a moment to act. I looked at her with the intent of fully utilizing my greatest strength or gift. In my case, it's my eyes, which shift colors from blue to green to grey depending on a few different factors. I gave her the warmest smile I could give, since that isn't a strength of mine at all. I figured she remembered me from just a few nights prior because she looked right into my eyes and gave me the most beautiful smile I'd seen in a long time. Her smile is one of her greatest strengths, and it made my knees weak. At that moment, I felt something like a rhythmic dance between my shyness and my attraction to her — opposites creating motion. My excitement for her was a signal to act without attachment, to follow the spark without knowing where it would lead.
I found out later that that moment, for her, was the first time she remembered me. The dinner from a few nights ago, she didn't even realize I was there. She remembered my friends, but I was there, and she didn't even notice me at all. Looking back, I see now that my subconscious was already weaving the threads of this relationship. I was drawn to her dedication because it mirrored a part of myself I longed to strengthen — my own sense of purpose — but it also reflected a deeper fear of being unseen. That first night, she didn't notice me among my friends, and perhaps that sparked a subconscious desire to prove my worth, to be seen by someone like her. This mix of admiration and insecurity set the stage for the challenges to come.
At that moment, I felt confident that she remembered me. As I felt her smile, her gaze, how our eyes connected, I felt empowered to ask her out. That was not like me at all. While I was somewhat good-looking and had eyes that brought me a lot of attention from women, I was always shy up to that point — most of my relationships were ones where women approached me. I was too timid to approach women and ask them out. She was the first one I got the courage to ask. I felt her nervousness. I felt she was interested. She ended up spilling my drink on me and felt so bad about it that night that later in life, when we talked about that night, she blocked that incident out of her mind to where she truly doesn't remember it happening. When she spilled my drink, I could feel her nervousness, and at that moment, I chose to see it as a sign of her interest rather than a mistake. But I didn't pause to truly understand what it meant for her — I was too caught up in my own excitement. Years later, when she told me she'd blocked that moment out, I realized how our perceptions shape our realities differently. I'd seen it as a sweet connection, but for her, it was a source of embarrassment she couldn't hold. If I'd paused back then, as I later learned to do, I might have seen the first signs of how our energies would challenge each other, reflecting lessons we both needed to grow.
So I asked her for her phone number, and she gave it to me. She mentioned that she had a boyfriend but that the relationship was nearing its end. We spoke on the phone a few nights later, and she broke up with him a few days after we started talking. At this young age, I didn't understand how relationships work or how everyone is just a reflection of themselves. She didn't remember me from a few nights before; however, I believed she did, and with that simple belief, I was able to break out of my shell and ask her out, which was not within my comfort zone. Looking back, I see how I could manifest through my perception of what I experienced and how she was. My path with her was one of the billions of roads to enlightenment. My shyness and her seriousness, my spirituality and her practicality were opposites drawing us together in a cosmic dance. We were both threads in the same tapestry, on our own path to the same truth.
The more time we spent together, the more I fell for her practicality, her dedication to her work, her family, and her beliefs. It was unyielding, not at all like who I was. I saw where we would clash, yet I knew she was an amazing person. I told the biggest lie I ever told myself and anyone else. I told myself I could be what she wanted — the more practical, traditional husband she was looking for — ignoring and forgoing the person I was meant to be in my natural state. True love honors the natural environments we each create, but back then, I didn't see how trying to rewrite my own code would unravel my essence. Once you go down this path, it doesn't take long to lose yourself, and then you start to look for ways to fill the void of being someone you are not.
Addictions set in as I tried to escape that void. I became addicted to video games, spending hours and hours on them, ignoring her and the kids for so long. Yet she never abandoned me when most would have walked away long before I got better from that first addiction. I justified that time spent by saying, well, at least you know where I am. I'm here at home with you and the kids. I'm not out getting drunk or hanging out with friends. I saw it as their problem, thinking that if they really wanted to, we could spend time together playing the video games. But when we withhold, the void we feel is ours alone, a reflection of our own lack of commitment. My addiction wasn't about the games. It was about my absence, my refusal to show up fully, and the mirror reflected that back as disconnection — not because she or the kids were lacking, but because I was.
That same addiction would return later in a different form. By this time, the games had evolved to where you didn't have to spend hours to be good at them. You could simply buy your way to success. So I justified that in my head as, at least this time, I'm not spending hours and hours in a game. Instead, I was spending thousands and thousands of dollars on a virtual life, one that would distract me from the void I had created for myself. I told myself, I gave up who I was to be here with you. I sacrificed myself, so at least let me have this one thing I enjoy. But this was another distortion in the mirror of thy self, a reflection of my own scarcity, not hers. I was blind to her sacrifices — like her staying through my addictions — while justifying my own, ignoring everything that would cause me to look within, as I'd learned to do years later.
Over the years, as I healed from that addiction, I started to lean toward my spirituality again, especially when I worked out of town a lot. When away, I was able to embrace that side of myself once more, finding solace in the universal truths I'd always felt. But when I returned home, I had to hide that side of myself again. When I tried to talk to her about spiritual ideas, she would get mad or belittle me, unable to connect with that part of my essence. Our opposites — my spirituality and her practicality — were out of balance, creating tension instead of harmony. I didn't yet see that this imbalance was a lesson, a mirror reflecting my own inner conflict, pushing me to reclaim my authenticity in time.
From the very beginning, when we got married, I told myself this relationship would end one day, as I knew our differences would be our downfall. I told myself I just needed to hold on until the kids were adults, and then we would go our separate ways. The universe supports whatever we believe. If we believe something will be hard, it says okay and weaves a path to match. Believing our marriage would end was the start of me manifesting the void I would feel. I purposely kept her and the kids at arm's length, thinking I was protecting them from becoming dependent on me. I was raised by my grandmother and never really had a father figure to provide an example of what a good husband or father looked like. I told myself I didn't need one and saw myself as strong and successful in my career, a belief that would come back to haunt me as my children grew older.
That belief manifested in a way I didn't expect. One day, in front of my in-laws, one of my children said that a father figure isn't needed and that they never had one because I was never there. I was always out of town, and when I was in town, I was checked out, lost in my addictions or my justifications. All while the ones who spoke up for me were my in-laws, she just sat there in agreement. I didn't realize it then, but that was exactly what I had wanted with the belief I held from the start. The mirror of thy self reflected my own distance back to me — not as their failure to connect, but as my own. If I'd paused to look within, as I later learned to do, I might have seen how my belief in separation had woven a reality of disconnection, a lesson that would take years to unravel.
My belief that I didn't have a father figure or a good example of what a good husband is, yet I turned out okay, got passed on to the next generation in my ancestral line. My children — I never verbally told them my beliefs, yet I never showed them anything other than what I believed, and in turn, they got cursed with the same thing I went through. I wasn't strong enough or smart enough to know better, to break the cycle — a rhythmic pattern repeating across generations until the balance is restored through awareness. We repeat patterns until we become aware of the beliefs driving them, and this was one such pattern — a thread in the cosmic web that I'd woven without knowing, one that would take years of healing to untangle.
It wasn't long after this moment that my ex-wife and I decided to split up and get a divorce. That night we spoke about this, I couldn't sleep at all. I had so much doubt and pain, wondering how it could come to this. I couldn't sleep for three nights, my mind racing with turmoil, while she didn't lose a minute of sleep. She slept like a baby. This contrast proved the truth I'd come to understand: I feel what I give, and she feels what she gives. She must have felt she gave her all the whole time, or perhaps she felt I wouldn't actually leave, or maybe she felt a peace I couldn't yet grasp. I can only speculate. What I do know now is that this is how the universe works. The mirror of thy self reflects only what you give, not what others give. My turmoil was a reflection of my own doubts and fears, while her peace reflected her own inner state, a lesson that would guide me toward liberation in time. I am responsible for what I feel, as she is for hers. Together, the environment wasn't one that we could both thrive in.
I'm not saying she is a saint and didn't do things that hurt me as much as I hurt her. What I am saying is that I can only answer for what I felt or manifested on my own in that environment. She would have to search within herself to address the traumas that shaped her emotions and the causes for some of the things she did — a journey I hope she's taken, as I have. We are equally responsible for the way things turned out, which, at this point in my life, I see as a blessing. As much pain and hurt as I've written about in this chapter, I can honestly say I wouldn't trade any of it back for a different outcome. Every moment is a chance to grow, to love, to create, and this relationship, with all its challenges, was a thread in the cosmic web that taught me to see myself more clearly, to weave a tapestry of light through the lessons I've gained.
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