Somewhere in my past I had learned that when others were happy, I was safe—until walking out my life across egg shells had exhausted my soul.
Taking one last look around the bayside apartment, I slid the keys off my keychain and left them on the counter.
The mattress and box springs leaned against the wall, but everything else had been sold, shipped, or packed into the car the night before.
The plan was to drive straight through from Florida to Ohio, return to my apartment in Cincinnati for a few days, and then head to The Bridge for a two-week stay.
My friends knew nothing—about me returning home, much less heading to a recovery center in Kentucky. The facility didn’t allow for phones, laptops, or communication, so I told my parents the bare minimum and avoided a conversation I wasn’t ready to have.
As I locked the door behind me, the silence whispered that I was deserting a life I could never have. There were no sounds, no life, no laughter, just echoes of passing cars, bicycles, and neighbors walking their dogs from the day before.
Instead, a street light flickered in the darkness as I got into my car. Heading for the highway, I weaved through the cobblestoned streets, and away from my long morning runs, early commutes, and the most beautiful pink daybreaks I had ever seen.
There was a time when crossing over the mile-long Tampa Bay bridge promised a life I’d always wanted, but now the empty highway heading north held back my tears, much like the bay held back the light.
The fairy tale had ended. It wasn’t what I had bargained for—and as much as I thought I wanted it, I wasn’t willing to pay his price.
How long had I been running, chasing a carat and everything it professed to me?
As I drove forward, I looked down at the ring, still on my finger, unable to take it off. What was I still holding onto?
It was clear that I couldn’t leave him, even as the miles between us got further and further apart.
As the night came to an end, I shook off the snares of the darkness, determined to face whatever it was, really stealing my life—blind to what was waiting for me on the other side of that bridge.
The End.
Although there was no way to know what I was about to face— I had crossed over. From someone I no longer wanted to be, to someone I hadn’t yet faced.
The stakes weren’t just high. They were mine to bet on.
And as I crossed that bridge, I was taking something back that had once been stolen.
Weeks of retracing my life gave me a vantage point I’d never had— one that lifted me above regret, fueling a fierceness that drove me forward.
How did I let myself get here? The cost. The lost time. A life I could have had all along.
So when that highway opened up, holding back the day, it felt more like the calm before the storm. A storm that ensured I wouldn’t be, who I had once been.
No more proving. No more overextending. No more saying yes when I meant no.
Not for him. Not for anyone.
Call it codependency. Call it love addiction. Or simply call it a blind spot.
Whatever the name, it had revealed itself: And it was no longer about needing someone—or something—to feel safe.
Looking down, seeing the ring on my finger held so much irony. Yes—I was still in. But no longer on his terms.
This fight, it wasn’t just for me. It was for my daughter. For everything she deserved as well.
So although I was driving away, we were still together. I had been advised, not just by my therapist, but by the recovery center itself:
Wait. See if you can work through this together.
What I’ve learned since then is this, when your nervous system is in survival mode, you don’t make decisions from wholeness.
You make them from fear. Or from hope, dressed up as clarity.
That’s why recovery matters.
It interrupts the magnet, the one that pulls you back toward what’s familiar, even when it hurts.
Ross Rosenberg calls it the Human Magnet Syndrome: the unconscious pull between the codependent and the narcissist. Two puzzle pieces that lock into each other— one overly responsible, the other avoidant or controlling.
Over time, that magnet becomes a loop. The more the relationship hurts, the harder you try to fix it. And the harder you try, the more it confirms the lie that you’re the problem.
But you’re not.
And neither was I.
I had simply been cast in a role I no longer agreed to play.
That morning, crossing the Tampa Bridge, I wasn’t running. I wasn’t unraveling. I was returning.
Not just to a new life— but to the woman I was always meant to be.
Twelve chapters later, here we are. And hundreds of women have shown up to cross this bridge together.
Thank you.
I didn’t write this to entertain. I wrote it to share my story. To heal something in me and maybe, in you, too.
Some of you have told me that certain chapters met you right where you were. Some loved Chapter 5. Others said Chapter 8. Just yesterday, someone emailed to say that Chapter 11 was their favorite
Others told me this story provided the words for something they hadn’t yet named.
That’s why this matters.
Because when we feel seen, we remember. We feel safe. We know what’s true.
So yes, this might be the end of Chasing the Carat: Part One— but before I move forward, I wanted to pause.
I wanted to check in with you.
What parts of this story met you in yours? What pulled you in? What landed unexpectedly?
I’d love to hear from you. Your thoughts. Your story.
And as for me— I'm ready to cross that Tampa Bridge again. My sights set on Cincinnati. Preparing to return home. Trusting for something bigger, again.
That’s why I needed to finish Chapter 12 before I decided what’s next.
Do I write about Camp—what happened when I really let go? Or maybe it’s enough to let this story breathe for a bit—just as it is.
If you want more, I’d love to know what more means to you: More story? More insight? More tools for healing?
Drop a comment. Send a message. Let me know what this opened in you— and if you’d like to keep walking together.
Thank you. For being here. For staying with me. For crossing this bridge.
I couldn’t have done it without you.
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