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After my divorce, tasks as simple as mowing the lawn felt huge

Yanking the cord, the lawn mower roars to life, spewing bits of grass and gasoline fumes. Pushing the mower forward, row after row in neat lines across the lawn, I am hot, sweaty and cursing the bugs flying at my face.

And I feel triumphant.

I was 33, owned my own home and had never mowed a lawn in my life. As a kid, I had severe asthma and allergies, so I wasn’t allowed to mow the grass. Now I had a load of debt and a yard to take care of, so someone had to do it.

Sheepishly, I told a friend that I had a mower but didn’t know how to use it. With my meager budget, I couldn’t afford to hire a landscaper: I was already underwater, trying to figure out how I was going to afford my mortgage, car payment and a five-figure credit card bill. My friend’s husband, Marco, volunteered to come over that weekend and teach me how to mow the lawn.

Marco was patient and kind with me – he didn’t laugh as he taught me how to fill the mower with gas, start it and carve neat lines in the yard. Then he showed me how to use the weed whacker to detail the sidewalks and trim around the skinny trees in the front yard. I learned how to replace the cutting cord, too, because that tended to fly off frequently.

Learning new things was becoming an everyday habit since my husband walked out weeks before. I had to learn to take care of anything that came my way, without someone to call. I had trouble asking for help because I felt like a failure already with an impending divorce; admitting I couldn’t handle some household tasks made me feel even lower.

And yet, my friends didn’t bat an eye when I needed them. I had surgery scheduled a month after my husband left, an outpatient procedure that required sedation and a ride home. I no longer had a fallback plan; there was no one who was required to take care of me. I had myself and my friends – and I was going to have to get out of my comfort zone and admit I couldn’t do it all myself. My family helped from afar, but they were four states away and unable to be in Atlanta with me all the time.

A friend came through, driving me to the hospital early in the morning and waiting for me to emerge from surgery, taking me to her place and tucking me into her spare bed. I was grateful and appreciative. But inside I felt vulnerable and alone – frustrated and sad that I had to lean on anyone.

Before that spring, I had never lived alone. I left my parents’ house at 18 to move into a college dorm, then to an apartment with roommates, later to an apartment with the boyfriend who became my husband. Nearly 10 years into our relationship and several homes later, we decided to build a house. The experience was exhilarating but terrifying, and we did our best to stay within a comfortable mortgage range. Our house was finished in December; when he moved out in April, the paint was barely dry. The house felt empty and quiet.

When my parents drove down to visit, my father brought me a toolbox. I picked up my first hammer and felt the weight in my hands. This is mine, I said to myself. This is my house, my life – and I’m going to rebuild it.

Soon it became empowering to handle my house crises on my own. I learned how to do the most mundane things: I can use a level. I can hang this picture properly. I can sand this corner. I can paint over this scuff. And I can mow the lawn.

Every time I learned a new skill, I felt an electric thrill rush through my body.

It isn’t so hard, I thought, guiding my lawnmower in careful rows through the backyard. I was finding my way through a new world, solo, bits of color appearing from what was a dark and dreary scene. As I glimpse the green grass and the reflection of the sun in the distance, I realize: I am going to make it.



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