Recently, I had a discussion with my sister about old sitcoms we can no longer watch because of the things that no longer hold up in 2026. Things like sexual harassment against women were often played for laughs in the 1970s and 1980s. It was icky then and icky now. But writers rooms were filled with mostly white men who thought these things were funny and did not perceive of it differently or see it from a woman’s point of view.

Writer’s rooms have become more diverse over the decades (at long last), and this means stories are no longer told purely from one perspective. One hopes, there are people present to veto purely offensive storylines or offensive jokes before they make it on the air.

Having women in the room where these decisions are being made is crucial.

From what I’ve seen — when women are part of the conversation or driving the conversation around issues like domestic abuse or violence— we get a brilliantly complex show like FURIOUS on Hulu.

This show explores how "not all men" are abusers, but many are complicit. They refuse to take action. Or they pretend they don't see the abuse. Or maybe, because of their privilege, they have the freedom to be completely unaware.

Meanwhile, WOMEN in America are FURIOUS. And they have every right to be. And you know what? It's amazing that more abused, traumatized women aren't violent vigilantes in a society that causes so much harm to women and children.

When men alone drive the conversation (whether on TV or in advertising) we get the so-called "harmless" ad approved by two companies — Calloway and Good Good Golf — that shows a woman being assaulted as entertainment.

This vile ad (that was pulled almost immediately due to backlash) touts their new driver as so superior that a white man (Good Good Golf's CEO) not only violently tackles a female golfer to the ground, but then stands over her menacingly in a threatening position of power.

It’s the man’s seeming hatred toward the woman that triggered me most. I can’t imagine how it made domestic abuse survivors feel. I do know it felt like a threat to all women — you are weak, and we don’t want you on the golf course, in the board room, or in our male-only spaces.

It’s a weird take and message to send when you are trying to sell a product in a sport where women are the fastest growing demographic. According to statistics, 8.1 million women (and girls) play traditional golf — a 45% increase since 2019/2020.

It’s also dumb to piss off women when we drive the global economy by influencing 70% to 80% of all consumer purchases. Why would you want to alienate the demographic which controls nearly $32 trillion in annual global spending?

How did this ad that uses violence against a woman as a punchline get approved by dozens of people?

Well, folks, despite the spending power of women — we live in a patriarchy, with a huge dash of white supremacy. And white men have a certain amount of privilege which leads to their blind spots around that privilege. This is why they STILL don't see the damage being done to marginalized people (including women). And they don’t see that by looking the other way, or perpetuating these messages, they are complicit in the abuse directed against women and children in our society.

Boys still sit around in board rooms and on golf courses thinking casual misogynist humor is funny and acceptable. This is what they grew up on— same as we grew up on. But while we saw how ugly and humiliating it was, they feel a certain nostalgia for it. They don’t understand the harm it causes to victims and survivors to see their trauma played for laughs.

This ad truly is an atrocity. The poor handling of the apology (non-apology) will be used as a case study on WHAT NOT TO DO in Crisis Communication classes for years to come. But the most confusing part of this debacle is that every step along the way they chose this ad.

They LAUGHED when this idea was pitched. Laughed while they filmed it. Laughed while they watched the rough cut and then the final cut. Laughed when the ad went live.

And never once did the get the icky feeling the rest of us got IMMEDIATELY from it.

Why would they? These guys are only doing what they've seen their daddies, and granddaddies do for generations without any consequence. And now they're shocked to learn the world is changing and there are consequences. They’re being held accountable while past generations were rewarded and applauded. It’s a shock to their systems.

But they’re mostly shocked to learn that women aren’t going to put up with it anymore— not in their marriages, not in their homes, not at work— and not from corporations and advertisers who laugh at their pain.

Women are moving forward. We don’t want to go back to a time when jokes about assault and harassment were not just acceptable but considered the very height of entertainment for the masses.

For the men who still don’t get what the fuss is about, maybe it’s time to listen, learn, and try to understand someone else’s perspective for a change.

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Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story analyst and coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her divorce called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

I was sitting on my front stoop, barefoot, phone in hand when the yelling began.

“I’m really angry, Liz. I can’t believe what you did,” he growled.

I had stepped outside to take the call because my dogs tend to get up in my face and demand attention when I’m on the phone. Only hours earlier, I had proudly handed in a first draft revision on a screenplay (a rush job) and I was awaiting the producer’s preliminary notes before embarking on further revisions and a polish.

I hadn’t expected him to call back the same day. So, I wasn’t exactly perched at my desk, prepared to receive his feedback, pen in hand.

The script was a father/daughter road trip movie and the producer had hired me to primarily rewrite the daughter’s role, even though the rest of the script had major story issues as well. I think I did a phenomenal job considering what I was working with and how quickly he demanded I write it.

The producer continued, “You did the ONE thing I told you NOT to do.”

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Despite not yet knowing what had triggered his anger, I tried to help him see that it wasn’t necessarily a big deal, “This is a preliminary draft,” I said, “I’m happy to change anything that doesn’t work or doesn’t make you happy—”

“Shut up! Stop talking!” he bellowed at me. “I’m so angry right now.”

My body shook and I felt tears welling in my eyes. A man had never talked to me like this before. Not even my ex-husband.

The producer continued to rant and rave and talk over me. “I don’t want to hear any excuses. Be quiet and listen to me!”

When I asked if I could please explain, he cut me off, “I’m gonna hang up now and when you’re ready to apologize and admit you were wrong… call me back.”

The phone went silent in my hand. My brain was spinning.

I have to fix this. I can’t believe I fucked up. There’s been some misunderstanding, but I will make it right. I’ll do whatever it takes…

However, by the time I turned to go back inside my house, my thoughts had shifted drastically.

If I were dating a guy and he screamed at me and told me to shut up — I would end the relationship immediately.

I would NEVER tolerate this behavior from a romantic partner.

I’d never let a friend, sister, daughter, or niece tolerate it either.

So why was I letting a man speak to me like this about my work?

Everything crystallized in that moment. Instead of crying or becoming overwhelmed with shame or self-blame, I became super clear in my boundaries.

I will NEVER call this man back.

Nor will I work with him again.

Fuck him.

I’m done.

Cutting Ties with an Abuser

I went inside, made myself a cup of tea, and then called my friend George — the man who had brought me into this producer’s orbit by suggesting me for a writing assignment. The second assignment with this producer (who I’ll call Blake) — a rewrite — came less than a month after I completed the other screenplay (based on a true story), which was being fast-tracked and already had a young, up-and-coming female DGA director attached. Just the week before, Blake was telling me I’d have to join the WGA and my salary would fall under the union minimum, minus the down payment I had already been paid.

On that script, Blake had nothing but nice things to say about me and my work. I was his hero, the woman who came out of nowhere and saved his project. He kept saying how much he wanted to fly me down to Louisiana once the film went into production so I could meet the cast and crew. I was just happy that he paid me on-time and seemed to respect and appreciate me.

My friend George, whom I’d worked with for over 20 years, was attached as a producer on the first project, so I wanted to keep him in the loop.

“Hi, George,” I said, “As of today, I’m cutting ties with Blake. Honestly, he’s an emotionally abusive asshole, and I have no desire to ever speak to him again.”

George was shocked, and of course asked me if I wanted him to talk to Blake and straighten things out. He knew how hard I worked (and had been working for 20+ years) and he didn’t want to see me lose multiple professional opportunities over a stupid misunderstanding or creative disagreement. He also told me Blake was in over his head and being pushed around by the new director and her team.

Despite respecting George, I didn’t want to hear any excuses for Blake’s intolerable abusive behavior.

I told George, “I’m a professional and I have no problem getting notes or making changes. But this man just revealed to me that not only is he an asshole — he’s an amateur. I don’t want to salvage this relationship.”

“It’s a shame,” George said, “Are you sure we can’t make it work if he apologizes?”

I explained again that this wasn’t just about this man yelling at me or hurting my feelings. I had seen and ignored red flags for months.

Also, this was not my first experience with a conman producer. These men were great at pulling teams of talented, hardworking people together by finding people like George and tapping into their professional networks. But things usually unraveled quickly when they couldn’t deliver on their promises — usually when the additional funds didn’t show up.

“Oh, George,” I said, “I highly doubt there’s going to be any movies going into production. Based on his behavior, I won’t be surprised if both productions implode sooner rather than later.”

Red flags at work

As I explained the red flags to George, I suddenly felt stupid. How had I let this man treat me so poorly?

I had been single for five years, and every time I dipped my toes into the dating world, I immediately retracted when the men on the dating sites came on too strong.

“Hey, gorgeous, I love your smile.” or “Hey, sexy! Let’s chat.”

Oh, please, I’d think. You don’t know me, and you say the same lame thing to every woman you meet. It annoyed me that these men thought middle-aged single women were so lonely or desperate that they’d fall for any dumb compliment hoisted their way.

And yet, hadn’t I allowed this producer to pull the same crap on me?

Instead of praising my looks (or telling me I was gorgeous or sexy), Blake praised my writing as exceptional. After years of being overlooked and receiving nothing but rejections for my writing, it felt good to finally be recognized and rewarded for my hard work and persistence.

Before he hired me to write the first feature film, I sent Blake a short spec script as a writing sample. It was my version of a Black Mirror episode where long-suffering wives take desperate scientific measures to take back control from their narcissistic (emotionally abusive) husbands. Blake loved it. He told me it was brilliant and that he wanted to produce the short too. Within weeks, he set up a meeting with a commercial director interested in collaborating with me.

Things were moving fast — so fast, that I didn’t have time to question his motives or experience any doubt. I had work to do. And it felt incredible.

RED FLAG #1: Showering me with high praise about my work was a form of narcissistic lovebombing. “Your work is brilliant” is the equivalent of “you’re sexy” in the dating world.

RED FLAG #2: He was keeping me and everyone else moving at supersonic speeds to create dopamine releases and a high level of excitement. Anytime I asked a question or tried to slow things down, he got upset and pouted like a toddler.

Another narcissistic tactic he used? He’d call me day and night and expect me to pick up immediately and take his calls. I was in the middle of the film festival circuit during this time period with a short film I had co-directed. There were times, I got up in the middle of a screening and went outside the movie theater to take his call in a parking lot.

He always had exciting news to share, and it was always imperative that we speak immediately. And if he didn’t have exciting updates, then he’d call as a “friendly check-in” to see how the writing was coming.

RED FLAG #3: Looking back I see how he was training me to be available at his beck and call. I was becoming his favorite pet.

A week before I turned in the rewrite on the second assignment, I was at the beach enjoying a rare day off. That summer, I worked all week teaching, consulting, writing, and had spent most weekends at film festivals. I needed a mental and emotional break.

I was also ahead of schedule on the assignment for Blake. We had agreed to a four-week deadline but I was done with 85% of the rewrite with one full week to go.

As I laid on the beach, reading my book, a call came in from him.

Instead of a friendly check-in or an update on the other film, he was in a bit of bad mood. I immediately angered him by telling him a friend of mine had seen the casting notices go out on the first film and I wondered if they had made any progress.

“Why does that matter to you? Why are you even asking me about this? What is it you want to know?” He sneered, deeply offended by my response as if I had been interrogating him.

“Nothing. It’s just exciting to see things moving forward,” I said.

He then changed the subject and told me he was getting nervous and wanted to be assured by me that the second script would be ready to go by tomorrow — Monday morning.

I sat up straight, thinking I heard him wrong.

“What do you mean by tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is the 12th,” he said. “We agreed you’d deliver the script on Monday, the 12th.”

Really? I searched my brain. Had we changed the due date? Had I gotten it wrong? If so, why hadn’t I changed it on my calendar?

By that time, we had so many phone calls (and I had answered them day and night whether I was busy or not — driving or in the middle of a meal) that I convinced myself I got it wrong.

While he continued to talk, I jumped up, rolled up my towel, packed up all my chair and headed towards my car.

“No problem,” I said to him. “I would have liked another week to do a little polish, but the first draft is pretty much done. I’ll have it to you by noon tomorrow.”

I headed home, sweaty and panicked, preparing to pull an all-nighter on the screenplay.

That night Blake called me back around 10 pm.

He immediately backpedaled. “You were right, we did say next Monday. I confused you with another writer and project.”

He acted genuinely apologetic, taking full responsibility for the error.

I laughed it off, and excused the mistake he made. After all, he was a busy producer juggling so many different and exciting projects. How could I be mad? Especially when he was going to bring three of my scripts to life?

Unfortunately, the damage to me and my psyche had already been done. I had given up a day of rest and rushed home to work, convinced I had fucked up.

RED FLAG #4: Plain and simple, he gaslit me. He sent me into a panic by convincing me I was wrong about the agreed upon deadline, thus making me mistrust my own memory and facts.

RED FLAG #5: The fake apology was a tactical one to see how far he could push me and how much I would put up with. It served to also put the blame back on me.

He actually suggested to me that I shouldn’t be such a pushover. He said I should have stood my ground with him when I knew I was right.

Instead of taking true accountability for his mistake, he made the entire ordeal my fault for not being stronger, pushier and more aggressive with him — the man who was paying for my services and could fire me at any time.

The First Red Flag Missed

Weeks earlier, Blake had called me up begging me to work on a rewrite for him so he could go into production as soon as possible on a project that already had a significant TV name attached (due to the writer’s friendship with the actor).

I had told him I was pretty busy and not sure I had time to get the job done in four weeks. The writer seemed like a nice guy, but this was his personal story. Plus, he was planning to direct the film himself. I didn’t want to spend my energy rewriting something that probably would be a waste of everyone’s time as the writer/director would ultimately have the final decision, and could easily toss my entire rewrite.

Instead of respecting my boundaries, Blake got upset at me. “You owe me this. I took a chance on you.”

He continued to tell me how I was disappointing him and letting him down. And he didn’t deserve it considering he had vouched for me — an unproduced screenwriter— on the first project. Again, he made it clear, I owed him.

At the time, it bothered me that he was acting like HE did ME a favor. He hired me, and I delivered on our agreement. I did my job. Why did that make me indebted to him?

In the end, he agreed to pay me a kill fee for the script (if my version was rejected outright) and I took the assignment.

He had brilliantly made me feel guilty for having the audacity to possibly say no to this assignment. And that was a major red flag.

RED FLAG #6: He used guilt to manipulate me into ignoring my personal boundaries and cave to his demands.

What I Did to Make Him So Mad

When he sent me the script to read that he wanted revised, my friend George told me the script was a stinker. George couldn’t see how it could be saved. I read it, and saw a father/daughter story that could be moving and even compelling if the daughter wasn’t written as a one-dimensional bitch. I wanted to get beneath her wound and explore it in real, not sitcom-type way. I also didn’t want to allow her alcoholic father to get off scott-free for ruining her life — just because he was charismatic, cute, and funny (and to be played by a handsome aging TV star).

Before I did anything, I talked to the writer, and then met with Blake via phone to discuss my suggested changes. He interrupted me to say, “You don’t have to give me all the details. I don’t care what you change. But the writer/director asked for one thing — don’t reveal the father has a terminal illness and is dying in the first act.”

I had pushed for this reveal earlier, because leaving it to the third act was simply bad writing. Sure, I wouldn’t reveal this to the daughter in the script whom he’s trying to re-establish a relationship with, but waiting to reveal this to the audience stripped the entire script of stakes and urgency. If the audience doesn’t know the guy is dying, there is no reason to take the roadtrip or feel a sense of “it’s now or never.”

Still, I agreed to his one stipulation. I’d make it work — at least in the first draft.

And so, that’s what I did. However, I still wanted to layer in some foreshadowing for astute readers/viewers so that the third act reveal wouldn’t come completely out of nowhere.

In the original script, in the first act — the father receives a message from his doctor about an important appointment he can’t miss. I did not add that to the script, I merely moved it from page 20ish to page 7 to establish a ticking clock. The appointment was at the end of the week, so the father had only so much time to convince his daughter to take this trip across the country so he could be home in time.

I never said the appointment was from his oncologist or involved a terminal disease. I merely used it as a device to add urgency beneath the story (which was otherwise meandering). This is standard stuff in screenwriting. Did it mean some smart viewers would figure out the father was perhaps sick or dying? Maybe. But this was a first draft. If it seemed too obvious, then we could take it out or move it.

The problem was that Blake NEVER even read the script I sent to him.

He sent it to other people (or maybe ONE person, who knows with him) who for some reason decided I fucked him over. Someone told him I revealed the father was terminal in the first ten pages. This was factually incorrect, but this was the information he was going on when he called me up and screamed at me over the phone.

Breadcrumbs and Hoovering

In the end, it ultimately didn’t matter if I was right or he was wrong in this disagreement. With a normal person, we would have discussed it rationally and resolved it quickly.

But this guy isn’t normal. And this experience was about character and how one treats other people — especially the people they employ or have power over.

When I looked back I could see how he was subtly testing my boundaries time and time again. Nothing was done in such a way to truly make the red flags obvious until the moment he lost his shit on me. After months of working together, he assumed I was in a weaker position than I was.

His assumptions were:

— I needed him more than he needed me.
— I was so desperate to break into Hollywood that I would take his abuse.
— That I was too much of a wuss to ever push back.
— That he was in control of me because he had all the power/money/jobs.

When I realized he had ZERO power over me — and I’d never call him back or beg for his forgiveness — it was one of the most intoxicating and empowering moments of my life.

Having been a people pleaser and self-described "good girl” my entire life, I worked hard to follow the rules and not create any unnecessary conflict. Growing up, I was groomed by the Catholic Church to be pushed around by people in power who demanded my blind loyalty and trampled over my boundaries.

But I knew from the moment I got off the phone on my front steps that this man was likely a narcissist. He was not going to change his ways. Any apology from him would mean nothing. And if I forgave him, it would give him carte blanche to become an even bigger asshole to me.

Eventually, because I wanted him to honor our agreement and pay me the kill fee on the script, I accepted a phone call from him (arranged by our mutual friend, George). He uttered a fairly standard and lame apology, and said he was sorry for over-reacting.

I did not correct him or even accept his apology. I responded, “It’s clear we can no longer work together.” He agreed and told me he’d send me a check.

A few days later, my phone rang again. It was Blake. I hit ignore.

A few days later, he tried again to call me.

When I didn’t answer his calls, Blake sent me a text:

Hey, just wanted to check on your short film. I know we can’t work on the other script, but I still want to produce your short. And the director wants to know if we’re still on. Give me a call.

I checked this message and laughed out loud. I no longer had any doubt this man was a narcissist. Every action he took was directly from the Narcissist’s Playbook.

I had quit, then rejected his apology, and basically told him to take his jobs and shove them. But he was not giving up on me. And that’s because a narcissist will dump you but they don’t like being the one dumped.

Dumping a narcissist creates an intense ego wound for them. They will try their best to either retaliate or reel you back in so that they can regain total control. When charm doesn’t work, they turn to anger or victim mode.

RED FLAG #7: Blake was sending out breadcrumbs — using my short film as way to see if he could get me to bite and re-engage. This is called Breadcrumbing or Hoovering — because the narcissist is testing your boundaries, trying to suck you back in.

Once again, Blake tried to assert power over me. He assumed I was so desperate to get my short film made, that I’d come crawling back to him. He didn’t know that I had already realized he was a terrible producer and a phony.

The breadcrumb was the last straw. I blocked Blake’s number and never looked back.

Soon after, I heard from George (as I predicted) the deal for the first film fell apart swiftly. The second film eventually got made with the original script intact — without Blake’s involvement. I saw clips online and despite having a TV name attached, it underwhelmed the public (as I knew the script would).

All of this turned out exactly as I predicted. I knew Blake would never get any of these projects across the finish line. How could he when he’s clearly a fraud, a conman, a hustler, a narcissist, and an asshole?

All of the red flags I mentioned may seem obvious now, but in the creative world these types of behaviors aren’t just tolerated, they’re often expected — or worse, rewarded. Creatives can be temperamental, demanding, dramatic, and even toxic but we put up with it because the jobs are so coveted and hard to come by. Nobody ever wants to rock the boat or push back because there are dire consequences if we do.

As exciting as screenwriting and filmmaking can seem on the surface — it is a world that attracts predators and abusers — and provides protection for them and their deviant behaviors.

For me personally, I’d rather maintain my dignity and integrity than grovel or be toyed with by a narcissist. The main thing I keep in mind is this: I didn’t miss the subtle red flags with Blake. I catalogued them until the day he miscalculated me and showed his true colors.

Once his narcissism became apparent, I immediately cut ties and walked away, even when others advised me to suck it up and stick with it. I never wavered in my conviction that NOBODY treats me like shit and gets to stay in my life. Not a romantic partner — and certainly not an asshole producer.

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Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story analyst and coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her divorce called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

I recently watched the video of Melissa Gilbert defending her husband, Timothy Busfield, who was arrested and jailed for accusations of child sexual assault. When asked by George Stephanopoulos how this experience has been for Gilbert, she answered: “Hell. This has been the most traumatizing experience of our lives.”

I imagine it would be hell to have your husband embroiled in such a situation. But on the other hand, I was shocked Melissa Gilbert was taking this position in such a public way.

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Look, I understand she loves her husband and wants to defend him ferociously. But I also suspect her own agents/team might want her to tone the “poor me” victimization in light of the fact that her husband has been indicted on felony charges of criminal sexual contact with minors.

If she’s right — and this is a vendetta perpetrated by the boys’ parents — she’ll be vindicated. If she’s wrong? America’s Sweetheart Melissa Gilbert just threw sexual abuse victims under the bus to support another wealthy, powerful white male predator.

Innocent until proven guilty

Now, I’m not saying Busfield is guilty of these charges, and like every other citizen he deserves to have his day in court to prove his innocence. But I also can’t help but cringe by Gilbert’s dramatic, insistent defense of her man.

In this interview, she makes it clear she believes her husband is simply NOT capable of these horrific charges against him. She insists that she knows this man and he would never!

But how does she know for sure? Because HE TOLD HER. She and she alone knows the truth of this case. Her husband’s word is enough.

Oh, dear, Melissa Gilbert. Yeah, we know, after marrying a bunch of toads you think Timmy is a good one. He is your knight in shining armor who would NEVER do anything wrong. Forget the fact that he has a trail of sexual allegations. You’ve determined those were also all LIES. Once again, because you asked, and Timmy told you he was innocent.

Hmmm… So it’s easier for a good, trusting, loyal wife to believe a man is being systematically targeted time and time again with sexual allegations — than to believe that the man might be the one generating deviant behaviors causing these allegations?

The Trusting Wife

Like Melissa Gilbert, I once thought I was a good wife with a good husband. I was loyal and true to the end, even though my man betrayed our vows, abandoned the marriage after 25 years, and never looked back.

Mine wasn’t a predator, he just had a habit of “compartmentalizing” as even our couples counselor pointed out. There were two versions of my husband — the man married to me and the stranger who left me behind as if I was a bag of old garbage.

I’m not saying you can compare a cheater to a sexual predator. But until my husband betrayed me, I too would have defended him with my life. After our marriage fell apart, I even wrote, “I don’t know who this man is. The man I loved for three decades would NEVER do this to me.”

That’s because the man I loved didn’t. It took me years to understand Dr. Jeckyll didn’t betray me, but Mr. Hyde did.

Even when I had the smoking gun (his phone records) proving that my husband climbed out of our marital bed on our 25th Anniversary to call the Other Woman — he still insisted they were just friends and his friend was in crisis. For a second, I almost believed his lies. Until I realized, this man NEVER once had a female friend in 30 years. And a woman would call her sister, mother or best girlfriend when in crisis — not the golf buddy she knew for a total of eight weeks.

Not all men are cheaters or predators, but I do think a lot of them were taught lying as a way to protect other people’s feelings. Plus some of them find it easier to separate their good and bad sides through alter egos or compartmentalizing. Many men can appear to be upstanding citizens, fathers, husbands on the surface but practice deviant behaviors in the dark. I’m not even sure they are lying to their wives, as much as they are lying to themselves in a world that told them to wear masks and pretend to be good, rather than do the work to actually be good.

With women — what you see is what you get. Therefore, when a man tells us who he is, we believe him. We assume the way he treats us is the way he treats everyone. We never suspect that a man we love could purposely groom us to be his de facto defender. We don’t understand how a man can present one way to us, and another way to the world.

I don’t know Timothy Busfield, but I would not be shocked if he had a private persona different from his public persona. I would not be shocked if he purposely married a good, trusting, loyal wife like Melissa Gilbert to help create the image of marital perfection and a Hollywood power couple. I would not be shocked if he did exactly what he has been accused of. So many powerful men are not the squeaky clean heroes they proclaim to be.

As for Gilbert, I feel she likely is another victim in all this. Of course, she wants her marriage to be strong and stable. And why should she suffer the consequences of a vendetta or her husband’s actions?

But the louder I hear her defending her man, blaming others, and wallowing in her own trauma, I want to say: Girl, there are children involved. Stand down. Wait to see what evidence is uncovered before you blindly trust what this man has told you.

Gilbert wants so desperately to exonerate her husband through her own sheer will. And I get it. A good wife never wants to learn the man she married is a stranger or worse — a monster.

She is not the first good wife to stand by an undeserving man, and she won’t be the last.

But by coming out so loud and vocally, and using her celebrity to try to control the narrative, she is setting herself for disaster. If Busfield is ultimately found guilty, his wife (who has done no wrong) will come away tarnished. She’ll be remembered as either delusional or naive.

Or worse? She’ll be labeled as complicit. The adorable little girl who grew up on our TVs as Half Pint will forever be known as the fierce defender of a child predator.

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Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story analyst and coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her divorce called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

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For months, I’ve had zero appetite. I subsist on saltine crackers and ginger ale. Sometimes a whiff of gas or boiled eggs sends me back midday to vomit into the toilet yet again. In the evening, I’ll grab a flavored ice pop as it’s the only thing that doesn’t make me want to hurl. And it gives me five minutes of joy.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was pregnant. Because waking up sick and subsisting on saltines, ginger ale, and ice pops describes both of my pregnancies. I’m still amazed my babies flourished and grew while I lost close to 30 pounds in my first trimesters.

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At 58, I can assure you, I am NOT pregnant.

That ship has sailed, along with the fact that I am living in what I call my “Monk Phase” of life. I am happily single and not looking to mingle.

No, there isn’t going to be a new baby around these parts. These new symptoms are not hormone-driven. They’re the terrible and unbearable side effects of a drug I’m on to fight migraines.

I Want a New Drug

In early May, I started taking Qulipta - a daily pill that blocks the calcitonin gene-related peptide (CGRP) protein to stop migraine attacks before they begin. And for the first 45 days, it was awesome. Without having 3-5 migraines a week, I suddenly had a lot more energy and time.

Then I realized my appetite was being affected. At first, I didn’t mind. The “food noise” was silenced which meant I stopped craving sweet and salty snacks throughout the day as I worked. I found myself eating half a meal and saving the leftovers.

It wasn’t until I was decluttering my closet and tried on a pair of skinny jeans that I realized I had already lost eight pounds without trying. And as the days went on, I discovered I had stopped eating small meals and began pushing away food completely. Just the thought of eating made me gag.

Nausea and lack of appetite are known to be side effects of Qulipta in a small percentage of people (yay, lucky me). But nowhere does it say that you will be whisked back 30 years and feel like you are once again pregnant — desperately trying to keep down at least one tiny meal a day so that you don’t starve yourself.

In total I’ve lost 25 pounds in three months which is a lot, especially when you consider that I’m only five feet tall. That’s an average of eight pounds a month. I’m still shocked when I check the scale and see the numbers continue to plummet.

I know in this thin-centric world some (or maybe most) women would kill for this rapid weight loss, but it’s come with pain and discomfort. The summer is rushing by and besides feeling miserable, I have not eaten a single meal with gusto. I usually love spicy foods — buffalo wings and Mexican food being my favorites.

Now, I’m told to stick to bland foods that won’t upset my already hyper-sensitive stomach.

Of course I’m concerned that the weight is continuing to come off, but I recently had a physical and all of my blood work checks out. My primary doctor suggested I cut the Qulipta dosage in half and see if that helps my stomach, without bringing back the migraines. It’s too early to tell if this will work.

I’m beginning to suspect that I’m simply not a good candidate for this drug. Fewer headaches is not worth it when your stomach is aching all day.

And this bums me out. I had hoped that Qulipta would be miracle drug that would finally take away my migraines and leave me with nothing but bliss.

Silly, I know. Miracle drugs don’t exist. Every pill comes with risk. I can list half a dozen other prescriptions I’ve tried to treat my migraines over the years — and discarded — because the side effects weren’t just terrible, they were unbearable.

So, where does that leave me?

Besides nicknaming the drug Pukelipta, I’m looking forward to the day I can toss the saltines and ginger ale and order a buffalo chicken pizza and a side of my favorite nachos.

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Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story analyst and coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her divorce called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

Between 2013 and 2019, I was in non-stop pain due to chronic Lyme disease. Most of my doctors dismissed my Lyme diagnosis and pointed to the bulging disc in my lumbar spine as the source of this constant pain. We did a bunch of treatments to treat this condition: epidurals, facet and trigger point injections, PT, chiropractic adjustments, heating, icing, tens units, spinal decompression, acupuncture, and massage. Then there was the pain medicine (narcotics, muscle relaxants, NSAIDs, benzos, antidepressants) that always seemed to make me much sicker with side effects.

But after years of this, my doctors basically told me they could not reverse this structural damage and in all likelihood, I’d just have to learn to live with the pain for the rest of my life.

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That’s when I turned away from traditional medicine and found a holistic doctor to help focus on Lyme disease.

After all, that one bulging disc might have explained my back pain but it did not explain why I was chronically fatigued, had brain fog, and couldn’t find the energy or focus to read a book, let alone get back to the novel I had started writing.

While my pain doctors told me to get used to pain, my holistic doctor treated the inflammation in my body. She helped me detox and then rebuild my autoimmune system that had been ravaged by stress, mold toxicity, and several tick-borne illnesses.

A Medical Miracle

Then, one day, after years of treatments for Lyme disease, in 2019, I woke up without pain! Without brain fog! Without fatigue! I felt like my old self, only better because I was suddenly back from the dead.

I wrote about it on Facebook:

I considered myself lucky, but knew even in that moment that nothing guaranteed this good health would continue. Still, I made a promise to never take health for granted again.

I knew how easily it could all be taken away.

The Pain Unfortunately Returns

While the worst symptoms of Lyme disease have luckily never returned, I have faced ongoing pain issues over the past seven years (including migraines). I’ve had COVID twice, and both times these bouts seemed to flare my immune system for several months.

A year ago, I began having almost constant migraines. After several MRIs, we discovered I had bulging discs in my cervical and thoracic spine. My right trapezius muscle is super-tight and knotted. My headaches start at the bottom of my neck, and radiate upwards through my occipital and trigeminal nerves.

I know a lot of this pain is likely caused by my posture, and the stress of working on a computer most days. But I’ve been to PT, and I’ve re-arranged my workspace. I’ve bought expensive pillows to prop my neck up at night. The pain continues.

Once again, I’ve found myself seeing pain doctors who suggest the usual treatments: epidurals, facet and trigger point injections. Only this time, they added Botox and nerve blocks as options. I was also put on a new migraine pill that did leave me migraine-free for almost two months. But it also killed my appetite, making me nauseous all day long. I lost over 24 pounds in just three months. And I get sick at the smell of most foods.

These new pain doctors once again warn me that with these structural issues in my neck and spine, I should get used to living with pain. Forever.

To that, I say, HELL NO.

Most pain doctors will now also admit to me that most of the treatments (epidurals, facet injections, nerve blocks, and Botox) are not meant to provide long-term relief. At best, each of these treatments offers weeks to months of relief. This keeps many patients with chronic pain spending a lot of time and money repeating these treatments that focus on temporarily quieting pain signals. But no one ever seems to know how to correct the true source of the pain — without surgery.

Yet, there is an entire industry online selling special pillows, red light therapy, massage tools, and miracle creams to relieve this pain. How can so many people describe the same exact neck and shoulder pain — but nobody can actually fix it?

My guess is that, like last time, it will turn out to be a combination of modalities (medical treatments, pillows, pills, creams, stress-relief) that will help me. But what helps me, might not help everyone. And it takes a lot of trial and error to find the individual plan that works best.

There is no ONE SIZE FITS ALL when it comes to chronic pain.

It makes me wonder… why do we even visit pain doctors if at best all they can do is take the edge off of our pain (but not cure it) while telling us to accept we’ll spend the rest of our lives in pain?

What are we even doing?

Besides, my doctors were also wrong last time. They told me the pain in my lumbar spine would never resolve itself. It did! And the pain hasn’t come back there.

Maybe I’m naive or hopeful, but I’ve already had a one medical miracle, and I have to believe my body is capable of another.

I’m not ready to live in pain for the rest of my life.

I’m not ready to accept that temporary relief is all I can ever hope to enjoy.

I do believe I’ll eventually figure out my triggers, find the structural weaknesses, and rebuild them on my own.

And someday soon I’ll be celebrating another miracle online!

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Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story analyst and coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her divorce called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

Whenever a woman was abandoned or betrayed by a bad husband in my family, I heard some variation of: "She still loves him and can't get over him. She’s like a ghost pining for his return..."

Okay, let's get something straight — we need to stop making assumptions about single ladies. Especially women of a certain age.

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I love Charles Dickens, but I also blame him in part for this “sad pining single woman” myth. In Great Expectations, Dickens created the character Miss Havisham who is left at the altar and spends her life a spinster in isolation and despair wearing her tattered wedding dress plotting revenge.

When a man (usually a dismissive avoidant or narcissist) traumatizes you and moves on— if you don't enter a new relationship immediately or for several years— it can look like you are pining away for this great love of your life. Many believe the betrayed woman is delusionally awaiting for this dude to return.

In truth....

I, like many middle-aged women I know, simply decided we were done with this nonsense of centering men.

In fact, at a certain age, many women are happier alone.

Many women choose a calm, healthy nervous system once they understand what that looks and feels like.

Many women heal alone and understand it's better than settling or falling into another dysfunctional relationship with an unhealed man who refuses to go to therapy or deal with his toxic shit.

Many (if not most) single women are not pining for the emotionally abusive man who set their life on fire — they are healing from him. And yes it often takes a lifetime to repair this one man's ruin and trauma.

I’m sure there are many people who assume I haven’t dated post-divorce because I’m still in love with my ex-husband — a man I spent 32 years with in total.

I did once love this man and I abandoned my needs to make this marriage work. But after years of self-work (including psychedelic therapy) I am no longer naive or desperate for anyone’s approval. And I’m no longer in love with a man who showed such a lack of character or integrity.

It is patriarchal and misogynist nonsense that assumes a woman can't possibly move on or be happy while single.

And it shows me most people are lucky and never lived for decades with a narcissist or dismissive avoidant undermining their sense of stability and security.

The truth: After the initial shock and betrayal, you actually feel freed from a destructive pattern you had no idea existed until you exited it.

That doesn’t mean the pain isn’t real.

Of course I miss the world I built (or thought I was building)with someone I considered a partner.

Of course I grieve the future I was fully invested in.

Of course I’m disillusioned and hurt by the false promises that were made to me by a man who wore a mask and performed the role of a “good husband.”

Of course I’m shocked I slept beside a stranger for decades.

But that doesn't mean I am a deranged spinster haunting a decrepit home waiting for this betrayer to return. Nor am I plotting my revenge on all men.

Is it really so hard to believe that a woman can be whole, complete and happy without a man?

Women are freaking resilient.

We heal from a great many things.

Let's not let ONE literary character define all who have suffered heartbreak. We're stronger and much more complex than that.

And if these brave, strong, kickass women ARE waiting for anything it's usually an APOLOGY.

Those of us with integrity assume all humans are like us. We take accountability and responsibility for our actions. We apologize and make amends when we make mistakes and hurt people — especially those we claim to love.

And yes, it may be delusional to believe these men are capable of being held accountable. But not expecting an apology is also a sad commentary on how low the bar is for being a decent human man.

Trust me when I say, I’m not pining for a man or awaiting his return. I’m staying single for me and me alone. I’m holding space for me, not anyone else.

By abandoning our marriage in the coldest and cruelest manner that he could, my ex revealed himself to me. He pulled the wool away from my eyes. He broke the spell.

In seeing who he truly was I could see who I was — and come to understand why I allowed myself to remain in a marriage that made me feel so small and unworthy.

I didn’t intend to spend the last seven years alone but I did discover it suits me. At this stage of life, I’m better off on my own centering my own needs and desires.

And honestly, the thought of allowing anyone into my sacred space of peace fills me with dread. I’ve worked too hard for acceptance and self-love.

And whether I eventually decide to put myself out there again to date (or not) — there is one thing I know for sure — I’m not giving up my peace or compromising my integrity for anyone ever again.

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Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story analyst and coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her divorce called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

What struck me the most about this show is that every episode the client usually cries at some point in the decluttering process and apologizes to the team of Swedes for this crying. In one episode the team’s psychologist, Katarina, explains how a lot of her American clients use the phrase “I’m trying not to cry.” But her Swedish clients never use this phrase.

Holding in our emotions and feeling shame around tears, it seems, is a very American thing. But what else are we holding in when he hold back tears?

Katarina continues, “Emotions need motion. Those emotions just want to be seen and heard. So crying… it’s like, that’s the healing sometimes.”

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Precious and cherished

Seven years ago, as I was getting ready to move, I did a huge decluttering and downsizing using Marie Kondo’s method of picking up every item and releasing those that didn’t spark joy. Because my life was falling apart with the end of my marriage, I never quite made it to the sentimental stuff. My heart had let go of too many things. So I clung to my photos, journals, and memorabilia and boxed it all away.

As I wrote on Medium at the time: Even after almost a full year of decluttering, there is plenty of stuff I could live without if someone put a gun to my head. But nobody is putting a gun to my head. Besides, I have already lost so much these past couple of days, months, and years. I have decluttered and been decluttered. Right now, it feels good to hold onto that which is precious and cherished — if only to me.

In the last few weeks of Swedish death cleaning, I finally got around to tackling the precious and cherished portion of my things. And quite honestly it’s been liberating to look at these items in a new way — with a bit of distance and practicality.

Do I really need all of this to be happy? Do I need any of it to be happy? Why does clinging to memories of the past make me happy at all? Is this truly serving me or merely weighing me down?

I’ve actually become a bit obsessed with getting through this portion of Swedish death cleaning as quickly as I can before I chicken out and give stays of executions to items that play to my heart.

As the family photographer, photos have always been my sentimental Achilles heel. But now, when I look at bins and bins of unorganized photos all I see is clutter and it makes my brain hurt a little. I’ve already backed up most of these photos digitally anyway. And also, a lot of these old photos are just poor quality (bad lighting, bad cropping, bad development).

When I was younger, like most people, I went to a lot of weddings. And thirty years later, I don’t even speak to many of those people. I decided I didn’t need 50 photos from everyone’s weddings. Honestly, ten photos max is fine. For some weddings, I only kept three photos (especially the ones I looked good in). Others I kept one.

This is not to say this process has been smooth sailing. I’ve been pretty ruthless and strong-willed, but there are still photos — especially family photos — that stir up a shit ton of emotions. Every picture tells a story. And when you get to certain age and experience any kind of loss, even happy memories can bring up sorrow and grief.

An independent life

I thought I was being strong throughout this decluttering process but perhaps I flew too close to the sun. Perhaps I stirred up too many memories of the past.

For decades, my family threw huge July 4th pool parties with elaborate firework displays. Our home was the place to be, and even when I was debilitated with chronic Lyme disease, I played happy hostess to dozens of people in my backyard.

This year, things did not work out for me to travel for the holiday, or for my daughter to travel to see me. My son had to work. So, I spent the day alone.

Most of the time I’m quite happy with my current single and independent life. But being alone on any holiday is still hard.

Now, it was my choice to be alone this July 4th. I could have reached out and made plans, but I wanted a quiet beach day so I could relax, read a book, and not think about decluttering my home or getting any work done.

And I probably would have been fine (or maybe not) if I hadn’t had trouble finding a parking spot at my favorite local beach hideaway. Instead, I was forced out by holiday tourists — strangers who didn’t belong in my little hometown paradise.

This one disappointment spiraled into a cascade of disappointments.

Trying not to cry

Before I knew it, I was driving around, frustrated and angry, looking for a nearby beach (with parking) and bemoaning the fact that life was unfair. I had spent the better part of my life taking care of other people or arranging events/parties/vacations to bring my family and friends together — yet here I was, once again — alone.

Why was I the one who was alone this holiday? What was so unlovable about me? Why wasn’t there a single person who wanted to ONLY be with me? Where was MY person?

As the dam broke and tears flowed, all of those photos from the past bubbled up in my mind. I was once a wife and mother, surrounded by tons of people. Surely that was proof that my life had value and meaning. But the more I thought about those times, I had to ask myself a hard truth:

Was I happier in that old crowded life?

Was I truly fulfilled being the hostess — organizing happiness for others life an unpaid cruise director?

Or was I once again playing the role of dutiful wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend?

Since my divorce, I had decided to center myself and de-center the needs of others. On most days, this was pretty awesome. I listened to my heart, and followed my soul. But some habits — especially for a GOOD GIRL — are hard to break.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, the subconscious good girl still thinks I lack value or worth if I’m not running around serving other people, especially on holidays or vacations. Being alone is somehow a sign that I’m unlovable or unworthy.

But the more these thoughts rose, the more I uncovered the truth:

It wasn’t that I was alone on July 4th that was making me sad. I think it was the realization that I had spent decades exhausting myself in the attempt to earn love. I gave up so much time, energy, and resources — for what?

The love/energy I gave DID NOT equal the love/energy I received.

I should have been giving that love/energy to myself all along.

It was an observation/discovery worthy of The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning. And it only happened because I allowed myself to cry and feel my big, uncomfortable, messy feelings.

I only wish I had the trio of Swedes in the car with me to pat me on the back for doing the hard emotional work. Then we’d hit the town at night and go dancing while dressed in sequins and glitter.

In my mind, I even heard Amy Poehler narrating: Good job, Lizzie. And Happy Independence Day.

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Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her divorce called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

Seven years ago this week I was celebrating my 25th Wedding Anniversary with the man I met in college and spent years with building a life and a family. I knew our marriage was struggling in midlife, but after three decades together I thought we’d survive anything.

I had no idea that he had quietly quit the marriage or that he would betray our vows in the most awful of ways — including jumping out of bed on our anniversary to take a call from the Other Woman — a widow in crisis who he knew for about eight weeks.

A week after our anniversary, he was headed back to Florida for a three-month extension on his consulting job when he dropped the bomb on me: We need to separate.

For two weeks, he had acted like all was normal. But suddenly he urgently needed to end the marriage. And he didn’t want to talk about it at all. It was simply over. His main defense was that I didn’t get along with his family. An insane argument seeing as I’d been the dutiful daughter-in-law for three decades. It’s funny that he didn’t want to talk about his affair being the main argument for our separation.

[Note: I would not learn of his deception for almost a year because he vehemently denied there was an affair, even though he introduced the Other Woman to his family as his new girlfriend only eight weeks after our separation].

The next day, the man I married disappeared from my life like a phantom. He morphed into a stranger so bizarre and unfamiliar that I thought he was either in the early stages of dementia or had been abducted by aliens.

Belle Burden’s divorce memoir Strangers captures the shock of living beside a man for decades only to realize you never really knew him because he played a role and wore a mask your entire marriage.

And when these men are done? They are DONE. The mask slips and all you see are the dead cold eyes of someone who no longer cares what happens to you — even though your heart still loves them.

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The Rise of Grey Divorce

In the weeks after he left, I begged my husband to explain things to me and to talk to our couples counselor. When that didn’t work, I forwarded him articles about Grey Divorce and the devastating financial impact it has on aging couples.

Divorce rates continue to fall for most demographics, but are rising in the over 50 empty nest crowd. Grey Divorces now account for 40% of all marital breakups. While financially devastating for both genders, women over 50 face a 45% drop in their standard of living while men over 50 experience a 21% decline.

It shocked me that he didn’t know this information or consider it when ending our marriage. All he ever talked about was his early retirement and how he didn’t expect to work full-time ever again (after retiring from the rat race at 50). He prided himself on putting enough money away to do early retirement right (travel, hobbies, doing nothing).

I had naively trusted him in these financial matters and put all my eggs in one basket — opting out of my own career to support his and stay home to raise our kids. Just as the kids were older and I was prepping to go back to work I became sick with Lyme disease and would be debilitated for six years — unable to get out of bed (let alone focus on a career).

And there was a part of me that continued to trust him even after he turned into a stranger and abandoned our lives to start over. After all, we had spent our entire adult lives together. We raised amazing children. In my mind we WERE family and we’d figure out a way to continue to be family even if we couldn’t live together as romantic partners.

Surely, despite the divorce — he still cared for me and would continue to look out for me? Right?

Run, Don’t Walk Towards Financial Freedom

I was still in shock after he left and was in no position to start divorce proceedings immediately. In all the things I’ve done post-separation, this is the part that haunts me. It is my only regret.

Why did I wait? Why didn’t I secure my financial future as quickly as I could?

In the beginning, I kept waiting for him to come to his senses. I assumed he was having a fairly predictable midlife crisis. As soon as I received confirmation about the affair, I did call a lawyer. We were in the middle of mediation in March 2020 when the pandemic hit and shut down everything. We could have continued over Zoom, of course, but with everything in disarray I wanted to wait until we could be civil to each other.

Our mediator suggested we try Conscious Uncoupling to heal the rift. He quit Conscious Uncoupling after two sessions because he said he didn’t need it. He didn’t need to make amends to me either, he said.

I begged him to commit to this process for our kids, our families, our friends, and our community. He didn’t see the value in working on our relationship now that he had tapped out. Anything that required his effort in regards to me was seen as a waste of time to him.

But the more he acted like a cold stranger to me, the more I paused the divorce proceedings. I kept waiting for him to come around. I knew the affair would likely end before the two year mark (it did). And I was hoping he would perhaps show some remorse and return to the proceedings in good faith to make things rights.

Let’s be clear — I DID NOT WANT HIM BACK. He had shown me who he was and frankly I was disgusted and ashamed I spent my life with this dude who was basically a straight-up asshole. I was merely hoping he’d stop acting like this asshole during mediation, and become a human again.

The problem was I still hadn’t accepted that during our marriage he only pretended to be human. The man was a dismissive avoidant incapable of caring about anyone else’s feelings. I was still hoping a piece of him was real.

Before we knew it, two more years had flown by. By the time we went back into mediation, then found separate lawyers to review the terms (and delay the process to increase their fees) — we finalized our divorce (a mere month before our daughter got married). It had been FIVE years.

I assumed, like most people, that this meant my marriage was officially behind me, and I was free to move forward. Again, I was naive and misinformed. If I knew how much paperwork still had to be filed, I would have asked for divorce on day 1.

For those who don’t know - the divorce decree doesn’t settle every matter.

I still had to spend the next year changing all my legal documents to reflect my return to my maiden name. Yes, it took close to a year.

I also needed the divorce decree so I could file the Quit Claim to have his name removed from the deed on my house. This process would also take a year. First, because he insisted on doing the paperwork himself and it was rejected. Then I had to go back to my mediator to have her draw up the paperwork (again I paid this fee alone). Even with her legal help, I was rejected three more times on ridiculous technicalities. Last month, the paperwork was finally approved.

But the most important filing was the QDRO process to legally split our 401k account.

A few weeks after the divorce was final in September 2024, I paid my lawyers to start the paperwork on this filing. My now ex-husband threw a fit. It said in the decree that he would handle this process on his own — and he had decided to proceed without lawyers. The man who threw around money his entire life was suddenly too cheap to spend $1500 to properly handle our retirement funds (a huge sum of money). It blew my mind, but he called me and bullied me by speaking in a condescending tone as if I clearly didn’t understand this process and how simple it was. As I had during our marriage, I deferred to him on financial matters.

Two and half years later, I kept waiting to get a notice that the funds had been distributed to my account. The account remained empty.

That’s when I reached out to him and realized our QDRO was stalled. NOTHING had happened with it. He had sent in the paperwork but had no idea where we were in the process. He had dropped the ball. All to save $1500.

We both agreed (with the clock now ticking) to go back to my lawyer and get the process restarted.

Now, I’m panicking because we have no idea how long this process could take. I was planning on accessing that money at 59.5 (nine months from now) but it remains inaccessible as long as we are going through the QDRO process.

While I know I am lucky to get this 401k, my ex also refused to go back to work and provide for me until age 65 (although every lawyer told me after 25 years he was expected to do so). I’m now looking at dwindling resources in the worst economy in decades. My freelance creative and social media work has been hampered by AI (everyone thinks they’re creative now), and I’m trying to find a full-time permanent job with benefits in the the worst and most stagnant job market. And I’m doing it as a woman of a certain age who is facing ageism and sexism.

As much as I’d like to blame my ex-husband for all of this stress, I mostly blame myself for trusting him time and time again when he’s proven he hasn’t earned it. I blame myself for deferring to him on financial matters when I should have trusted my gut and done it right the first time - two years ago.

The legal system also works really slow. Some of that is to protect you, but some of that is just bureaucracy. Had I known then, what I know now, I would not have hesitated even one month to get this divorce going as quickly as possible.

But that’s easier to say now.

I’m not the same woman I was seven years ago, when I was betrayed and abandoned by the man I trusted and loved. I wasn’t just in shock, I was suffering from complex PTSD which took years to heal. All of that influenced my mindset and my ability to move forward.

Do I wish I’d done everything sooner? Absolutely. But what’s done is done. I can’t change the past, but I can learn from it.

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Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her marital separation called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

Less than three months after my husband walked out of our marriage, I put our home on the market. I know you’re not supposed to make big life decisions while in shock or grieving, but I was ready to move out and move on (even though I secretly hoped our marriage might be saved).

The house sold in less than twelve days. I had no idea it would happen so soon or that I’d have to pack up, get out, and find a new house ASAP. Somehow, I did it. Even though it was all a blur. By Christmas I was in a townhouse at the beach starting over on my own.

That was seven years ago.

Since my new townhouse was half the square footage of my old home, I downsized quite a bit before moving. But as I was still in shock, most of my more sentimental items got boxed up and eventually were stored in various closets, including a large attic storage area. I was in no state of mind to deal with these things rationally.

Recently, I’ve been on a Swedish death cleaning kick. I’ve been going through all my closets, drawers, and storage spaces decluttering as much as I can. There’s something about nearing 60 that makes one want a lighter load in life. I wrote about this process here and why it’s important to not leave unwanted items behind for our loved ones.

After spending weeks decluttering mundane things like clothes, linens, and kitchen utensils, I tackled the tougher items last week which included my books and journals. When that task proved to be easier than I thought it would be, I set my sights on the next challenge — the boxes of sentimental items from my marriage.

I am happy to say, this too proved to be an easier task than I anticipated. I guess seven years is the right amount of time to grieve and purge things from a previous life.

Today, I opened a box that held all of our wedding cards. I glanced through them and then released them with love directly into the trash. After that, I took the framed collages I had made for our various anniversaries. These too had been stowed in the attic. I took a photo of these large collages and then began dismantling them. I put the large frames aside to donate.

My wedding dress is still rolled up in a ball in huge plastic bin. It made the cut this time around, but my wedding shoes didn’t. Is it odd that women spend so much time and energy picking out their wedding dresses when most men rent a tuxedo and don’t think twice about returning it after the big day?

This purging of items that once held sacred memories for me has been a long time coming. I also recently wrote about how my ex-husband left the marriage telling me he wanted nothing. He was never attached to any of it and would have likely put it all in the dumpster seven years ago without a second thought.

Did it serve any purpose to move these items and keep them boxed away for years? Maybe not from a practical standpoint, but these seven years allowed me to gain distance from the pain associated with things that once brought me joy.

When all is said and done I won’t apologize for being sentimental and having emotional attachments to memorabilia from my life. I may be a bit more hardened today than I was seven years ago, but I’ll never close my heart completely.

Still, I feel proud today that I’ve purged things that were ready to be purged. These unwanted items stuck around long enough.

Now they’re free, and so am I.

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Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her divorce called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

I couldn’t sleep. Or rather I should say… I couldn’t stay asleep. I began taking a new drug for my migraines — which was incredible because it meant I was finally migraine-free after one of the most horrific years of non-stop pain.

But the medicine, unfortunately, had side effects. I’d fall asleep reading in bed or watching TV somewhere between 8:30 p.m. and 10:30 p.m. Then I’d wake up around 4:00 a.m. and be wide awake — my mind racing and ruminating. I’d toss and turn until 7:00 a.m. when it was time to get up and start the day.

At the end of the day, when I wrapped up my work, despite being exhausted, I also felt restless. I was so used to pushing through the pain and then collapsing (with zero energy to cook, clean, or do anything other than bingewatch Netflix) that I didn’t know what to do with these hours where I was suddenly pain-free.

It was like an entire new world had opened up to me. I had TIME again. What did I want to do with this free, precious, pain-free time?

One early morning, trying desperately to will my mind back to sleep until the sun came up, I glanced over into my overflowing walk-in closet and I suddenly saw a problem I immediately needed to tackle.

Little did I know by cleaning out that primary closet, I’d begin down a road of almost daily decluttering.

How did my closet get this way?

It was a closet made for two and yet I had remained happily single since moving to the beach seven years earlier. It felt decadent to have so much space to myself. And I liked the empty feel to it.

In the beginning, a part of me might of unconsciously thought I was leaving room for the man who left me or for a man who might take his place. But the longer I stayed single, the more I preferred it. And honestly, the thought of sharing my private space or taking up less room in the future no longer felt like an option.

So, seven years later, I had filled every nook and cranny of this large closet by myself. This was after promising myself I’d NOT overspend or over-consume. I had downsized a fairly large family home and knew the toll that came from collecting and carrying more stuff than needed.

After already using Marie Kondo’s KonMari method to declutter that last home (and writing about it here), I swore I’d stick to a minimalist lifestyle and only keep things that “sparked joy.” I thought it would be easy as I don’t even like shopping for clothes or shoes. And I was living on a tight budget.

https://medium.com/narrative/sparking-joy-in-midlife-6b14bca8b898

Then a pandemic came and we all hunkered down at home and things accumulated. Yes, I put on weight, then took it off, then went through several cycles of this gain/loss needing different sizes of clothes. In 2023, my short film got into several film festivals so I browsed thrift shops for “red carpet festival attire” and bought way too many backup gowns (all vintage steals at $9). In 2024, in prep for my daughter’s wedding I also went thrifting for backup dresses. I convinced myself it was okay because I was reusing and recycling, rather than buying new.

But ultimately it didn’t matter how I got here. I had too much stuff. I used my newfound energy and pain-free time to empty my closet and separate everything into piles (keep, donate, toss).

And before you knew it, I was hooked.

Summer of Decluttering

As I hauled the donation bags to my car, I realized it made no sense to stop there. If I was going to make a trip to Goodwill or the local thrift shop, I should continue to declutter other areas.

The next night, I listened to Amy Pohler’s Good Hang, and decluttered both of the dressers in my room. I realized my main dresser was mostly filled with T-shirts I’d never wear (because I’m very particular about T-shirts). I selected my favorites, then tossed or donated the rest.

My smaller dresser was filled with lightweight nightgowns and silky short pajamas that I had bought while going through menopause. At the time, I slept with two fans on me (with AC) and wore the lightest, shortest material possible. But I had come through menopause seven years ago. And I hadn’t touched these since (except during the six sweltering days we lost power in August 2020 after a hurricane).

After tossing the trashed items, and dropping off the donations, I came home and made an excel spreadsheet on my computer and decided this would be the “Summer of Decluttering.” I put together a list of every room in my house, and assigned multiple decluttering tasks to each room.

With this mission of decluttering, I would no longer feel restless each evening. I had a goal. I knew what I had to do. I had a chart which provided a roadmap. No excuses. None of this had to happen overnight. And it didn’t even have to be every night. But I knew by tackling it one day at a time, it wouldn’t feel overwhelming. Slow and steady would win this decluttering race.

Like last time, this physical act of decluttering also calmed my racing mind. If I kept my hands busy, the ruminating (brought on by the new drug) went away. Being productive was itself a drug to me. I was getting dopamine hits from cleaning, rather than buying.

Döstädning or Swedish Death Cleaning

I might have heard of Swedish death cleaning, but I couldn’t define what it was. It’s only after describing my almost daily decluttering that a couple different people said to me — “Sounds like Swedish death cleaning.”

Okay, what did that even mean? After the third time of hearing this term, I Googled it.

Swedish death cleaning is the Scandinavian practice of decluttering your home to spare loved ones the burden of sorting through your belongings after you pass.

The concept was popularized by artist Margareta Magnusson. It is supposed to be a thoughtful, life-affirming process that focuses on curating what you own so that you only keep essentials — things you truly use and need. But most importantly, you’re sorting through stuff and maintaining a minimalist lifestyle so family and friends are not burdened with doing this task when you are gone and they are grieving.

I realized — THIS was exactly what I was doing.

In my early 50s, I had decluttered out of necessity. I was downsizing after divorce and empty nest — because my space was being cut in half. But now, seven years later, I was closer to 60 than 50 and a lot had changed. I had experienced a lot of loss.

We had all come through the collective trauma of COVID. In those early days, none of us knew who would survive. And I had also experienced personal losses. My sister and two friends had all passed away — all around 60-years-old— way too young and too suddenly.

As 60 was now approaching, I had to look at my things realistically and ask — who’s going to take all this? Who’s going to sort through it? Who’s even going to want it?

As a single woman, I no longer had an automatic backup plan. I couldn’t rely on a spouse or partner to clean up after me. Although I imagine if I had stayed married, my husband would have tossed everything without a second thought.

Still, in 2025, I met with a lawyer to draw up my will and power of attorney. I put together a list of my “valuables” and decided who would get what. And I learned that this is common for folks my age, on the brink of 60, looking at retirement, to not only think about our own mortality but to rethink the way in which we are living.

By my age, you see people die youngish (50s and 60s) and watch as their beloved stuff is boxed up and shoved into expensive storage units because grieving family doesn’t have the strength, energy, or time to go through it. Especially if the death was unexpected or sudden.

The Swedish possess a realistic thoughtfulness about death that perhaps is missing in America where a lot of us try not to think about it at all. They don’t find it morbid to focus on this process of death cleaning. To them it is a pure act of love.

In the first half of our lives, we accumulate and then hold onto so much stuff. We assign value to things that often only have sentimental value. But the Swedish approach understands that what has meaning for us might not have meaning for everyone. And leaving our valued stuff behind to be sorted by others becomes a burden — not the gift we think it is.

Due to the massive aging Baby Boomer population, there are indeed a growing number of estate sales and professional liquidation companies that now come in and take on this monumental task for overwhelmed families.

I feel like I have a lot of stuff, and yet, throughout my life I’ve moved several times, letting go of that which I no longer need. There are some families that never move, and die leaving a home bursting at the seams with 40–50 years of accumulated belongings.

How does one even start that process? Especially if you’re living out of state from your parents?

Moving onto the Sacred and Sentimental

After clearing out closets, drawers, garage and attic spaces where unused or broken things tend to congregate and build up, I was finally able to tackle the next round of decluttering — the Sacred and Sentimental (as I call it).

To me, my books are sacred. I have accumulated my own library over decades, despite mostly downloading digital books on the free library app for the past six years. But recently, I looked at my bookshelves and decided I would NOT be dragging around hundreds of books with me for the rest of my life like some sort of pack mule. Nor would I be buying or building new shelves to hold the overflow.

I love each and every book I’ve read, but I can’t imagine leaving them all to my kids. Books are too heavy and carry too much weight. Better to donate and let someone else enjoy them now rather than accumulate dust. I don’t want anyone feeling guilty in the future about having to part with a massive collection that meant so much to me in life — but has no real value to anyone else.

As soon as I decluttered my bookshelves I was ready for the next sacred task.

This week I began the process of going through my notebooks and journals — mostly accumulated over these past seven years. These are spaces where I shared my deepest thoughts and emotions as I used writing prompts both as a teacher and student.

Some of these notebooks are filled with quick feedback notes I jotted down from writing classes I taught and my scribbling is mostly illegible. Other notebooks are filled with writing exercises from a myriad of self-help books I explored post divorce. I look back now and see I’ve done a lot of work on myself. Just reading through these notebooks is exhausting.

Did these exercises help me? Sure. A lot of what I worked on brought me to this place of acceptance (and a lot of it ended up in my yet unpublished memoir). After a decade of retreats, writing workshops, and dozens of self-paced self-help workbooks — I’m finally at a place where I know who I am and I know how to find comfort, peace, and joy on my own terms.

Hint: Most of my happiness and inner peace started when I simply learned to center myself.

As I approach 60 — I’m done treating myself like a home improvement project or fixer upper. I’m letting go of all the self-help books. I’m skipping the retreats and workshops. I’m releasing the need to over-analyze and explore my every interaction and decision. I’m releasing many things — not just the weight of physical belongings — but what they represent to my psyche.

I still use writing and writing prompts to check-in and figure out the hard stuff I’m going through. Journaling is proven to have therapeutic benefits. But now, sometimes I journal for an hour and then, after processing what I wrote, I immediately toss the writing in the trash (with gratitude and love, of course).

I release this writing because, again, I don’t need to accumulate journals I will never return to. And I don’t want to leave behind piles of illegible writing for someone else to decipher. Occasionally, an essay idea pops up when I am journaling, and then I commit it to more permanent writing — via facebook, blogging, Medium, or Substack — as I am doing now.

If I take time to do Morning Pages or journal, then that process serves its purpose. It allows me to articulate the thoughts and feelings I need to articulate in order to unburden myself. If I feel the writing will help others, I will share it publicly.

But I don’t need to hold onto all of it or most of it — even thoughts or feelings — for longer than a moment. Moments are meant to pass.

At Last

The last part of letting go is the “Sentimental” category which includes photos, videos, memorabilia, and mostly anything having to do with my kids.

I’m not there yet, and I don’t want to rush it. And luckily, I have time. By making room in my home for things that matter, committing to buying fewer things, and simplifying my life, I’m already ahead of this sorting game. I can’t and won’t take any of this stuff with me. And in lightening my load, I already feel freer for the next phase of life.

And there’s nothing morbid in that.

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Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her divorce called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

When I say I was a good girl for most of my life, I’m not exaggerating. I arrived at Rutgers College in 1986 and was ill-prepared for a massive campus known for its party culture. I spent my high school years mostly studying and hanging out with band nerds and honors students.

We gathered weekly for “religious talks” one of my friends hosted. My Catholic mother was suspicious of these gatherings, but I laughed and told her she was lucky my siblings and I had such nerdy friends and weren’t out drinking like typical teens. There were rumors of widespread cocaine usage among the rich kids at our school, and a couple of them had already been to expensive rehabs.

A Test of Purity

A few weeks into my first semester at college, somebody circulated the “Rice Purity Test.” It was a survey with 100 questions that determined your degree of innocence or non-innocence when it came to worldly matters. It included questions about romance, sex, drugs, alcohol, cursing, criminal activities, and other vices. When you checked a box, you lost a point. The higher your score (the less boxes checked) meant you were pure. The lower the score (more boxes checked), the less pure you were.

Now remember, this was all for fun. This was still the era of slut-shaming, but the test was a gentle hazing or bonding activity. Before the internet, this was how things went viral — spreading word of mouth from campus to campus.

I, however, was mortified by this survey and what it revealed about me. Sure I had spent the first nine years of my schooling in Catholic school, but so had a lot of other kids at college. I was the only one whose test score matched that of a nun.

Okay, I don’t remember my exact score, but out of a scale between 1-100, I know I was somewhere in the high-80s or mid-90s. Most of the other girls scored somewhere in the low 50s or 60s. They high-fived each other, and winked at certain questions that left me woefully ignorant. Being pure as snow was quite the rare achievement in a dorm that teemed with a combustible combination of raging hormones and binge drinking.

What did I expect? I arrived at college having never had a beer or kissed a boy. I’m actually surprised my purity score wasn’t higher as in the Mother Superior level.

When I first met my future husband, he was a sophomore in the dorm mostly comprised of first-year students. Because housing was limited at Rutgers, he ran for dorm president the spring before, which came with guaranteed housing for him and his roommate. He was outgoing and confident, and a little bit cocky. He also organized most of the underage drinking in the dorm. And he was dating a girl who was blonde and superhot.

I soon learned the best part of college life was that high school cliques no longer existed. Despite our differences — whether pure or un-pure — our dorm mates bonded quickly. That happens when you live with people 24/7 and see who they are outside the confines of the classroom.

Still, I didn’t immediately fall for my future husband. We weren’t exactly swimming in the same pool. As I said, he had a hot girlfriend, and I was still a nerd. I wouldn’t go to my first college party and drink alcohol until second semester freshmen year.

A Gentleman Caller Arrives

In mid-October, I got an unexpected visitor from my past. It was still dark outside when I heard a gentle tapping on my dorm window. My sister Luci was my roommate and had a tendency to get up earlier than me. She peeked out the window: “Adam is here.”

Adam? How was that even possible? He went to Purdue University in Indiana. That was 750 miles from my campus.

I threw on my robe and opened the door for Adam who said, “Surprise!”

He had driven all night from Indiana to New Jersey to proclaim his love for me.

It was the grandest of grand romantic gestures.

I should have been impressed. But I was too shocked and annoyed. His grand romantic gesture backfired in a big way. Instead of swooning and jumping into his arms, I told him I needed to shower, dress, and get to my mid-term exam. I scurried away, leaving him behind to talk to Luci.

Who the heck plans a grand romantic gesture in the middle of mid-terms?

As I made my way to the showers, I was freaking out. I didn’t love surprises. Also, his timing was terrible. Sure, he was on mid-fall break, but I was up all night studying.

Four months earlier, if Adam had asked me to the prom in high school, we probably would have become a couple. We were close friends, and there was a good deal of flirting between us. But both of us lacked dating experience. Due to our immaturity, shyness, and general awkwardness, we never went on an official date. Everyone told me he was going to ask me to the prom, then he went and bought a ticket with someone else, leaving me confused, and desperately searching for a last minute date.

I ended up getting set up with a stranger who didn’t mesh with our tight-knit group. I would have preferred to have gone alone. And frankly, it pissed me off that Adam chickened out in asking me to the prom and went with one of the cool girls whose family owned a beach house in LBI (for a cool after-party). Later, he would confess that he left the after-party miserable — and walked around town aimlessly, regretting that he hadn’t asked me instead.

Now, as I ran for the bus that would take me to the College Avenue campus and my exam, I spiraled in confusion. Of course, I didn’t want to break Adam’s heart. He was a truly a nice guy. But it irked me that my boundaries had been crossed (even though I wouldn’t learn about boundaries for another 20 years). Again, who shows up in the middle of midterms?

Another reason his grand stunt backfired spectacularly was because it became abundantly clear that this surprise trip had little to do with me and was more about him. He showed up sad, serious, and homesick — not the flirty, easy-going guy I knew from high school. Since he went away to Indiana, he had been sending letters and calling me weekly to confide how much he hated college, his drunk dorm mates, and the accounting major his father insisted on.

But I loved college. It allowed me to escape MY seriousness and sadness. I enjoyed having a clean slate. Nobody knew me as the poor girl with the dead father.

And even at 20, I realized that long-distance relationships simply didn’t work in college. Many of the guys and girls in my dorm were cheating on their high school sweethearts with someone down the hall. It was incredibly awkward for the rest of us who had to pretend as if we didn’t know this was happening when we were introduced to visiting sweethearts.

It simply confirmed for me there was no future for me and a boy from home. Not at this stage of life. Letting him know this seemed like the most honest and mature thing to do. That didn’t make it easy, of course.

Adam arrived on a mission to reclaim the past, but I was not looking backwards. There was nothing there for me. I didn’t have fun in high school. I behaved myself and was the ultimate good girl. I felt I had no choice — my father was dying.

College was different than I thought it would be. I assumed I’d be consumed with learning, studying, and working. I didn’t realize how much I’d change by living with a dorm full of kids my age — all trying to figure life out.

Sure, I felt bad rejecting Adam’s grand gesture but I also felt good about myself. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid to stand up for how I felt. I’m proud I refused to be pressured into doing something I didn’t want to do just to protect someone else’s feelings or ego.

That first semester at college, I was still the good girl acing purity tests, but something had shifted. I realized the true tests were ahead. And somehow I knew the hardest tests weren’t going to come in the classroom.

Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her marital separation called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

A week after our 25th Anniversary, my husband — the man whom I had spent my entire adult life with — told me we needed to separate. He was on his way back to Florida, from our home in NJ, to complete a temporary consulting job.

That was the beginning and the end of the discussion. He was done. Our marriage was over and I had zero say about it.

I was in utter and complete shock. Not because I thought our marriage was perfect (it wasn’t), but because for two weeks he had acted as if everything was normal. As he had for most of our marriage, he performed the role of the good husband — giving no indication that he was about to become a midlife cliche.

It would be months before I knew the real reason he was suddenly pulling the plug. He met a woman in Florida and after just two months he was ready to start over with someone new. My services were no longer needed.

What He Took

When he left for Florida — for this temporary consulting job — he took almost none of his belongings with him. The retail company who hired him was paying for his two-bedroom condo. And it was fully furnished.

As usual, he packed light — just his clothes, shoes, and toiletries. He had his golf clubs shipped down ahead of him. A few weeks later he returned for his car, and traveled back to Florida with his car via Amtrak. Maybe he packed a bit more stuff into his trunk, but I wasn’t really paying attention.

I thought he would return from Florida missing me and the life we created together for three decades. The opposite happened. He returned a stranger. I barely recognized this man who was coldly telling me he had nothing to say. I begged him to explain this decision to me. But he only wanted to talk about logistics. “We’ll sell the house, split everything, 50/50.”

As far as the items in the house — and me and the dogs — he said he didn’t want any of it. I could have it all.

Whoopee! This wasn’t a final act of generosity or grace on his part. It told he exactly who he was. It was easy for him to walk away from all of it — because he wasn’t emotionally invested.

And so, he took almost nothing from our house.

He also left me alone to go through three decades of belongings as I prepared our house for sale. I boxed up his personal items, showing enormous restraint in not setting fire to them.

He Took Everything

The way he left — suddenly and without warning — left me traumatized and suffering from complex PTSD for years to come. I couldn’t make sense out it.

Who does that? Who just leaves? How did I spend my life with someone I barely knew? How did I not see this coming? Is he a narcissist? Why doesn’t he have any guilt or regret? Is he a sociopath?

I had loved and honored this man with sacred vows. In abandoning the marriage and becoming a stranger he rocked me to my core. If I couldn’t trust the man who slept beside me for 30+ years, who the hell could I trust?

I no longer knew what was true and what was false. My traumatized brain decided it was all a lie. He never loved me. Our marriage was a sham. Oh, and I was garbage — someone you dispose of because they are icky and broken.

That’s how he took EVERYTHING from me.

He betrayed my heart. He destroyed my faith. He decimated my spirit. He made me feel stupid, useless, and broken.

Not Everything

It would take years for me to understand the truth — BROKE PEOPLE BREAK PEOPLE.

I was not perfect and made plenty of mistakes, but I was not the broken one. I did not evade emotions or avoid accountability. I felt normal, healthy amounts of guilt, regret, and remorse as people do when they aren’t raised to feel ashamed of having uncomfortable or untidy emotions.

I was not the the one who ran away.

In my healing I learned to understand why I, as an anxiously attached person, chose a dismissive avoidant — and I also learned I’d never settle again.

In the end, I realized he took nothing from me that truly matters.

And I know I ended up with the better end of the bargain. I see now how he must spend the rest of his life performing — trying desperately to hide the shameful broken bits so nobody can see the truth.

As for me? I know who I am and I’m not afraid of my flaws, mistakes, or failures. I don’t have to hide, perform, wear a mask, or answer to anyone.

I am now whole and complete on my own. Which means I have everything I want and need.

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Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her marital separation called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.

What is he doing? What is he thinking? Does he miss me? Does he still love me? Did he ever love me? Why would he do this? Why now? Why like this? Is this a midlife crisis? Did he lose his mind? Am I losing my freaking mind?

October 2019

I pace nervously at Newark Liberty International Airport, waiting for my 10:50 a.m. flight to Montego Bay, Jamaica. And I feel like I’m indeed losing my mind. Because no matter what I do or how I try to distract myself — I can’t turn off my monkey mind. I can’t silence the constant noise buzzing back and forth inside my skull like a carpenter bee burrowing through wood.

Mostly, I can’t stop obsessing over the man I called husband for 25 years. For over three decades, we spent almost every night together. Now, I have no idea where he is or what he is doing. I go to bed wondering how I will fall asleep without the steady rhythmic sound of his snoring. How does one suddenly fill a bed that has never been empty?

I’m chilly and my clothes hang loose on my body. I’ve lost close to 30 pounds, including my menopause belly, in the three months since my life was suddenly upended. Every time I try to eat, I get nauseous and lose my appetite after just a few bites of food. Adrenaline flows through my body constantly, so I also can barely sleep through an entire night.

I’ve always been a night owl but since mid-July I began getting up at the crack of dawn to go on long morning hikes before the heat of the day. Then I return home to swim laps in the pool. Then I get to work on decluttering the home or throwing myself into a landscape project. It feels particularly satisfying to cut down bushes or rip weeds out of the ground. Every time I see a tangle of vines, I attack them with gusto.

Sometimes, I can lose myself in these projects, and the monkey mind settles. It never lasts though. As soon as I get in the shower to wash off the sweat of my labor, the rumination returns.

What is he doing? What is he thinking? Does he miss me? Does he still love me? Did he ever love me? Why would he do this? Why now? Why like this? Is this a midlife crisis? Did he lose his mind? Am I losing my freaking mind?

It’s only been three months since I learned my marriage was over. I am told by more than one person, that I need to move on. He has moved on. Why can’t I?

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As I look around the airport (again trying to distract myself), I notice my fellow travelers, and feelings of isolation and unease grow. I am surrounded by dewy-eyed honeymooners, giddy vacationing families, and earnest Christian missionaries in matching pink T-shirts touting their favorite Bible verse.

Inside my head, I hum a song from my childhood. It’s from Sesame Street: One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn’t belong. Can you tell which thing is not like the others by the time I finish my song?

I was once a dewy-eyed honeymooner and part of a giddy vacationing family. But now? I’m just a solo-traveling middle-aged woman who can’t turn off her brain or feel safe or eat an entire meal or sleep through the night without waking up in a 3:00 a.m. panic.

One thing I know? I can’t go on like this. I can’t function fully with this traumatized brain. I need to sleep, eat, and heal.

It is from this place of desperation that I decided that I would take a giant leap of faith and fly to Jamaica — the same island where I had honeymooned 25 years earlier — so that I could participate in a psilocybin-assisted retreat.

I wasn’t taking a vacation. I was fleeing to Treasure Beach the week of my 52^nd birthday to get high on magic mushrooms.

Only a few people, including my grown children, knew my plans. I didn’t want to worry anyone or endure their judgment or misgivings. Instead, I told most people I was attending a wellness retreat, which wasn’t a lie. I simply left out the part about tripping three times in one week.

Still, I hadn’t made this decision impulsively. Even before my marriage imploded, I had begun researching psychedelic therapy as an alternative to antidepressants. I read Michael Pollan’s How to Change Your Mind and Ayelet Waldman’s A Really Good Day: How Microdosing Made a Difference in My Mood, My Marriage, and My Life. I studied the research from MAPS (the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies) and the Johns Hopkins Center for Psychedelic & Consciousness Research.

Exactly one year earlier, I found myself spiraling into a major depressive episode brought on by the intersection of chronic debilitating Lyme disease and the onset of menopause. After I exploded in rage at my husband, shoved my precious laptop off of my lap, and screamed, “I fucking hate you,” I knew something was seriously wrong with me.

My hormones were raging, my moods were swinging wildly, and I felt out of control. The She-Hulk of my teenage and post-partum years had returned, and she was furious, perplexed, and ready to knock shit down with her bare knuckles.

After this She-Hulk Incident, I immediately asked my doctor for an antidepressant and returned to therapy. But for nine months, my brain and body continued in a downward spiral. A year later, my life was in complete shambles. My once happy nest was now silent and empty. My husband and children had all flown the coop. The neediness of my family had once sent me into therapy as a young mother, and yet now I was alone — and I was not needed nor wanted by anybody.

While devastated about this, it also meant I was an independent, grown-ass woman who no longer had to answer to anyone else or ask for permission.

I had pulled up my computer, Googled “psychedelic retreats,” and found companies operating in Jamaica, Amsterdam, and Mexico. Before I could talk myself out of it, I booked the trip for my birthday week, figuring it would be better to be far away from home, tripping with nine perfect strangers — than to celebrate my birthday alone.

To say I was scared or that this trip was out of character for me would be an understatement. I was a law-abiding, Catholic-raised, middle-aged suburban mom and housewife who never smoked cigarettes, rarely drank alcohol, and never even experimented with drugs in college.

I only used medical cannabis to treat my chronic pain and fatigue after NJ Governor Phil Murphy expanded the Medical Marijuana program in 2018. And still, I only micro-dosed high-CBD strains and never actually got a high or buzzy feeling from doing it.

Over the previous four years, I had begun attending wellness or writing retreats and building a connection with other middle-aged women at places like Kripalu and Omega, where we journaled and shared our traumas and innermost secrets. But this retreat was different, first, because men would also be in attendance. And second, because I was about to take a substance that wasn’t just illegal in New Jersey — it was a Schedule 1 controlled substance under federal law, banned back in the 1970s as part of President Nixon’s War on Drugs.

Psilocybin, a hallucinogenic substance often lovingly referred to as magic mushrooms, was popular with the counter-culture in the 1960s.

Timothy Leary famously advised young people to “Turn on, tune in, drop out.” But I came of age in Ronald Reagan’s conservative America, where young people were urged to “Just Say No.” We were told all drugs would fry and scramble our fragile brains.

Unlike the Baby Boomers or Millennials, GenXers got a somewhat raw deal regarding sex. We not only missed the Sexual Revolution, but our first association with sex wasn’t sexy, romantic, provocative, open-minded, or inclusive. AIDs was a clear and present danger. Where our mother’s generation worried about teen pregnancy, we had the added threat of catching an incurable sexually transmitted disease that would surely kill us.

This fear-based conservative programming and Catholic guilt permeated my youth. Not that I had time to explore alcohol or drugs in high school anyway. My normal adolescence was derailed by my father’s death just nine days shy of my seventeenth birthday.

Instead of partying on Friday and Saturday nights? I babysat, studied my ass off, and saved every dime I could for college. And I became deeply depressed.

In midlife, I was sick to death of being sick and unhappy. I had lost too many years to chronic illness to spend even one more day mired in the depression that had haunted me since puberty.

As I waited for my flight and watched the young honeymooners lovingly stroke each other’s hands, I gritted my teeth, fought back tears, and thought — Screw Nixon and his antiquated, unfair, patriarchal laws of oppression.

I had followed the rules, laws, and commandments all my life. And where had they gotten me?

Absolutely nowhere.

Perhaps it was time to try something radical and new.

***

Lizzie Finn is a freelance writer, story coach, and writing instructor. She is currently revising a memoir about the healing journey she took during the COVID pandemic with psychedelics and other therapies after her divorce called, HIGH HOPES: CONFESSIONS OF A REFORMED GOOD GIRL.