At the end of my week one session for my trauma care curriculum beta class, I asked the group to consider a literary, movie, or art reference about trauma. One of the first examples given is a book by Colleen Hoover called It Ends with Us.

I was given a copy and encouraged to read it. When I said that I was in the middle of a Ken Follett novel and that classes were about to resume, limiting my free-time for extra curricular reading, I was assured that once I started, I would not be able to stop. I could, in theory, read the entire book in one sitting – before classes begin.

I finished Follett’s Never (another good example of literary trauma). The next day, I picked up It Ends with Us. It took me two days to read. It hit WAY too close to home and there were many moments when I had to put the book down to catch my breath. I could not keep it down for long, though. As desperately as I needed a break, I needed to pick it back up to find out what happens next.

When I got to the last page of the last chapter (excluding the Epilogue), I not only had to put the book down, but I had to physically walk away – far away – outside into wide open space. The second to last paragraph left me gasping for air as my triggered memories collided with blinding tears and dripping snot.

I later sent a text to the friend who warned me about the book and told her that it was a very good thing that, as luck (or God) would have it, I just happened to have a counseling appointment with my therapist the day I finished the book . . .

. . . because my therapist and I talked extensively about the book and the memories . . .

Although their story is very different, in many ways it is all the same . . .

. . . especially the thoughts and emotions behind the actions . . .

I am Lilly . . .

Brad is Ryle . . .

Mike is Atlas . . .

And it all still hurts so deeply . . .

Am I sorry I read it? Absolutely not. Hoover accomplished with It Ends with Us exactly what I hope to accomplish with my own fictional writing . . . to give voice to the pain buried so deep inside . . . to give expression to what often is inexpressible . . . to creatively communicate that we are not alone . . . to offer a window for outsiders to be able to better understand (or at least appreciate) our why.

WARNING: SPOILER ALERT!!!

I took several screen shots of some of Hoover’s most profound words for me:

• Every night I cry myself to sleep and I whisper, “Just keep swimming.” But it gets really hard to swim when you feel like you’re anchored to the water.

• Until he comes for me, I just keep pretending to be okay. I’ll keep pretending to swim, when really all I’m doing is floating. Barely keeping my head above water.

• I love him. I still do and I always will. He was a huge wave that left a lot of imprints on my life, and I’ll feel the weight of that love until I die. I’ve accepted that.

• . . . but sometimes the things that matter to you most are also the things that hurt you the most. And in order to get over that hurt, you have to sever all the extensions that keep you tethered to that pain. You were an extension of my pain, so I guess that’s what I was doing. I was just trying to save myself a little bit of agony.

• Neither of us has closure. I’m not sure we’ll ever get it. I’m beginning to think closure is a myth, and being here right now while I’m still processing everything that’s happening to my life is just going to make things worse for me. I have to eliminate as much confusion as possible.

• Just because someone hurts you doesn’t mean you can simply stop loving them. It’s not a person’s actions that hurt the most. It’s the love. If there was no love attached to the action, the pain would be a little easier to bear.

• For the next fifteen minutes while I cry in her arms, that’s exactly what happens. I just stop fighting for myself because I need someone else to do it for me.

And the paragraph that broke me:

• Cycles exist because they are excruciating to break. It takes an astronomical amount of pain and courage to disrupt a familiar pattern. Sometimes it seems easier to just keep running in the same familiar circles, rather than facing the fear of jumping and possibly not landing on your feet.

And the moment I still pray will happen one day (not necessarily with a man or any human-being, but rather, something I can feel deep within my heart and soul). I can also imagine God telling me this the day he welcomes me home.

• You can stop swimming now, Lily. We finally reached the shore.

The day my world fell apart, I made a conscious decision to do the work to fix me – no matter how long or how hard it would be. Brad and I divorced on November 16, 2010. He died on June 15, 2020.

I am not the person I was the day I made that promise to myself. I have come a very long way and the road leading here took “an astronomical amount of pain and courage.”

I am not the person I was then. I am much stronger and braver and more self-assured and resilient, but there are fragile pieces of me that never mended – and probably never will. I have come to terms with that. Through therapy, prayer, and honesty with myself, I have come to accept that I will forever be a work in progress.

And that is okay.

Because, after all, aren’t we all?

We simply need to keep on swimming until we reach our shore.