Sadness and hope can live in the same room….
I’m okay.
I’m saying that a lot lately.
Sometimes I say it to other people. Sometimes to myself.
Of course there is sadness and disorientation and all the feelings I wrote about last week.
But in the midst of it, there are other feelings too. And those feelings are, dare I say, a little trickier to express right now.
Ever since I shared my last two essays, I’ve received so many kind, caring messages from people expressing sadness over my life change.
I so appreciate their care.
I know why people say “I’m so sorry.” I’ve said it to others in the past. It’s hard to know what else to say when someone’s life has cracked open in a way you can’t fully understand from the outside.
Sometimes in public, I sense people looking at me with pity. And when they talk to me, I hear the same words over and over:
Sad. Sorry. Sad. Sorry. Sad.
And while I know the intentions are good, sometimes those conversations leave me feeling heavier than I did before.
Because of course there is sadness. But it’s not only sad.
There is also hope.
And relief.
And little flickers of joy that show up in the middle of the hard. Sometimes within the same day. Sometimes within the same hour.
And I’ve been scared to admit that publicly.
Because I’m realizing many people are uncomfortable with any emotion besides sorrow in the story of divorce.
There’s a script society expects you to follow:
You’re allowed to be devastated.
You’re allowed to be angry.
You’re allowed to fight with your ex.
But relief?
Hope?
Wanting to get along as much as possible?
Admitting there isn’t much drama?
Those seem to confuse people more than the grief does.
And I’ve been met with a lot of deer-in-the-headlights stares when I say them out loud.
Even now, I’m nervous to publish these words. Because I know there are some who will think even an inkling of relief in the ending of a marriage is inappropriate. Or those who will assume that if I feel hopeful, I must not be taking this seriously.
But those people could not be more incorrect. Because grief and hope are not opposites. They surely can exist in the same space at the same time.
And right now, that space happens to be a new old house on a dirt road somewhere on the Wyoming prairie.
My last two essays have been heavy, so today, I want to share one of my recent joys.
The house.
My house.
Even typing that feels strange.
But before I go any further— I want to say this: I know I am deeply fortunate.
I know there are women leaving marriages who are facing terrifying financial realities. I know there are brave women who start over with almost nothing. I know there are women who don’t have the options I have right now.
I don’t take my situation for granted.
I am profoundly thankful that I’ve spent the last sixteen years building businesses that have provided me a way to walk through this chapter with an element of stability. That doesn’t erase the difficulty, but it does give me choices. And I am grateful for that.
Now to the house.
This house is not my other house.
It is not the homestead I built over the last decade-plus.
It is not the same land, the same kitchen, the same barn, the same view. It does not carry the familiar grooves my life had worn into that place.
So I need to say this gently but clearly: please don’t compare them for me.
I know what I left…
The gardens that ended up in photos all over the internet. The corrals that held my doe-eyed Brown Swiss calves. The kitchen featured in two cookbooks and national press articles and countless Youtube videos. The work that went into that soil, that barn, those pens. The memories layered into the walls.
I know it.
I feel it.
But somehow, in the middle of the things I left behind, this new place has provided other things I’ve always wanted but didn’t have there.
A quiet dirt road.
Productive apple trees.
A big red barn.
…with the most romantic hay loft.
An actual root cellar.
A house that felt cozy before I’d even made it mine.
The kitchen isn’t me yet.
But it will be.
Oh, it will be.
I have a hundred ideas. Paint colors. Wallpaper. Light fixtures. Little ways to bring warmth into the rooms. Places for cast iron and sourdough and stacks of cookbooks. Ways to breathe myself into the space like I do with every property I’ve ever touched.
It won’t happen all at once, but I trust that process more now than I ever have.
Because this is not my first time building a life. I’m not starting from scratch. This time, I’m starting from experience.
The first time I built a homestead, I was younger and scrappier… I didn’t know what I didn’t know, so I just learned it the hard way. I planted the wrong things. Bought the wrong equipment. Built fences in stupid places. Figured out what mattered by first figuring out what didn’t.
Those mistakes were excellent teachers.
They taught me what I want in a kitchen and what works for garden layouts and where gates should go.
They taught me that beauty matters, but so does function.
They taught me I can learn anything I put my mind to.
And they taught me that I am capable of taking forgotten places and making them beautiful and loved.
So yes, this place is new. But I am not new.
I’m older now. Slightly wiser. A little more bruised.
I know things I didn’t know before.
And this place?
This place holds me. I felt it the first time I walked through the door with the realtor.
It whispered, “Here. You can land here.”
My life has felt loud and harsh in the last few months. Loud with decisions. Loud with other people’s reactions and projections. Loud with logistics and paperwork and the endless tasks that come with untangling one life and beginning another.
But here, there is quiet. And a softness.
Not necessarily externally… There are unpacked boxes and paintbrushes and children running through and my ornery little red dog and countless lists and messes.
But underneath all that, there is steadiness. And peace. This place feels like it can hold the complexity of this new season.
It has enough space for me to be sad in the morning and excited by afternoon.
Because that’s the nuance I’m living in.
Two things can be true.
I am grieving. And I am hopeful.
I am sad. And I am excited.
I am tender. And I am capable.
I have lost things I loved. And I am building something beautiful.
Each does not cancel out the other.
So don’t worry— this isn’t me rushing ahead to the “thriving” or skipping over the ache.
It’s still there.
But so is the quiet knowing I can build again.
Because I’ve built before.
And because somehow, in the middle of all of this, I’m okay.
-Jill
P.S. Next week I’ll tell you more about my garden plans. Yes, it’s a big change to go from 20 raised beds and a monster greenhouse to what I have now. But I’m at peace with it (and even excited?!) to start over in a new growing space and I’ll explain why.
Recent Updates on My Life:
What a beautiful place! Quiet & peaceful waiting for your personal touch!
Thank you for your wonderful heartfelt prose. Your words ring deep with me. Your new old home is wonderful and as you say, day by day it will become you more and more, little by little.
I’m very happy for your happiness. I understand the mixed emotions within, and by others. Live your life and thrive. I know you will.
Thank you for years of learning and great lessons and memories from your writings.
Jill,
Sending you love and hugs as you write your next chapter
Jill.
Bless your heart. Your new place looks and sounds like a beautiful place for a new beginning. You’ve got this!
I know the confusion of this stage in life. It’s a hard, messy, imperfect, grief filled, hope filled journey. And you will grow so beautifully because you’re holding space for ALL your feelings. That’s healthy. Yes, you can be both sad and hopeful!
The house – (and you!) – It’s beautiful. It’s is a physical representation of your heart and life right now – something weathered and worn, but with wisdom, history, strength that comes from that weathering and wearing. Shiny, new perfect things don’t have that depth of history and wisdom.
And you can rebuild, refinish, reframe and redesign your house, your life, YOUR WAY!
Thank you so much for the kind words. I love the idea of my house and myself being similar. I hadn’t thought about that before! Thank you for sharing your insight. I appreciate it so much.
This is so amazing and you will make it your own. That is the beauty of this, it is yours alone. I cant wait to see the changes.
So insightful, Jill. I’m wishing you all good things from New Brunswick, Canada, where the snow has finally melted and the horses are shedding their heavy coats! Every year brings a new beginning.
It is beautiful! Congratulations. I understand some of how your are feeling. When my divorce became final, I bought champagne for my coworkers and celebrated. Many people were shocked, but I was so relieved to be free from all that had happened. Whatever you are feeling is ok. Take good care of yourself.
New chapters can be very exciting, enjoy the process 🙂
Your new home is beautiful, Jill! Love, love, LOVE that barn ? And the greenhouse!! Oh my!
‘Congratudolences’ is the word I’ve been seeing on social media lately when someone announces a divorce. Condolences that it didn’t work out they way you thought it would, but also congratulations on starting a new chapter. Your new house looks lovely, thank you for sharing.
That’s a clever word combo!
I love this post and the hope that winds and caresses its way through each sentence! What a beautiful place to rebuild, both a homestead and yourself. And, you even have some raised beds, a greenhouse, and a barn in place to get you started!
The Walt Whitman page struck me so hard. I started crying… Your home is just that, home. Thank you for being honest, raw and real with all you are going through.
Bless you, and your family as you begin building another part of your life. Peace.
Thank you so much for the kind words.
The house looks adorable…and I love the kitchen! I have a very similar greenhouse! I’m looking forward to hearing and seeing more of your new life. It’s hard, I know…but you’re strong, know what you want. I have thought so much about you and your announcement over the past few weeks. Hang in there!
You’ve got this.
Cling to the hope, the gratitude, the experience, the joy of every morning.
You are in a great place.
Thank you for your support and encouragement. I truly appreciate it.
I agree, you can be sad and hopeful at the same time. Life is good and getting better. You are moving forward. Don’t stress about what others think you should feel. You got this. Trust your instincts, be grateful for all your blessings.
Thank you for sharing and yes life is complex. Being all things at the same time is what life really is. It is called living. Excited to keep cheering you on. I don’t ever post(and might not again) but your posts have stirred me. Thank you for everything you are and how honest you are.
Your new place is darling. It looks like it has been waiting for you to show up and finish it like only you can. I can’t wait to see how it progresses in the makeover.
Best wishes in this next leg of your journey called life.
Thank you so much. I’m very excited to see where my journey leads.
“I am grieving. And I am hopeful.
I am sad. And I am excited.
I am tender. And I am capable.
I have lost things I loved. And I am building something beautiful.
Each does not cancel out the other.”
I’m so excited for you and happy that these things are true.
Thank you. 🙂
You go girl. You didnt ask for input on what to do in your kitchen but her ti is anyway. I can just see butcherblock on the counters and tin tiles on the backsplash. I look forward to seeing what you decide on. Much love from Texas
I felt all of this so deeply. You’re absolutely correct that you can be feeling twinges of sadness in the same moment that you feel hope and even excitement. Sometimes people don’t realize that you can actually grieve your marriage (or any relationship) before you’ve even separated. That was my story at least. It was over for both of us several years before the separation ever occurred. The majority of the drama came from people on the outside and their own judgments regarding us not being “sad enough”.
Anyway, I wish you all of the clarity in this new journey. You both deserve to be happy and enjoy your lives beyond the chapter you’ve already lived.
Maybe strange, but I’m so glad you have hope and relief. Wishing you well on what the future holds.
Jill, I have followed you for years and I can hear the difference in your writing, I’m sure there’s more spark in your eyes too. I’m happy for you, you deserve to be happy, whatever that looks like for you. Ignore everyone else(like you need to tell you that lol).
-fellow ranching and homesteading mama
So I just read a book that talks about sort of what what you are saying-finding joy while experiencing great and small pain and how joy and pain live next to each other, comfortably or not. So I am excited for you and am happy it sounds as if you have support systems in place for the not exciting parts. All that being said, I am very much looking forward to seeing lots of apple recipes from the apples of your lovely apple trees. I have serious apple tree envy!
I’m looking forward to apple recipes, too!
This is so amazing and you will make it your own. That is the beauty of this, it is yours alone. I cant wait to see the changes.
Wishing you sunny days and starry nights. It looks just about perfect.
“There’s no great loss without some small gain.” — Little House on the Prairie
Thank you for sharing. I was in a stifling marriage and his death released me. The freedom, the joy! How are your children handling this major change in their lives?
“I’m not starting from scratch. This time, I’m starting from experience.”
I believe this is the most profound statement in todays post.
“The only way to discover the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.”
Arthur C. Clarke
I’m so glad you resonated with that sentence. 🙂
I’m just seeing your story..I’ve followed you off and on for years. I don’t know who made what decision to do what, but I understand there are 2 stories here. You are fortunate to be able to start again in this way and I know you are grateful. Many of us have gone through loss and gain. Sometimes things just don’t work and we have to let go of guilt and whatever people want to project onto us. I wish you all the best.
Thank you so much for sharing your journey with us. This is a truly exciting part and I’m so happy for you.
When I was 14 my parents moved from one province (state) to another. One of my school fellows in the school I was leaving said, “Arn’t you sad to be leaving?”
I was first-class-unfiltered in those days and replied, “Yes, but I’m excited to meet new people, and see and do all the new things in the new place.” She was somewhat taken aback.
My husband is 85 and I am 60. I’m blessed that he is in reasonably good health and will, hopefully, still be around for a long time. Nonetheless, I’m also kind of excited about how it’ll be once he’s gone. I’ll be able to set the house up exactly as I want it, chuck out things that I don’t want in the space, and make decisions about all sorts of things without having to consider someone else as much as I have to now.
So I get the sad/happy — even if my last point is a bit ghoulish.
It’s absolutely beautiful, and I feel the peacefulness of this place!
Thank you! I love the peaceful feeling. 🙂
Beautifully written! Here’s to next chapters and quiet peaceful places
Love your perspective on all this Jill. Excited to see your next chapter unfold, such a great blank slate to create your space! I haven’t known you super long, but from what I have seen, there’s no quit in you, so I’m certain your new place will be great in no time! Nice greenhouse btw. Your comment “Here. You land here.” reminds me so much of my experience when I started over… My realtor gave me 10 houses to look at… based on what I was looking for. Only ever looked at one… walked into what is now my current house and knew immediately, this is the one. “you land here…”. I’ll never forget her saying to me, why would you want this old place… b/c it is “here”… it’s where I was meant to land.
New-ish reader, and never commenter, just dropping in to send a hug. I am divorced. And every.single.divorce is different and unique to those going through it. There are, of course, themes and shared experiences. But its also so different for everyone. I felt pain and grief, but also a lot of excitement when I was going through mine. Eventually I started responding to people’s “I’m sorry” with “thanks, I really appreciate that. I’m sorry all of this happened too, but I’m also really excited about what the future holds” and this reply started to give people space to celebrate with me. It was an interesting shift, to say in the least.
Anyway, sending hugs, strength, comfort, and joy to you.
That is a great response. Thank you for sharing it with me. I appreciate your kind words and advice.
May God bless this new season for you and all those you hold dear. Two things can be true and are. At 68 yrs young, well bruised and scuffed, my only “advice” is to do you, completely, with abandon. When your not sure who you are, reach out to those you trust so you can talk and figure out who you are. I love the pictures of your new house and can feel a sense of excited peace emanating thru the photos. The Leaves of Grass are perfect. The relationship you have with your children’s father belongs to you and him. Period, full stop. Extended families can look very weird to others, who cares? This is your life, your family.
I do have one thought, keep your essays, notes and any journaling you do during this season. Consider a book, perhaps in a few years. You are an author, your words speak to the souls of women in particular. The lessons you’re learning thru this season may help others in the future. Just a thought to tuck into a small corner of your mind. Do enjoy this season in all its surprises and unexpected messiness. God has you.
Thank you for your kind words and advice. I really appreciate it and I’ll keep that in mind for the future. 🙂
Beautiful home and Hope gets us through troubled times.
Without hope we give up and quit. I’ve followed you off and on for several years and I never saw quit in you. I saw strong, innovative, and determined. I still see this in your writings. It takes a strong person to open up to others. It takes an innovative person to adjust to reality and change directions and not try to recreate what was. And it takes a determined and hopeful person to not quit and keep moving forward when they sometimes just want to fold up.
Praying for you and your family
That barn and hayloft are beautiful! I hope your new homestead brings you much warmth, joy, and hope in times when they are most needed.
Thank you. I’m in love with the barn, too!
Jill – I love your attitude, your insight, your knowledge and your gained experience to see the brightness in and on the path ahead. Thank you for sharing, thank you for your lighting the way for others walking the same path, the same journey. You are a wonderful pioneer on that prairie!
It’s beautiful. Love that barn (and the kitchen). Hope you’re not on the north side of that dirt road. Cause I am and it sucks.
Can’t wait to see what you do with this beautiful place.
Best wishes on this new chapter of your life! I can picture new ideas and projects stacking up like cord wood in your brain. It will be interesting to see what you tackle in the future. At 77, my projects are few and far between but us old ladies will be cheering you on. You got this.
Oh my! I love, love, love that big red barn! I have a thing about barns and this one looks so wonderful! They always have such a good smell and little nooks and crannies. With a barn like that, anything is possible! Enjoy!
2 words, Let Them. You can’t control what people think, feel, do or say. What you can control is you. How you react is your super power! Very proud of you and your willingness to share your personal journey. I have followed you for years and you have taught me a lot about homesteading and what I will call “a simpler life” (and I don’t mean that in a bad way). Being true yourself and living to your values is hard stuff. Sometimes that means hard choices and decisions. I’m cheering for you!
Jill, you’ve worded everything with clarity and grace, thank you for sharing such a vulnerable part of your life. Learning about this sad news, although appropriately saddened, I personally never thought about the word “pity”, not for a minute. Looking forward to getting inspiration as you record this new homesteading journey.
That seems to be an AWESOME place for hope and peace!! And now you can see outside from your kitchen window!! 🙂
Jill, I completely understand feeling the grief/relief. I camped there for several weeks when my marriage ended after 24 years. The relief was palpable. Through God’s mercy and kindness, He allowed me to see those little joy sparks after a short time and I realized I’d be okay. It’s a hard season when things die. But sometimes death can and will bring life. In faith, we lean on Christ, cling to what is good, and move forward into the next thing.
I’m reading a book now called, “Starting Over: Chronicles of a Self-Reliant Woman” by Jackie Clay. It makes me think of you. After the dust settles in a few months, may you find peace and tranquility in your beautiful new place; in your home and your heart.
Wishing you peace – big hugs.
Much love and support as you enter this chapter of your life. Your journey has been so inspiring and beautiful, and blessings as you settle into your new adventure.