These photos are from Easter day last year. I was in Philadelphia, staying in a room with a creaky box frame bed and three locks on the door. Connor and I had finally reached a truce. We were letting go.
I found a church in a neighbourhood close by with black lives matter and rainbow flags outside. Somewhere I felt comfortable attending.
It was warm, I wore a skirt. I walked to church on my own, took my cardigan off in the heat of the sun.
It was a more conservative service than I had been expecting, old hymns and liturgy, but the church body had life, the pastor was a joyful embodiment of queer energy, they took the time to share heavy things with each other in prayer, they reached out for each other. I wasn't brave enough to come forward, I was still so hurt, everything was still so raw. I didn't trust myself not to cry in front of strangers.
Breaking up isn't the right word. We were already so broken. Peeling away might be better, wrenching apart, promising not to turn around when we walk away, forcing ourselves to let go.
There was a lot of love there. There was a lot of hurt there. There was a lot of lost expectation and fear. And there was so much care, so much tenderness, so much discomfort.
Earlier in the trip, I went to New York to stay with my friend Amelia whilst Connor worked for a weekend. It was a space to breathe in the fog of a difficult three weeks. We laughed, drank red wine and smoked on the roof of a flat block in Manhattan, ordered food in, vented all our frustrations, hid in coffee shops to discuss dating women and making art and juggling being adults, hung out in her gallery, posing so she could paint me. She took me in.
She had a ticket for a concert she had booked months before I crashed back into her life and begged her for refuge, so I had an evening to myself in her apartment.
I wanted to use it to write. To think. To make a decision. And to pray.
Everyone kept asking me what I wanted. Did I want to still be with Connor? Did I still want that relationship? Did I still want to move to America?
And I didn't know. I wanted someone else to make that decision.
So I set about writing. Frustrations and feelings and speculations. And then, once I'd reached my answer, I got on my knees, like I had done when I was a teenager and still went to God for comfort. And I was honest.
"I'm not ready to give it up," I prayed, "I'm just not ready. Is that okay, God? Is that going to stop me from doing all that I'm called to do? Am I being selfish? If you ask me to, I'll give it up."
I don't know what response I wanted. Maybe I wanted to know that yes, I should leave. A definite answer. Or maybe I wanted to feel that I was right to keep going, to keep fighting, to work to make this thing better.
But the response I got was unexpected: you don't have to be miserable.
That's all I heard. Clear and firm.
I was so wrapped up in what this life with Connor looked like, would look like, could look like. I was so concerned that I might miss my calling or not get to where I needed to be. I thought about the bigger picture, the support I provided, what Connor needed and wanted. The status and worth I gained by helping him. I had missed what all the others had been saying to me. What about you, Sarah? And, honestly, I was so miserable. I was so anxious, and stressed, and self-punishing. I was so agitated and uncomfortable. I was wrestling with suicidal thoughts. I was so worried that I was hurting Connor, so scared that I couldn't protect him, so on edge. I thought the drama, the depths of emotions, the rush of love and hurt, somehow proved how important this relationship was to us both. This pain was valid, this pain was necessary.
You don't have to be miserable.
It wasn't a command. It wasn't a clear direction. It wasn't a request.
You don't have to be miserable.
You can stay if you want, you can leave if you want. You can work on this relationship or you can let it go. You can move to the US or you can stay in the UK.
But, you don't have to be miserable.
In that moment, I still wasn't quite ready to put myself first. I came away from that night of writing, reflection, and prayer still believing that I was going to try and make this relationship work.
But as I left Amelia and met Connor in Philadelphia, and as things got worse and I got more and more wretched and unhappy, the pain became unbearable. And I let myself start to think that I didn't have to do this.
So when the decision was finally made, the tears had been shed, the anger and the hurt had been painfully and explosively released, there was relief. I don't have to be miserable anymore.
I know it is more complicated than that, that some wounds are still sore twelve months later, that I didn't quite let go, that there is still love and care and discomfort there. But when I looked at the photos from that trip this week, when I played the songs I had listened to last April, when I let myself go back into that space, the person I cried for was myself. I'm sorry, I cried. I should have known you didn't deserve to feel that bad. I'm sorry I didn't stand up for you more. I'm sorry that I let you be that wretchedly unhappy, that I justified and accepted and rationalised you being that miserable. You were worth protecting, you were worth more than that trip and that boy and that relationship.
And I am proud that I am not there anymore, that I am not agitated or on edge these days. That I smile and laugh and I'm content with who and where I am. That I know I deserve happiness and joy and silliness and wonder and amusement. I don't get extra points or gold stars for holding on to suffering and discomfort. I don't have to be miserable. And I am grateful for a God who values my joy and reminds me of my worth, even when I am uncertain.
