How a Pad of Yellow Post-its Healed Me Post-Divorce

Unable to face the consequences of a short, failed marriage, I sat in my messy family room, my phone battery dying. The house would never again carry the sounds of children’s laughter, screams of “UNO!” or excessive dishwasher cycles.

I blared our wedding playlist and berated myself: You should have known. You don’t deserve to be happy. You were never a real mom to his kids.

Slouching on my houndstooth sectional, I poured another glass of wine. Days prior I would have yelled at my husband for putting a wet glass on the wood grain. But he had checked into an inpatient treatment center and was never coming back to the storied house on the hill he insisted we buy. Worse, I had no legal claim to the children I had stepmothered for three years.

Searching for a sign, I ravaged through his files and our junk drawer, dumping pens, a garage door opener, loose batteries and a letter opener in front of me.

I wiped my eyes. Then, on the table, amidst the scattering of the life I had created, a small canary-yellow pad of frayed Post-It notes came into focus.

In my stepson’s handwriting, the pad said: get it! He had written it for himself while learning to play the guitar. He was small for an eight-year-old, though determined to be a rock star à la the bands his dad and I admired — Metallica, AC/DC, Jack White.

When he struggled to hold the heavy instrument upright, I’d whisper to him, “Get it!” with my pinky finger and pointer finger sticking in the air, the universal symbol for rock and roll. He’d do the gesture back to me, and soon he was nodding his little blond head and strumming with confidence.

The sticky note seemed to be staring me down, demanding my full attention. My mind got quiet. Was it a sign? Divine intervention? Drunk and deeply hurt, I fell asleep clutching the note to my chest.

The next morning I looked at the yellow sticky. I knew the minute my feet hit the ground each step forward was going to be painful, as I’d be forced to deconstruct the life I’d meticulously built. I’d have to clean out the kids’ rooms, pack up framed family photos I may never open again. I would be forced to start my life over at age 39.

After soaking the pillow with fresh morning tears, I took calming breaths and started talking to myself. Eventually, I whispered, “Get it.” I said it again. And again. I made the hand gesture. Finally, I shot up to my feet and screamed, “Get it!”

In the months that followed, it wasn’t always easy to summon the courage to keep going. In the lonely moments knowing the kids were nearby playing a soccer game I was no longer invited to or while I walked around my neighborhood’s winding paths alone, I had as much doubt as I did hope.

But the Post-it gave me that little bit of confidence I needed for each challenge. It was stuck to my monitor when I eventually launched myself on dating apps years later.

I still have the sticky note in a drawer somewhere. The fact that I don’t look at it as often makes me think there was a rock star in me all along.