Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

Around the same time, I was beginning to take my health seriously—trading caffeine for water, fear for movement—I met someone who would change the course of my life.

Her name was Bess.

We met on a school field trip to New York City. She was the mother of one of my daughter’s friends, and from the moment we began talking, there was an instant connection. We couldn’t have been more different on paper, but our hearts understood each other. Conversation flowed effortlessly. I didn’t know it at the time, but she would become my first real friend in what felt like forever.

Bess and her husband had once been avid road cyclists and had recently decided to take it up again. She invited me to join their rides, and I eagerly said yes. At first, it was about exercise. But soon, those early morning loops around the lake became my lifeline.

We rode at dawn—before the world was fully awake, before our children stirred, and before the weight of our daily responsibilities descended. We pushed up hills I didn’t believe I could climb, her voice always beside me: “You’ve got this, just a little more.” We coasted down the other side laughing, breathless not just from the ride, but from the joy of being seen, heard, known.

I tried to include my husband at first—inviting him to ride with us, to come to dinner, to join us for Fourth of July or Halloween celebrations—but he never really fit in. He always had an excuse. Usually work. When he did come, the energy shifted. He had a way of filling the room with tension. He could be charming when he wanted to, but Bess and her husband saw through it. I think he sensed that—and it made him withdraw even more.

In truth, his absence was a relief. When he wasn’t there, I could breathe. I could laugh freely. I could be myself.

As Bess and I rode through neighborhoods and shared stories, she began to notice things—small at first. Little comments about my marriage. “That seems off,” she’d say gently. Or, “If my husband did that, it would mean something very different.” She never judged. Never accused. Just mirrored back to me the reality I’d been trying to ignore for years.

But the moment I will never forget came one morning after a ride. The plan was to stop for bagels, sit in the sun, and chat awhile. I hesitated—I always did. While other moms could enjoy a leisurely breakfast with friends, I calculated the cost. If I stayed too long, I knew what I’d come home to: children crying, my husband yelling, and a storm of anger waiting just behind the front door.

Still, that day I stayed. Just for a bit.

Then the texts started.

Where are you?
When are you coming home?
What are you doing?

He knew where I was. I always told him. He also knew how long these rides usually lasted. But that wasn’t the point. My freedom was the threat.

As the messages grew more frequent and more intense, I stood to leave—partly out of fear, mostly out of love for my children. I knew that if I didn’t return soon, they would bear the brunt of his rage.

And then Bess gently placed her hand on my arm.

“LC,” she said softly, “you know this isn’t normal… right?”

That one sentence cracked something open in me. A truth I had buried under years of gaslighting, and emotional neglect began to rise to the surface. I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to. Her words had already taken root.

That was the beginning. The true beginning.

Bess stood by me through the awakening, the unraveling, and the rebuilding. Through the storm of a high-conflict divorce. Through the lonely nights of grief and the slow mornings of healing. She offered me something I had never experienced in my adult life: safe, unwavering, deeply faithful friendship.

Bess passed away last year from pancreatic cancer.

And though her time on this earth ended far too soon, the legacy she left in my life endures. She mothered with strength, lived with grace, and loved with a heart wide open. I will always carry her in mine.

She was the first mirror.
The first voice to say, “This is not love.”
The first person to stand beside me as I stepped, trembling, into awareness.

And for that, I will always be grateful.