Notes from the Mind Palace.

Excavating Myself: A Field Guide to Rediscovering the Woman I Lost Somewhere Between Betrayal and Blanket Forts

I want to find myself again, but I’m pretty sure she’s hiding under a blanket fort with snacks and what my kids lovingly call my “pillow knife.” I’m not that dramatic — but dramatic enough to sleep armed like a raccoon guarding a treasure hoard. I have other things, they just don’t fit under my pillows.

I’m single again. At least, that’s my take on it. He’s acting like everything is fine, which is hilarious considering the emotional equivalent of a house fire behind him. So here comes my seasonal identity crisis, sponsored by betrayal, poor emotional boundaries, and whatever cosmic entity keeps handing me men who treat loyalty like a suggestion.

This breakup hit different. Not because it was the worst — though it’s definitely in the top three — but because somewhere along the way, I stopped being me. I shrank myself down into a quiet little version of Syl who didn’t leave her bedroom, didn’t write, didn’t go on trips, didn’t laugh as loud, didn’t breathe as deep, didn’t hunt, barely listened to music, and basically lived like a cryptid with a Costco membership.

I used to love writing. I stopped because my emotions got too big to fit through the keyboard. Nick died, and something in me froze. Every time I lost someone, I lost myself too — like my identity was a coat I kept handing out to people who never gave it back. Now I keep things tucked away inside a dead man’s coat. It’s not poetic. It’s survival.

Then came the co‑dependence. The slow erosion. The “if I pour everything into his cup, maybe he’ll finally pour something into mine” delusion. Spoiler: he did not. He poured nothing. I lost the cup, several thousand dollars, parts of my house I can’t fix, and my sanity, which is currently on back‑order.

My emotional intelligence? Buried.
My red flag radar? Unplugged.
My boundaries? Crossed by me, repeatedly, like I was trying to win a marathon in self‑betrayal.

And the wildest part? My body knew he was cheating before I did. My medical issues went haywire — autonomic storms, panic spikes, that weird “something is wrong” hum in my bones. the cyclical vomiting out of nowhere. Turns out your nervous system will snitch on a man faster than your best friend. And the retired cop in me, had me digging through everything for answers like a dog in the trash can after a BBQ. I found out the semi truth on accident. I wont be getting answers either. Ive made peace with that.

This summer, I remembered what it felt like to be alive. We went to the fair. The kids were worried about me going on the Viper ride because I’m “old” and have a “bad back,” which is rude but fair. They even had a group chat about it — complete with pictures.

Only one brave kid went with me — bless that child — and when the ride dropped, something in me snapped awake. Picture this: me, with two knives strapped to my hip, on a swinging, spinning fair ride, sitting next to an 11‑year‑old who was currently re‑evaluating his entire life as we plummeted. I heard him yell, “NOPE NOPE NOPE,” and honestly? Same.

I cried afterward. Not because I was scared. Because I had forgotten what joy felt like. What adrenaline felt like. What I felt like.

And right when I started feeling good, he started rejecting me harder. Funny how that works. Some people love you most when you’re small.

So here I am, excavating myself. Digging through the rubble of who I used to be, who I pretended to be, and who I abandoned. I want my independence back. I want my relationship with my little kids back. I want my writing back. I want my instincts back. I want my damn life back.

I’m not reinventing myself. I’m excavating myself. And if the next man wants me, he better bring a shovel, a map, and emotional stability.

Because I’m done shrinking.
Done dimming.
Done bleeding myself dry for people who don’t know how to hold a cup.

This time, I’m choosing me.
And she’s worth the dig.