I got married eight years ago today. Two weeks ago, I finally took off the heart shaped thumb ring my husband gave me the night before our wedding. He’d hidden it in peppermint ice cream, my favorite. I kept wearing the ring, not because I was holding on to the relationship but because I love the ring. I’d looked for a thumb ring forever and hearts are my favorite shape. But the ring was starting to strangle me a little.

In the last couple of months actually, I’ve gotten rid of all sorts of things that emotionally trigger me. My wedding dress and the dress I wore as a high school teacher when we chaperoned prom have gone to Goodwill. Last week, as a barter for getting my mesquite tree trimmed, I bartered two mirrors he gave me as anniversary presents. As I find the triggers, they are thrown away, given away, or donated. I don’t want to pull them anymore. I am tired of being shot down, blown open.

When I think about how I felt at his time last year, less than three months after he left, I see progress. I don’t cry every day anymore, maybe not even every week. I don’t look at the laugh lines around his eyes and wish I could cradle his face in my hand. I don’t wait to hear his voice every day to talk over kid logistics. Days go by when we have no communication at all and I am not jonesing like a pack-a-day smoker for my nicotine.

Today, I slept in, weeded my gardens, made a list of plants to replace what died over the winter. I went to the library with my boy then came home to make goat cheese, leek, and asparagus quiche. I also opened the pay-off letter for my mortgage, which listed my ex as my husband and burst into tears. I burned sliced almonds I was trying to toast for salad.  My son taught himself to “skate” on his socks across the tiled entryway. Then we read two chapters and cuddled before bed.

It was an up-and-down day, as most are. Considering it was my wedding anniversary and I’ve been divorced less than six months, I’ll take up and down with gratitude.