Over the Moon

The only way out is up.

I guess this is the part where I’m supposed to “glow up.”

It’s been about five months since the breakup, so society says the time to wallow is over and my grief has expired. Now I’m expected to somehow become incredibly hot and successful—as some form of revenge or self-love, or whatever. As soon as your husband sticks his dick in someone else, it’s like you can hear capitalism and the patriarchy high-fiving each other: “This poor woman is going to hate herself so much that she’ll spend hundreds of dollars trying to change her physical form under the guise of ‘healing,’ when it’s really just insecurity and self-disgust.”

I can’t just be a phoenix rising from the ashes—I have to be a SKINNY phoenix rising from the ashes? The fuck?

The “glow up” industry really runs the gamut: from invasive, expensive cosmetic surgeries to the more innocuous things like green juice and journaling, the wellness industry banks on you hating yourself to sell you stuff you don’t need, all under the guise of helping you “transform your life.” You’re constantly spoon-fed reasons to loathe yourself: some are subtle, like influencers talking about “self-care” while commodifying the practice to sell you overpriced greens powders or personalized vitamins. Other times, it's blatant, like the GLP-1 ads that pop up between swipes on Tinder (no, really, this is happening). The wellness industry has figured out how to monetize self-loathing, and they’re betting that when your life falls apart—like mine has—you’ll be willing to buy a new face, a new soul, or at least a $60 gel pen to jot down your sad thoughts with.

And while I know deep down that a yoga retreat can’t unspool the complicated thread of my trauma, maybe there’s a small, stupid part of me that wonders if it could. It would be nice to journal my way out of this, but I know that’s not really how it works.

Even though, well, that’s kind of what I’m doing now. Shit.

I’m no stranger to the brutal one-two punch of capitalism and patriarchy— they’ve been double-teaming me since I was a child. And now that I’m a woman in my 30s? They’re basically sending me “u up?” texts every night. As my youthful beauty fades, and as grey hairs, wrinkles, and sunspots appear, I’m bombarded daily with reminders that I need to change myself to be considered viable—romantically, professionally, and otherwise. And while I’m aware of this, it doesn’t make me less susceptible to it. Lately, I find myself focusing more on my flaws—the crooked teeth, the new discoloration around my chin, the strange dark hairs growing on my face in places I swear they’ve never been before.

And when we move below the neck? Things get even spookier.

I’ve recently started showing my naked body to someone. This is the first time in years that anyone other than my husband has seen me naked since I was a teenager, and holy hell, that’s scary. I wish I could go back and kick my 19-year-old self directly in the cunt for thinking she was too fat, too ugly, or that her tits were too small. She should’ve dressed sluttier, taken more nudes, and lived with more reckless abandon. I’m sure 40-something me will wish the same for 33-year-old me, so I’m trying to honor my future self by doing just that now.

Not that wanting to change your appearance is always bad— I don’t mean to come off that way. Listen, I work out regularly. I’m known to primp and preen. I love customizing my avatar! Last year, I got four large tattoos and two piercings. I’d say that’s a kind of glow-up, right? A little rebellion, a little self-expression. I have enough clothes to outfit the entire Duggar family and then some, and I still want more (new glow-up fixation: “going-out tops.” I need some.) Shallow? Maybe. I’m not going to think too hard about it.

And I’d love to say I do all of this “just for me,” but when societal expectations are so intertwined with appealing to the male gaze, it’s hard to tell what’s for me and what’s subconscious external validation. Icky to admit, but true. I mean, if I were alone on a desert island, would I be using a gua sha every night? No.

But it’s not just a physical glow-up I’m supposed to have, is it? There’s supposed to be a mental, emotional, and even professional revolution. So many kind people have told me that I’ll spread my wings and fly now that I’m free of my husband, but even that feels like a lot of pressure. For over a decade, I saw him as my biggest supporter, so it’s hard to believe I can accomplish more without him by my side. I hope I can become the competent, self-reliant, prolific artist that everyone around me believes I can be, but then I worry I’ll disappoint them if I don’t.

Yes, I often talk about my people-pleasing tendencies in therapy.

But you know what? I don’t think my glow-up—if I even end up having one—will look like the glossy Pinterest versions I’ve been sold. I know that working through this moment of my life will feel more like walking through the motherfucking fire than sipping coconut water in a lotus position. Not to be dramatic, but, you know, my soul’s been torn asunder. Everything I’ve ever known and everything I’ve ever built has been ripped from my hands overnight. I’ve now experienced rage like I’ve never known, felt pain deeper than I ever imagined possible. And I’m supposed to experiment with blush placement and get a haircut?

This all feels like a trap.

Maybe my glow-up will look more like a “glow-down.” I’ve pretty much stopped eating vegetables and drinking water because it all feels “too complicated.” Most of my food comes out of bags now. I’ve smoked more weed and drunk more alcohol in the past five months than in the previous 33 years combined. No vision boards, but plenty of bed-rotting. Sometimes I exercise and write, and I even cook meals with food that’s come from the ground. Other times, I scroll on my phone for hours. Sometimes I go out with friends, and other times I binge old episodes of Ink Master until I fall asleep on the couch. At this point I can see myself lighting up a cigarette before I would do some sort of juice cleanse.

People talk about glowing up like it’s this magical in-between space, somewhere between getting a manicure and exercising a demon. And you’re supposed to wait for that glow-up to arrive so you can find your next partner, have great sex, and live a fabulous life. Maybe I can get some of that done before I emerge from the divorce cocoon—waxed, snatched, and girlbossing my way through heartbreak. Maybe I can just have some nice things without having to earn them, enjoy my time without changing everything about myself first.

But the truth is that I don’t know what healing looks like. I don’t know what it means to “rise.” All I know is that it isn’t as simple as purchasing a new life, or convincing myself that one day the pain will dissolve into something beautiful. It may never turn beautiful.

I want to glow up in some ways, sure. I want to give fewer fucks. I want to sleep better, stress less, and stop policing myself so much. I want to be okay making mistakes without spiraling into self-flagellation. I want to make bad decisions just to see what happens—and not drown in shame afterward. I’ve always acted in the interest of some “higher self,” carefully considering every single choice I’ve ever made, praying they were all the “right” decisions. Now I just want to be less puritanical about the whole damn thing.

But trying to make a quantum leap from “sad, divorced April” to “hot, empowered, future April” feels like too much effort and far too much pressure. I hope it’s okay with you if I stay sad and ugly for a bit. Maybe my “glow-up” will look nothing like what I’m told it should. Maybe it will be quiet, internal—an unraveling rather than a reinvention. Maybe it will look like something I cannot yet see.

Until then, I’ll keep journaling my way through it, hoping that, somehow, I’ll magically become hot in the process. Would be nice!