November 4

Dear readers, sharing this story feels like unveiling a hidden part of my soul. It's an intimate reflection that bridges my past and present, exploring the complexities of heartbreak, the weight of legacy, and the symbols that guide our emotional journeys.

November 4. That’s the day my marriage ended.

Victoria, BC was in the throes of what climatologists termed an 'atmospheric river', but it felt as if the weather was echoing my internal chaos — a deluge of emotions that mirrored the torrential downpour outside. The act of leaving meant not only the dissolution of a marriage but the tearing apart of a family, the upending of our comfortable, beautifully appointed home. After this day, our lives — mine and my daughter’s — would never be the same.

Brianna Wiest, in her essay “Seven Reasons Why Heartbreak Is Often Crucial for Human Growth” mentions, “there is no traumatic experience that is ever a completely singular event.” Her words resonated deeply and provided a context for my pain. My marriage's dissolution, though seemingly abrupt, was a culmination of events and emotions, building like that atmospheric river, waiting to burst.

That fateful morning, in my urgency to leave, and fueled by adrenaline, I threw a few items into a shopping bag — my laptop, wallet, and my grandmother’s small, charred icon of the Annunciation.

This icon bore a legacy, one of survival against all odds. During the harrowing events of the Sacking of Smyrna in 1922, my grandmother traversed her own overwhelming challenges. Fleeing for her life from the menacing march of Ataturk's forces, she'd been battered and muddied, yet remained unbroken. Amidst the chaos, my grandmother found a small, burned piece of wood. Picking it up from the debris, she believed it was more than a mere coincidence; my grandmother instinctively knew it was a divine sign that she was meant to persevere. For my family, this icon became a symbol of survival amidst adversity, reflecting resilience and faith.

In my own escape, I turned to this icon for comfort and solace, holding onto the belief that, just as the Panagia had safeguarded my grandmother, she would also light the way for my daughter and me. I left out of necessity, carrying with me a mix of fear, uncertainty, and sorrow. Yet, deep down, I trusted in the Panagia and the resilience my grandmother, and my mother, Evangelia, handed down to me.

Heartbreak, as Wiest suggests, is the “catalyst that breaks you open.” It lays bare the soul, exposing vulnerabilities but also revealing strengths that one might not know existed. My grandmother's escape, my decision to leave – both were moments of crushing heartbreak, punctuated by the strength to choose survival over submission. It's these challenges that define us, pushing us towards transformation and growth.

As I look back, I recognize that heartbreak is never an isolated incident. It is intertwined with our past, our histories, and the stories that shape us. That day, the atmospheric river drenched Victoria, but it also cleansed and renewed. In the months that followed my decision to end my marriage, I forged a deeper bond with my heritage and faith, rediscovered myself, and came to understand that we do more than just endure — we flourish.