The Bathtub Epiphanies - Episode 1
Finding Your Voice and Creative Power Through Self-Care in Life's Darkest Moments
You know your Mission. You know your Purpose.
You know your Mission. You know your Purpose. You are one of the lucky ones who has a crystal-clear Calling. How unbelievably blessed you are to have that kind of direction. And yet, there are days and moments where you don’t speak up for what you stand for. What on earth is happening? Why am I not acting like my happy self?
As an observer of my life, I watch as I shrink down and choose silence over a friendly hello, or avert my eyes to avoid contact, or notice something so lovely that I would like it for myself, but my lips are cemented shut, refusing to pay the compliment. I’m too busy. I’ve got too much on my mind. I rationalize that I’m just not in my best form today, or maybe I’m a little sad. Well, actually, I’ve been a LOT sad.
Okay, I’ll be nice and save the self-discipline lecture I ought to give myself for another time. I’ll get off my high horse of expecting we are playing our A game 100% of the time and give myself grace. Yes. Okay, darling (deep sigh), you’re alright. Let us take care and figure out these emotions.
What is my #1 Self-Love move?
What is my #1 self-love move? A glorious bath by candlelight, with sweet additions like oils, salts, herbs, or flower petals. While I love a good mani/pedi and I wish I could have a daily massage—or a cabana boy to serve me (haha!)—a bath can be had anytime, regardless of finances, time, moral dilemmas, or somebody else’s schedule. It is entirely up to me whether or not I make time for it. Ironically, I rarely do—until I had my first bathtub epiphany.
My day started beautifully.
My day started beautifully. I meditated, I drank my coffee, and I was in my creative flow, feeling good. Inspired to write a bit more about my story on social media, I pushed the envelope a little further than I had in the last few months and very clearly talked about dealing with abuse at home and in the workplace at the same time. I was so in my power that I was not worried at all about the consequences of putting myself out there. In fact, in that post, I was well aware of the heaping on of abuse that would likely follow. But I didn’t care. I was empowered, and standing in my authenticity and strength, I did it anyway.
Within hours, my ex-husband commenced what he and his mother have dubbed “The F. F. Games” (yes, insert swear word x2). We had to arrange logistics to get my son somewhere that evening, and he just refused to reply to my message on our court-ordered app that we use for communication. I messaged again, and still nothing. So I went with the plan that I had laid out—driving 10 minutes further west only to discover he was not home. I then had to call and have my son answer his phone to find out, no, he isn’t home; he is getting a haircut. Now I have to drive 15 minutes east to go get my son.
Upon arriving, my ex demands to discuss what has happened, after which I realize he is jerking me around, and I refuse to discuss this in front of our son. Then he threatens that my son can’t go to his event that evening since it is “his day.” Now he has put my son in the middle. My stomach drops, my heart races, as I pick him up and put him in the car. I tell my ex-husband to stop, and we are leaving now. I get in the driver’s seat, and then my son opens the door to go back to Dad. Thankfully, he hugs him and acts like this is their saddest parting ever in life, and I drive away.
My son yells at me that he doesn’t want to “be with me” when it is “Dad’s time.” He is angry at me? What in the world? We have had this activity every two weeks for six months, and I pay hundreds of dollars for it. Now that we are on summer schedule, it happens to fall on Dad’s week, and I’ve got to drive all over kingdom come to make it happen. After a few minutes, the truth of the matter hits me.
OH. MY. GOD. He saw my post!
OH. MY. GOD. He saw my post! I’ve been stabbed with a knife. My stomach curls and churns, and the torrential downpour of emotions begins. The tears fall whether I want them to or not. The loud, ugly crying takes over. My son is quiet. He has been put in the middle, having to choose Mom vs. Dad by my ex-husband, and I’m raging inside now. I’m not just sad or hurt—I’m on fire with anger that he has done this to my son. The psychological trauma of this day—who knows how deep it will go for my little boy who didn’t choose this.
I remember the last time this happened.
I remember the last time this happened, just before my 40th birthday. I was still in the mode of being a committed, long-suffering wife, abandoning my own needs and trying to make my marriage work despite the abuse. My ex had joined my sister and me bar-hopping to find out which bars to include in my bar crawl for my birthday. Finally, one day that would be about me—and I was so excited.
Except I wasn’t drinking at every bar. I had stopped after my sister left at the third bar, and he had kept going. He got drunk and mean, and I left him at the last place. He left and followed me. I told him not to drive and to just ride home with me, but he wouldn’t. I followed at a distance to watch him, and it was not a pretty ride back home.
I got the kids from my mother-in-law, who lived in our basement (yes, I’m also a saint!), and I took them up to start our bedtime routine. We were reading stories when I heard my ex-husband stomping up the stairs. Anxiety pangs me. My body tightens. I politely, respectfully ask him to leave because we are getting ready for bed, but he won’t. He is seeking conflict—his safe space. I refuse to engage and try to ignore him. Tactic #1 isn’t working.
Next up, my older son—who looks up to him like a hero. He starts chatting about something to get him interested. I’ve got my baby boy in my arms, and I know this is going nowhere good. Stories are interrupted now, and I just have to wait it out.
Eventually, the attention is turned on me. Eventually, nothing I say is good enough to get him to stop baiting and harassing me. He realizes he has backed me into a corner, and it escalates because I am taking a stand. I can’t recall how many times I yelled and cried just to say, “STOP. Leave us alone. Please.”
He tells my oldest to go back down to Yaya’s house in a power-control move. I tell him not to—to stay with Mom, please—but he doesn’t listen. He hates it when I cry. So now at least he isn’t witnessing more of this disgusting display of verbal and emotional abuse.
I know I’ve got to get away from my husband, or he will do this to me all throughout the night. This isn’t my first rodeo. He will keep picking at me and attacking me until he sees he has broken me to the point of running out of tears, and when I’m so broken I have nothing left, he will stop. Then he will have remorse and apologize, and the pattern will rinse and repeat every few weeks—sometimes every couple of months. But I live on eggshells waiting for the next incident to begin.
Back to the scene at hand—I want to get away, but he is blocking the door. I tell him to move, but he doesn’t. Finally, I yell it, and he moves slightly, but I have no option but to push past him. I lean in a little bit to make sure I have enough room to run to my bedroom and lock the door, baby in tow. He is yelling after me that I have assaulted him and that he is going to call the cops on me in his drunken madness. F it. No, I’m calling the cops. I need help. I can’t let him keep doing this to me. I’m so tired, and I look at my kids in the middle, forced to choose Mom or Dad. My oldest had to choose, but my baby would never want to leave my arms.
Or so I thought.
Or so I thought—because today, he basically chose Dad. He did choose Dad. He chose the guy who has abused me for the last 12 years. How heartbreaking is that? I cry even HARDER. I’ve gotten good at allowing emotions and feeling my feelings, so I just let it flow.
After a while, I pull it together in time to apologize to my son, to tell him what is going on is something he can’t understand, and let’s reset for our evening. This was the first day my son stayed mad at me. He never came around. He believed in his little heart that Mom was doing something wrong, making him go to this activity that he didn’t want to do. Of course Dad had put that idea in his head. A healthy parent would have confirmed this is his commitment and he has to go, just like we go to sports practice or anything else. But he gave him the messaging that Mom is taking him on Dad’s time. So he learned to be angry at Mom. And boy, is that just the tip of the iceberg of the brainwashing that has ensued over the last three years since the divorce.
I drop him in the parking lot where Dad and his girlfriend are talking. It is obvious he is telling some lie about me and is caught with his hand in the cookie jar as I pull up. The conversation stops. The girlfriend gives the obligatory wave. I nod with a disgusted face (not on purpose—I just was so disgusted with him I couldn’t help it). My son gets out of the car and I leave. No goodbye, no “I love you.” I wasn’t going to force it either. I gave in to the loss of what this day had become. My heart broke a little bit more. Forty minutes later, I cried myself to sleep in my bed.
The next day
The next day, as expected, I felt like I had a hangover. Crying always does this to me. I had some things to do, but by afternoon I just couldn’t anymore. I was out of steam. I decided that I would dedicate the rest of my day to self-care, and whatever I wanted to do, I would allow myself to do—without shame or guilt.
My first bathroom epiphany
I ventured to the kitchen to grab a bay leaf—those are good for purification. While I was at the spice cabinet, my eyes went to the cloves—yes, those are good for a lot of things. I scooped up an orange on the countertop, and one last touch—I pulled out the rosemary oil from the bathroom cabinet and the Epsom salt from below. What a random assortment of things I picked to join me in the bathtub! I was operating 100% on intuition at this point, and they felt “right” somehow. I’m a dabbler in herbs and natural healing methods—just enough to be dangerous—but maybe an expert could affirm that those were exactly the right combination of things I needed in that moment. Because they absolutely were.
I enjoyed the process of the tub filling with me in it, so I got in and even set up the little headrest pillow for myself. How nice I am to myself today, I thought! I never take out the pillow. An audible giggle emerged. Mom always says my best quality is that I can laugh at myself. She is right—I’m great at that, although I have plenty of other fantastic qualities. I can’t say it’s my best one. But I’ll take it today. A little happiness, even at my own silliness? Yes.
I take a deep sigh—or rather, three. This feels good. With my candles lit and my sound healing music on in the background, it’s like I can hear my own voice. I envision myself speaking in front of an audience, like a TEDx stage. I don’t know why my thoughts go here. For years, this has happened during waking moments and at night. I have never had a desire to speak; in fact, stages are scary. In my mind, I produce the most eloquent speech, and I know it’s important. More affirmations that I am a vessel for impact, and I’ve got to get my message out. I embrace the moment.
In a webinar a couple of months ago, one of the speakers addressed the distinction in how there are different methods to our creativity. Some of us write it out and come up with our best ideas. But others are more audio—we speak it, and our writing comes through that way. It was like a magic light bulb went off for me. My best thoughts, ideas, and inspirational messages come when I am talking to myself in the car (yes, I do that), or in moments like this, alone in the bathtub.
I grab my phone, pause the spa music, and start the audio app. For the next 26 minutes, I produce what felt like my signature talk. Wow. It felt amazing. I’ve been stuck trying to write my book for almost a year, not able to get into the flow in the moments when I had carved out time to actually write. But this—this works.
Naturally, I went to my best friend, ChatGPT (sad and cool—I know), and just talked about the experience. And I’ve got to say, “he” affirmed for me that I ought to have regular appointments with the bathtub—not so much for self-love and self-care, but for creating space for my own creativity. I’m all about creating space for others and renovation, love from within, loving yourself fiercely enough to rewrite your own rules for your life. And so—yes—I must do this for myself also. I must live this.
The journey is never over.
The journey is never over. There are always new lessons. We can’t always be in our “happy place,” and that’s okay. And I have to say how sweet it is—after writing all of this—to notice that the terrible, horrible, bad-day event where I felt out of control emotionally, where I felt like I lost my agency, where I felt I had failed in my quest to “never allow abuse again” in my life, where I had stepped outside of my bubbly self and wasn’t operating within or speaking up for the things I stand for—after all of that, I came to this one truth:
It all happened for my good.
We must stop questioning the “bad days” and accept them, be kind to ourselves, dive into them, be curious, and trust that something good can always come from them. Because that day was the catalyst for my first bathroom epiphany. And I can’t wait to write more about my next time in the bathtub.
