Finding My Way Back to Me

When Rey and I were together, he was always the “sikat.” He had that certain character that naturally drew people to him. He was a good man, a generous man, a leader. He spoke with authority, and people listened.

I never had a problem with that.

In fact, when Rey was the “bida,” I felt that I was also the “bida.” We were a team. His accomplishments were part of our life, and I was proud of him.

But after he was gone, I began to notice something I had never really thought about before. My identity had been tied to his.

There was no regret in that realization. I loved being his wife. I loved being part of our family. I loved the life we built together. But I also began to feel something I wasn't proud of.

Envy.

Even after his death, people remembered him for what he had done and what he had said. They remembered his leadership, his generosity, his accomplishments. People talked about him, and I understood why.

But somewhere inside me was a quiet question: What about me?

I didn't want to compete with Rey. I didn't want to take anything away from the memory of who he was. I simply began to wonder who I was apart from him.

What can I do on my own? What can I contribute? What do people see when they look at me—not as Rey's wife, but simply as LELEN?

Perhaps this is what I meant when I wrote in my journal in October 14, 2017:

“I am looking for myself. I am beginning to build my own identity. What can I do apart from him? I am trying to know who I am as simply me, myself. I am beginning to stand on my own, not that I am alone.”

That last part still speaks to me. I was beginning to stand on my own, not because I was alone.

My children were there. They supported me. They cared for me. I had people around me who loved me. But there is a difference between being surrounded by people who love you and knowing who you are as an individual.

I needed to discover my own territory. A place where I wasn't defined by being Rey's wife. A place where I could discover my own strengths, my own weaknesses, my own interests, my own capacity. A place where I could be loved simply because I was me.

Looking back now, I think I was beginning to understand something about love that I had never consciously considered. Sometimes, we don't lose ourselves because someone asks us to. Sometimes, we lose ourselves quietly.

We give. We adjust. We support. We put someone else's needs beside—or sometimes ahead of—our own. We become part of an “us,” and because we love that person, we don't even notice that some parts of “me” have slowly moved into the background.

And perhaps that isn't necessarily wrong.

—Love asks us to give.
—Marriage asks us to share.

—Family asks us to sacrifice.

—There is beauty in that.

But somewhere along the way, I think I needed to remember that being part of someone else's life doesn't mean disappearing from my own.

So I began learning to love myself. Not the kind of self-love that says, “I am better than everyone else." Not the kind that demands attention. Not the kind that makes everything about me.

I meant something much simpler. I wanted to know myself. I wanted to know my capacity as an individual. I wanted to discover what I could do. I wanted to care for myself—not only physically, but emotionally and mentally. 

I wanted to be able to say, This is me. And perhaps most importantly, I wanted to believe that there was something about me worth being proud of.

I wrote a prayer at the end of that old journal entry in October 14, 2017:

“Help me, God, that I may begin to see myself as a person who has something to be proud of, too. Help me, God, that people may be drawn to me because I am loving.”  

Reading that now, years later, I realize how much that prayer revealed. I wasn't asking God to make me the “sikat.” I wasn't asking Him to make people admire me. I was asking Him to help me become someone whose love would draw people.

That feels different.

Maybe that was the beginning of finding myself again. Not becoming a completely different person.

Not leaving behind the woman who had been Rey's wife. Not pretending that our life together didn't shape me. It did. And it always will.

Rey will always be part of my story. But I am learning that his presence in my story does not erase my own identity.

I can carry the love we shared and still discover who I am. I can miss him and still build a life. I can honor his memory and still make my own memories. I can be someone's mother, someone's friend, someone's counselor—and still simply be me.

Perhaps that is what I meant when I wrote about loving myself “101%.” I wasn't trying to love myself more than I loved anyone else.

I was learning that I was worthy of the same care, attention, patience, and love that I so freely gave to the people I loved.

Maybe I had not intentionally lost myself. Maybe I had simply loved so deeply that I had forgotten to look for myself within all that love.

And after everything changed, I finally had to ask: Who am I when I am simply me?

I don't think I found the answer all at once. I was slowly beginning. But perhaps that's how finding ourselves works. Not one dramatic revelation. Just little discoveries. One question. One brave step. One new thing we learn about ourselves. One moment when we realize: 

Oh. There I am.

And maybe, after all those years of being part of an “us,” I was slowly learning how to stand comfortably in the beautiful, imperfect space called me.

Not alone. Just me.

And that, I think, was worth discovering.