28April2025
Dear Diary,
I watched Emily clutch a matchstick in the hands of a woman perched in a cramped flat on Camden Street. The woman lit the match, snuffed it out, and repeated the ritual, her voice murmuring everything Emily had learned to whisper herselfher own hollow ache, the relentless yearning to howl like a wolf. Still, the ache drove her to the herbalist down the lane.
Emily believed she had suffered the greatest tragedy of her life. Her husband, Peter, had walked out, leaving her with their two children. He returned after about four months, and for a while everything seemed to settle back into the familiar rhythm. The cracks, however, ran deep. Their relationship fissured, each of them drifting further apart.
At first Emily wept, longing for the days when Peter would ask, Hows your day? and send a soft Good night text. Then the desire for revenge seeped in; she imagined Peters world turning upside down, even wished a bus would hit him. Eventually the fury dulled. She stopped caring about the children, about Peters whereabouts, about when he might come home. A suffocating grey fog settled over her, choking her thoughts. One by one illnesses piled up. A cyst erupted behind a tooth and required extraction and a costly implant. Her eyesight blurred sharply. While strolling through Hyde Park on a perfectly flat path she slipped, fracturing her wrist in three places. In that moment she resolved that something had to change; she no longer wanted to gamble with fate.
The curse isnt real, the herbalist said, her voice flat. Dont blame a spell. Its Peters selfishness. He sees only himself. Youve built this prison yourself, and hes too cowardly to leave. The seat he once occupied is now taken.
What am I supposed to do? Emily asked.
Live. Live your own life, however you choose, for yourself.
Emily rose, her head feeling as heavy as cast iron. Live easy to say, she muttered. The woman handed her a small box of candles and a tiny bottle of water. Take these. Burn a candle, drink the water when you feel nauseous.
Thankful, Emily stepped back onto the street. A lump rose in her throat as the refrain replayed in her mind: Its not her, its your husband. After twelve years together, after everything theyd weathered, the words struck like a cold wind.
That evening she opened her notebook. Live my own life. What do I want? What do I want? The pen stalled on the question marks. She had always wanted the same as the kidsa day at the seaside, a trip to an indoor water park, a playroom, or at least a swing set in the garden. Peters wishes were different: a new flat, a car, visits to his mother in Kent, a balcony remodel, latenight cinema, or a camping weekend.
What did Emily truly want, independent of husband and children? It became clear she had dissolved into the family role, her personal goals vanished. After half an hour of scribbling, she listed a handful of aims:
– Run each morning, find the time and energy.
– Change jobs, become a manager, earn a decent salary, develop professionally.
– Lose seven pounds.
– Buy a proper coat.
– Own a house.
– Build calm, healthy relationships with the children.
– Discover a hobby that brings joy.
She exhaled, closed the notebook, and glanced over at Peter, who was halffocused on his laptop on the sofa. Your husband echoed somewhere in her head.
Later, I drove Emily back to the herbalist for another session. She needed advice on arranging her new role at work so her department could run smoothly without being overwhelmed by impossible tasks. Her neck had been aching for weeks; manual therapy hadnt helped. She wondered whether to push her older son into a competitive sport or let him simply draw. And, of course, there was Peterpresent in the household yet somehow absent.
Nothings changed, is it? the herbalist remarked, eyeing Emilys weary expression. Youve switched jobs, but it hasnt altered the core of your life.
What brings you here today? the woman asked.
My back hurts, my neck hurts, work, my son, Peter, Emily replied.
The herbalist smiled. Youve come to me with your whole life. Your husbands grip is slowly loosening. She spoke of a future when it wouldnt matter who Peter was with, whether he still stalked an old flame, or searched for new encounters. One day youll forget whether youre needed by him, and youll realise you have somewhere to go and people to be for yourself. That wont happen overnight, but it will come.
She lit another match. Let the boy draw.
And work? Emily asked.
Set concrete tasks, and youll get concrete answers. They cant read your mind.
The more vibrant your life, the more Peter will flutter around like a shadow. A shadow only exists while theres light. No light, no shadow. Does that make sense?
Emily nodded. Thank you.
Dont forget the exercises, the herbalist added, handing her a tennis ball. Place it between a wall and your spine, roll it while you squat. Itll set things right.
Emily smirked inwardly. A tennis ball? After spending a fortune on a therapist that did nothing, a simple ball might actually help. What other options were there but to live my own life?
Months slipped bywinter, spring, summer, and the golden hues of autumn returned. At the start of the new school term Emily enrolled her son, Tommy, in an art class. He began to paint. She felt a pang of shame for never noticing his talent earlier. Tommys work soon featured in local childrens exhibitions. He abandoned his tablet and phone, devoting every spare minute to brushes and colours.
Emily bought a whiteboard and markers for her office, writing daily tasks and deadlines that no longer needed discussion. Gradually the meetings faded. Complaints lingered behind her, but the work progressed, and that mattered most.
She started leading staff training workshops, first as a hobby, then as a professional trainer. The sessions soon matched her salary, bringing a respectable income.
One week a bouquet of red roses arrived, unsigned, no card. She guessed Peter, though she never expected such a gesture. She thanked him with a short note, Thank you. She preferred chrysanthemums, their sharp, bittersweet scent, now in season, but Peter still assumed all women liked roses.
The autumn sun blazed through the office window, painting the street in amber. Maple leaves swirled down the lane beside the building. Emily inhaled the crisp air through the open window, discarding the thought that she couldnt accomplish things alone. She finally felt free.
And yesthe tennis ball worked.
Looking back, I realise that while I watched Emilys struggles, I too was trapped in my own routine, waiting for a cure that never arrived. The lesson is clear: change begins with small, deliberate actions, not with grand magic. We must light our own candles, drink our own water, and roll the ball of effort across the spine of our lives. Only then can we truly live for ourselves.
