This is my personal origin story

Here's a chapter from my memoir, Anomaly, that tells the explosive moment of my origin story. Since then, I have used the tools I now teach to transform my life many times over, including traveling to 27 countries, writing four traditionally published books, flying on private jets, taking women on retreats through Europe, coaching NBA and NFL players and corporate executives, and raising a son who played football for the Oregon Ducks. My methods work, and I am living proof.  
 

"A text message blew up my life.

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At the time I was a 34-year-old stay-at-home wife and mother, trying my best to get through the day intact and find a way for our family to get back on our feet. We'd had a rough go of it the previous several years, and I felt mostly responsible for that.

It had been my idea to sell our first home, the one we'd bought three years earlier when Kanen was two, fixed up and flipped for a nice profit in about eighteen months. I was working in corporate sales at the time, making a decent salary plus commission, benefits, and a 401k, so selling it for a high profit seemed like the sensible decision. But Mark hadn't wanted to. He hated my restless nature and my willingness to up and move at the drop of a hat. He wanted roots, and that house represented the stability he craved. Plus, it was what we could comfortably afford.

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He had agreed though, and we'd gotten a nicer house, using our profit for the down payment. And then the bubble burst and the housing crisis hit us hard. We'd overpaid for the new house and were now sizably underwater. Then I'd gotten pregnant with Mira and Izzy and had to quit my job to stay home with them. Foreclosure was the only option when we began falling months behind on the mortgage.

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So now here we were, living in a shitty rental house that neither of us wanted to be in, barely making ends meet on only his salary, and every day Mark got farther away. I could feel him withdrawing, carrying the loss of everything we'd worked to build as personal failure. And resenting me for putting us in that position.

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I didn't know how to fix it. So I poured everything into being the best homemaker, wife and mother I could be. I made baby food from scratch, clipped coupons to save money, made dinner out of nothing in the pantry or fridge, trying to show him that it was alright. That we were okay. That we'd get through it.

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On this day, September 9th, I am doing all my normal household chores like I always do, looking forward to 3:00 PM when the Oprah show comes on channel 8. This is the highlight of my day, the thing I look forward to most. The twins are sixteen months old and always everywhere at once. They both started walking before turning one and keeping up with them while making sure Kanen doesn't get overlooked is exhausting. For this one hour, though, the girls are usually asleep for their afternoon nap and Kanen has gotten home from kindergarten, had his snack, and is unwinding with Dora the Explorer in the den.

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This time is for me and the laundry.

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When the show starts and I see the day's topic I am more than disappointed. How to know if your partner is cheating.

God, I hate it when she has boring shows like this, I think, picking up the laundry basket and heading to fold and put away the girls' clothes in their room instead. But I don't turn it off. And later, when I pass back through the living room, the tip on the screen says: if they hide their phone or turn it face down, that's how you'll know. This doesn't consciously register as I go about the rest of my chores.

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I start dinner — cowboy spaghetti, a family favorite. I try to have it ready when Mark gets home each day around 4:30, since he's up and out the door for work at 4:00 AM most days. As the sauce simmers on the stove and the water comes to a boil, I walk into the living room to turn off the TV and notice his work van is already parked in front of the house. I take a closer look and see that he is on a phone call.

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Oh, that's why he hasn't come in.

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I check on the girls, who are busy playing with their toys, and ask Kanen if he has any homework he should start on at the dining room table before dinner.

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I taste the sauce. It's ready. I pull it off the burner and drain the pasta. I am dishing up everyone's plates when Mark comes in behind me. I smell him before I know he's there — he always comes home covered in dust, caked in concrete and epoxy from whatever job site he's been working at all day, and both smells burn my nose. I turn my face up to him so he can kiss me hello.

"Hi baby, how was your day?" he asks.

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"It was good, the usual, nothing too exciting. Although I did take a hilarious video of Mira dancing — she was really shakin' it!" I smile and hand him his plate with a double portion of steaming pasta.

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"Mmm, smells good," he says, taking it and reaching into the fridge to grab a can of Coors Light.

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He sets both on the dining room table and then gathers the kids for dinner, putting the girls in their respective booster seats and chatting with Kanen, who is telling him all about what he's learning in Spanish immersion kindergarten this week. It's so cute to hear my son use his new Spanish words. It makes my heart smile every time.

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We sit down to dinner and before I know it everyone is done and Mark is clearing his plate and putting it in the sink.

"I'm gonna go hop in the shower real quick, get this crap off me," he says, bending down to kiss me.

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I get the girls out of their seats and wipe their hands and faces with a wet cloth, gather the rest of the dishes adding them to the growing pile in the sink. I can hear the hot water running down the hall when suddenly there is a flash of a thought, running across my brain like a neon reader board sign.

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Where is his phone?

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In the eight years we've been married I have never once thought to check this man's phone. Never for a second wondered where it was or who he talked to. That is not the kind of relationship we have.

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But the instant I have this thought, my blood runs cold, then hot.

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It is in this moment that I know.

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I quickly check the charger by our bed. Not there. The one in the kitchen. Not there either. Now I am frantic because I know, I just know. I go back to the bedroom and look through his drawers.

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Nothing.

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There’s only one place left to look so I ease the bathroom door open. It is thick with steam, but I can see the clothes he's planning to put on after the shower, folded neatly on the counter. I rifle through them until I feel it in the pocket of his clean shorts. I pull it out, hands shaking so violently I'm afraid I'll drop it and out myself. I am not sure what he'll do if he sees me with it. I step back into the hallway and close the door as quietly as I can.

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I open it and see an unread text notification. It is from the only other woman he is around on a regular basis — the office manager at his work. That's exactly who I thought it would be from. I tap the notification and read her text:

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“I can’t wait till you’re all mine. Finally free. No more sharing 🙂”

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My whole body is shaking, and I am so numb that it takes me a minute to realize that I’ve dropped the phone. I reach down, pick it up, and head to the living room to scoop the girls up, hoisting one on each hip, then depositing them in their respective cribs. I ask Kanen, who’s been writing out his Spanish words at the dining room table, if he’d like to watch Horton Hears a Who! in the den instead. He jumps up excitedly and heads to the den, me quickly following behind.

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“You know what?” I say, situating him on the couch and grabbing his portable DVD player and headphones. “Why don’t you watch it on this instead of the big TV, okay?” He does not object, taking both from me and hitting play.

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I walk back to the bathroom, throw the door open with enough force that it hits hard against the bathtub. I pull the shower curtain back in one quick motion, then reach down to turn the water off. He is standing there, soap covering his face and hands.

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“What, what the hell?” he stammers.

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“Get the fuck out!” I say, and point to the open bathroom door.

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Strangely, he says nothing. He does not protest. He grabs the towel off the toilet seat, dries his head, face, and hands. I am standing in the hall, pointing to the front door now.

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“GET. THE. FUCK. OUT!” It is all I can say. No other words come.

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I watch him struggle to get his dripping body into his shorts, one leg and then the other. I watch as he pulls his shirt over his head and then unsticks it from his body, pulling it the rest of the way down over his stomach. I watch him slip into his Doc Marten sandals.

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He pushes past me and goes into the girls’ room. They are each happily standing in their cribs, jumping on the mattress, holding on to the sides and talking in gibberish to each other. He bends down and kisses each one on the head.

“I love you,” he says to them.

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Then he comes out and pushes past me again, heading to the den. I hear him tell Kanen that he has to go back to work tonight and he’ll see him soon.

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“I love you, peanut.”

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I have not moved, still standing at the end of the hall, pointing to the front door.

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He walks past me now, and without another word, walks to the front door, opens it, takes two steps, then stops. He turns to look at me, pulling off his wedding ring and tossing it in my general direction. It tings and rolls, coming to a stop by the bookcase and falling over on its side.

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He closes the door behind him.

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Maybe ten minutes has passed from the time I had the initial thought in the kitchen, to the time he’s walked out the door.

I grab my phone and walk into the backyard, far enough away from the house that the kids can’t hear, and call Emily. I am instantly hysterical.

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“Mark has been having an affair,” I manage to get out. “He left me.”

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The rest of this day is a blur. All I know is that she is coming through the front door before Kanen’s movie is over and the twins are still jabbering to each other, playing with toys in their cribs. I am catatonic. I’m pretty sure she has me go lie down, then takes over taking care of the kids through bath and bedtime.

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When I know they are asleep, I come out to the living room and slump to the floor. I do not have the energy or desire to continue standing. I am crying again, lying on my stomach, my face against the hardwood. The floor is not moving. It is the only solid thing I know. Everything else is spinning out of control.

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“I cannot do this,” I say to Emily, who is sitting on the couch, totally unsure what to do or how to comfort me. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t know either. Neither of us knows anyone who’s ever been through anything like this. None of her friends are even married, and none of mine are divorced. And since this is pre-social media, I am pretty sure I'm the only person on the planet who's ever gone through something this humiliating, this… destructive… this horrific.

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What am I supposed to do now? How can I support my children? We can’t even make ends meet with his salary, how can I do it with none? What do I do tomorrow? Will there even be a tomorrow? Who do I tell? What do I say happened? Shit, we need diapers and formula for the girls’ nighttime bottle, and I got an electric shut-off notice today for non-payment. What am I going to do?

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I can’t do this.

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My thoughts race and spin. Over and over in my head, I try to solve this problem. How can I take care of my children without an income, or a dollar to my name? Without a job? And how can I get a job that pays enough to pay for daycare? I can’t afford the rent on this house anymore, but how can I get an apartment with no job and destroyed credit from our recent bankruptcy and foreclosure? Fuck, the bank account is only in his name, and so is the car.

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I can’t do this.

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It is in this moment, the worst one of my life to that point, the one where I lay on the floor trying desperately to find a way out, that I hear a voice. You can name it anything that makes sense to you, but I think it was my deepest inner self, and it said…

 

What if you can?"

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*Read more chapters from my memoir Anomaly here