I sink comfortably into the couch and toss the blanket over me. I grab the clicker and flip through the channels and land on a program about first-time mothers.

A few tears take residence in my eyes.

I remember being a first-time mom.

I remember the playgroup girls I started out with that gave me the strength and the support and the laughter and the community.

I remember the women that got me through.

I remember high school and the girls I started out with that gave me the strength and the support and the laughter the community.

I remember the women that got me through.

I remember hitting the streets of Scranton and meeting the college girls who gave me the strength and the support and the laughter and the community.

I remember the women that got me through.

I remember moving back to my home state as my children started preschool and the women that I met that gave me the strength and the support and the laughter and the community.

I remember the women that got me through.

I remember being a young mother frolicking with her kids at the Jersey shore and the women that gave me the strength and the support and the laughter and the community.

I remember the women that got me through.

Now I am divorcing…

It’s not the adolescent premiere of high school, nor the excitement of college, nor the joy of motherhood.

It’s not a part of the hopes and dreams we have in life.

It’s not a place where girls want to meet.

Yet, they have.

I remember all of these women and how they have gotten me through.

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