The morning I left my husband, I packed an overnight bag and took a taxi to a friend's house. When I'd called her at 6am, she'd immediately said: "Come over." She lived nearby in Brooklyn and a moment later, I was sitting on her bed, dazed. When she left the room, I caught a glimpse of myself in her mirror. Intuitively, I took out my camera, set it on timer, and took a picture.
When I look at that photo now, more than two years later, it haunts me.
The woman in the picture is exhausted, face pale, body hunched, and eyes swollen. Her hair is Einstein-like and she looks a little crazed, her gaze unfocused. She can think of nothing else but to sit and be still. She's heartbroken.
I like to think that the instinct to take the photo was rooted in hope – that I sensed this was the beginning of something. A transformation to be captured. In my relationship, my husband and I had changed so drastically that we'd become strangers. Maybe it was New York – we'd moved to to the city as newlyweds and now, just a few months later, I no longer recognised myself in the mirror. Even in my desperation, I recognised the chance for recovery, and so every day, I continued to take the photos.
That first week I collected more of my things and moved into my friend's apartment. It was temporary, while I weighed up returning to home to Sydney. My friend lived with another girl and her cat, Spoon. She was a tuxedo cat, black and white, and followed me everywhere. Spoon was clingy and I loved her for it. In these photos I'm wearing big woollen sweaters, Spoon nestled on my lap, or in my suitcase. It was December and the heating wasn't working; I look devastated, but mainly, just freezing.
The second week I went to meet an old school friend in Orlando, Florida. She'd travelled from Sydney for a family reunion at Disney World – so perfectly random. We spent that entire weekend on rollercoasters emitting loud, guttural screams into the air. It was therapy. Before leaving I took a photo of us sitting on the floor of her hotel room, the two of us in our flannel pyjamas. In the picture, we seem so young again. My face is pressed against hers, flushed and grateful. I realise now how important this moment was. She'd been the one to talk me through my first crush, she was by my side at my wedding, and she was with me here again – riding the familiar waves of change as only a best friend can.
When I returned to New York, I moved into my own apartment in Manhattan. A friend was travelling and gave me the keys to his bachelor pad, overlooking the Hudson River. I finally had a little space to myself to begin processing what had happened. I continued to take the photos, and in these, it's the small details that are comforting. I get a manicure. I make breakfast. I exercise. I put flowers on the kitchen counter. Each photograph bares the smallest hint that I am finding a routine again.
Less reassuring are the crying photos. These were my loneliest moments, and in the night I'd wake up often. In the dark, I'd reach for my camera and squint at the lens. For a long time I was tempted to delete these photos. Looking back at them, raw and vulnerable, is almost unbearable. But at the time, it was grounding. Taking the picture was the only thing that would make me stop crying.
The photos from this time reveal something else. In some, I am naked. I lie on the bed, or lean against a wall, arching my back and playing with my curves against the light. There's a flirtatiousness in these images that is laced with desperation. I look determined to rediscover something.
By the new year, I had decided to stay in the city. I moved in with roommates, I passed my first wedding anniversary, alone, and, eventually, I stopped taking the photos. I had three months worth of photographs of myself and suddenly, it no longer felt necessary. I was conscious of wallowing – in my hurt, in nostalgia – and I was determined to move past it. These captured moments had served as a reminder that life was not static, no experience or pain permanent, but now I simply had to live it.
The last picture I take is in the spring and in it, I'm sitting by my window in my new apartment. I'm wearing a dress a friend has given me. I'm half-smiling. Outside, the trees were blossoming, but I was feeling like I'd shed something. I'm so intensely proud of the woman in this picture. She's not only healing, she's something else entirely. She's strong, she's learning, and she's genuinely excited.
I hadn't realised how much of a weight I'd been carrying until my marriage ended, and in this photograph, there is so much lightness. In my gaze are endless possibilities.