Soft Life, Hard Lessons: No More Dry Biscuits

The Evergreen Echo

I have realized that my heart, the very center of my desire, has the amazing capacity to recognize beauty in more than one mirror. I find myself in a season I never expected: navigating deep feelings while standing firmly on newly discovered ground. This wasn’t a planned destination; I didn’t set out to audition hearts or be out here all in my feels. But here we are! As a woman who has been refined by the scorching fires of two divorces, I have realized that healing doesn't make your heart smaller—it makes it more discerning.

The Math of the Standard

There is a psychological weight to this realization that many women share, yet few discuss. We are often taught that love should be a narrow, singular path, but the feminine soul is innately designed with a massive, oceanic capacity. We love with our whole being—our knees, elbows, intuition, and toes all at once. But at this big age, I’ve learned that capacity without a standard is just a recipe for burnout.

Men often navigate love through a segmented lens, tied to "readiness" or career stability. While a woman’s love is a river that flows regardless of the terrain, a man’s love can sometimes feel like a bridge that is only built when the weather is perfect. This disparity often leaves high-caliber women feeling "too much," when in reality, we just have a higher capacity for emotional complexity. But I’m grounded by a sharp truth: I no longer have the time to be too much for a man who offers too little. My therapist recently gave me a compass for this journey: Watch the math of intimacy vs. commitment. When the sharing of the soul isn't matched by the sharing of a life, the foundation is shaking. I’ve learned to clock the mismatch and don’t give nan nothing else.

The Winning Fish

I had to learn that in my current dynamic of dating, I’m going to meet many fish. But I’m no longer just happy to be at the pond. I want the winning fish. For a woman who loves to go dancing but whose heart’s desire is a fellow minister who sacrifices in his walk, the math has to add up. I need a man in alignment with my ministry…then we can go dancing!

By virtue of 22 years of marriage, I am a wife. That is my design. I am not a short-term girlfriend, and I’m definitely not begging for a man to "claim" me at three years shy of 50. That’s insane! Neither am I a temporary soothing station for a man's unhealed trauma. I’ve learned that when you try to regulate a man, you become his stabilizer instead of him leaning on his own support systems. I move with the authority of a woman who knows her "Yes" is a prize. If a man cannot include me in his struggle, he cannot claim me in his peace.

The Evergreen Echo

Surviving the Drought

This standard was born from the drought…and I mean drier than a bucket of Popeye’s biscuits that’ll have you choking on your way to meet Jesus! For years, I navigated a relationship where the intimacy was a canyon. Touch deprivation is no joke; it’s a physical and psychological weight that will wipe out your spirit. When you are a woman designed for passion, being denied closeness is a form of slow starvation.

Coming out of that drought, I realized why I was "on one" when I finally encountered tenderness. I wasn't just falling in love; I was rehydrating my soul. I learned that I am a passionate woman who requires deep, abiding care. I ain’t one of those cute succulents you can barely water and hope the leaves will still bloom. I need the rain!

The Icy Crash-Out

Even with a healed heart, you can experience a crash-out—the sobbing kind. I recently encountered a man I thought was the confirmation of my growth, only to watch him retreat into the cave of his own trauma. Instead of handling me with care, he left me suspended in the dark. He was icy cold. I almost collapsed with him, stumbling under a pack of disappointment and disillusionment, teetering on despair. This hurt worse than my divorce!

I realized that accepting intermittent communication is like trying to build a house on quicksand. A simple, intentional check-in says, "I’m in a storm, but I see you on the shore." Without that, the silence is a wrecking ball. While repair may be offered in words, I am now moved only by behavior. Repair is the act of naming the bad behavior and moving toward me. At this big age, I will never beg for that movement.

The Audacity of the Destination

I’ve seen the pattern where the "Shoulda-Coulda" choir begins to sing the moment I move on. Men from all over suddenly realize I "should have been their wife." Those aren't compliments—they are admissions of low capacity. If the distance or the trauma discouraged you, then your desire for comfort was simply greater than your desire for me. I’ve had to swallow that truth even if it chokes me like a biscuit without a drink!

To those looking for a funeral after my second divorce: y’all got life twisted. Who did the body? God did! Because this body is tea! My marriage ending wasn't a death; it was a clearing. God cut down a dying tree so I could see the lush forest. I am not in mourning. I am in preparation.

I am Lynette Sheree Evans. I am a woman of authority, a woman of peace, and a sanctuary for the man who earns the key. The audition is closed. I am no longer waiting for a man to decide on me. I am the coveted destination. The man who builds the sturdiest, most intentional bridge to my foundation is the one who gets to stay. 

Every round goes higher, and this time, the view from clarity is magnificent.