I felt safer on a motorcycle with my husband than I did in many other parts of our life.

Sometimes it’s hard to put into words what you give up in a divorce. There are tangible things like homes, towns, people, bank accounts.

Then there are intangible things like lifestyles, identities, communities, traditions.

But I will tell you this. You must give up a lot.

I read one time to reclaim the places and traditions you love. Go to the restaurant where you went on your first date, but go with friends. Make new memories. Reclaim the spot as your own.

I did this in some cases. In others I let them go, unwilling to reclaim the Olive Garden, allowing it to remain in the past instead.

There was one thing I refused to let go of in my divorce, and many of my friends thought I was crazy for it. My ex-husband loved to ride motorcycles, and I loved to ride with him. It was one of the few things in our life where he actually made me feel safe. Which tells you a lot.

When we divorced I thought to myself, “Well, I guess I must give that up as well.”

I’m not sure how or when or where, but at some point I had the idea, “Why should I give that up too?”

I was grasping for my own identity. How much of my identity was wrapped up with him? How many of the things that I loved did I actually love, and how many did I love only because it was a way to connect with him?

I was determined to find out. The crazy thing is, when you ask yourself, “What do I want out of life? What do I love?” the answer is not simple.

There is a Dr. Seuss book that says, “You have brains in your head and feet in your shoes, you can steer yourself in any direction you choose.” But the point of the story is that when you can do anything, be anything, go anywhere, it’s scary. You often get paralyzed and do nothing.

I made a choice to see what truly belonged to me, and I wanted to belong to me.

I signed up for a motorcycle riding class at the local college. Why should I give it up? I thought to myself.

The first day was on Zoom, no great sacrifice. But then day two required I be there in person. In the parking lot. On a motorcycle. On a chilly but sunny winter day.

“OK, if this is not for me then at least I will know. I will move on and have one less thing to mourn.”

Besides, what else am I going to do on a Saturday during Covid?

I sat on the bike with my heart roaring in my ears. Or was it the bike?

Slowly at first, they walked us through it like we were babies learning how to walk with a walker. I was grateful for that. I needed confidence. Clarity. I needed to know who I was. What I was capable of.

Anyone else looking at me saw a middle-aged woman on a motorcycle. Maybe having a mid-life crisis. Maybe trying to stay young, relevant, or cool.

I was actually a devastated human trying to find out who I was. Where I belonged. What I even liked.

As the day continued, I felt a strange sort of freedom with every minute skill mastered.

Smoothly releasing the clutch to let the gas take hold and propel me forward. The feeling of leaning into the turn, becoming one with the bike. Allowing the bike to carry you, not sure if you are leading it or it is leading you. The wind kisses your cheeks. The rumble of the engine makes your legs and hands tingle.

Then the challenges begin. Weaving in and out of cones, leaning, braking, accelerating. It is both frightening and exhilarating.

I graduated that class with flying colors, but I was still not sure that it was part of me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Weeks passed and I was sitting having lunch with my son. I was on my phone looking at motorcycles on Craigslist, Facebook Marketplace, motorcycles.com.

I decided to casually make a bid on a 2009 Honda Rebel 250. Just like the bike I learned on in the junior college parking lot on that winter day.

The bike was listed at $2,200. I offered $1,600. I was safe. No one would accept that.

And then I got a ding on my phone. An acceptance. A deal.

I looked at my phone in wild-eyed disbelief. My heart beat as fast as it had the moment I released the clutch and the bike started to lurch forward only weeks before.

I looked up at my son, who took one look at my expression and immediately asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I think I just bought a motorcycle,” I replied.

“You think?”

As it turns out, I did in fact buy that motorcycle, which I have to this day. My two sons, who I’m sure thought I was losing my mind, supported me and helped me pick it up and get it home to California from Reno, Nevada.

Is that motorcycle a part of my soul? Is it part of who I am? Is it my passion?

To tell you the truth, I still don’t know.

But I know this.

I didn’t have to mourn that little piece of my life. I didn’t have to give it up. And at a time when my life felt very out of control and unsure, when I felt very vulnerable and intimidated, I took a risk that made me feel like a bad ass.

There are few things in the world that can compare to that feeling.

For the first time in a long time I wasn’t the passenger in someone else’s joy ride.

I was steering the bike.