Hi friends,

What if the key to success isn’t found in a title or degree—but in your courage to act on a single, undeniable idea?

This week on Experience Over Expectation, Mary McCorvey welcomes Lauren Perez, a dynamic founder, IP consultant, and strategist who has built a powerhouse career by trusting her instincts, following her values, and staying true to her unique path.

Lauren’s journey defies convention—in the best way. She rose to the role of Vice President and Principal of a major law firm, launched a thriving consultancy, testified before Congress, and even shared a dinner table with President Obama. Her achievements weren’t driven by traditional credentials—they were built through vision, resilience, and the belief that experience is its own expertise.

In this inspiring episode, we explore:

* How a single cold letter turned into a life-changing opportunity

* The story behind her transition from paralegal to firm leader

* What she learned through professional reinvention and personal courage

* Why “lightbulb moments” matter—and how to act on yours

* How to reclaim your story when others don’t understand your path

One of our favorite takeaways from Lauren:

“You can follow the rules and still create your own playbook. That’s where real freedom begins.”

Whether you’re in a season of transition or just quietly craving change, Lauren’s story is a reminder that your path doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else—as long as it feels right to you.

New Episode Out Now: How Following Your Own Path Leads to Success with Lauren Perez

▶ Watch now on YouTube

🎧 Listen on Your Favorite Podcast App

Connect with Lauren:Founder, LVP Solutions📧 Lauren@LVPSolutionsLLC.com

With heart,Mary McCorveyHost, Experience Over Expectation

There had been much conversation about being together, not being together, and what the impact had been on our families. The tensions continued to rise at our respective homes. Not arguments, not loud drama. Just quiet undercurrents of questioned love and the weight of the decisions we had to make in order to be together when we could.

For me, my marriage was almost over. After months of self-discovery and a great deal of pain, I had come to the conclusion that I could not stay with Tim and my beloved step-daughters. I had to strike out alone once again.

At the time Rob wrote this letter, I had not told him of my decision. The burden was one I wished to carry alone at that point, until I could process the maelstrom of thoughts, concerns, and actions I would have to take.

Would we find a future together? The entire situation was fraught with the depth of love we held for each other, sliced by parallel lines of existence that seemingly would never meet. I struggled and struggled, and as it turns out, he did as well.

Been thinkin’ ‘bout Mary. Talkin’ ‘bout love n such. Been goin’ on a while.

I could run to her now and sweep her into the night and head west, never look back.

What stops you? Nothing ever, ever, ever stopped you before. Why now? Why with this most important Mary?

Responsibilities, promises, commitments, all kinds of noble dispositions.

How true do you hold these convictions?

Don’t you want your family? I fear only because they need me. Doesn’t Mary need you? Yes.

So sweetly to lift Mary gently away to soar to perfect unity and join.

God, I could do it, damn it I could do it. Decisions … everything I do seems to be a decision I am faced with

I can face or turn from a decision and I turn.

Such a bitter f*****g compromise to not face the decision. I’ve always, always done only what I’ve wanted.

You rest your hands softly on my shoulders Mary, as I write to you.

You sway your hips gently and caress my neck.

I long to put my hands on your cheeks and hold your face close to mine and see you, only you.

I love you Mary and perhaps that’s not enough anymore.

I have “that crazy longing that time will never tame.”

Yes when the night comes. When the morning comes I run to you Mary.

I miss you, Mary,

I love you Mary, take me with you, hold me close, love me Mary.

Yes, I am always with you and long to be with you.

I go with you tonight in my dreams … tomorrow at your side … and always and forever.

Always and forever.And here I am 35 years later, reading those words, knowing they remain as true today as he meant them then.

And, here we go.

Dear Rob,

In two day’s time I will be back on a train to New York, passing the stations we travelled by, the stops where we met, then into the city we once walked, hands tentatively brushing together with each step. I’ll look for you, of course, like I always do.

I inevitably feel you strongest at Metro Park, where you came and went on a daily basis. I see the building you worked in, envision you there on late nights, talking to me, sharing the moments of the day.

All these years I’ve looked and looked for you as I passed by, almost afraid I’d see you, and not be able to get off the train. You’ve long since been gone, the sign on the building changed, the trees in the parking lot grown old.

On my trip, I’ll see those parallel lines of the rails laid off into the distance, a visual representation of the separation in the lives we’ve lived.

But you once told me, parallel lines do meet on the horizon. Perhaps that’s what is happening now?

It’s hard to believe, but it has been four months since I opened the box of your letters. I haven’t read them all, not because if I consumed them all at once I’d be done. With these letters, I’ll never be done. Your love keeps speaking to me across the time and the miles.

I haven’t read them all because I’m savoring the experiences, one at a time. The luxury of touching what you touched, reading what you wrote. Closing my eyes and running my fingers lightly across the letters, feeling the imprint of the ball point pen as if it were braille.

How are you today, my love? I have so many questions. Do you still work, like me? Have you retired to a quiet life, or one filled with travel and adventure? What kind of grandfather are you? I try to imagine you with the young ones on your knee, with you reading a book. Or playing a game in the yard. I don’t have grandchildren, so no knee-bouncing for me.

I’ve just written a book, titled: Experience Over Expectation. It’s about how I’ve not traveled the traditional path of education, career, marriage, kids, retirement, legacy. If you could only know my story. I believe you would find it funny, and hopefully endearing.

I’m living a life of my dreams. I’ve reached back to my first love, writing. And I’m creating all manner of things from a book to a podcast to videos to speeches and above all, touching people, in all kinds of ways. Hopefully with messages that are inspirational.

Various people have spoken to me about Opening The Box. They are very curious, and have many reactions. Some of them connect with our bittersweet story. Some are judgmental, and see only two selfish people. Some care deeply for Deanna, frightened that she will find out about these writings.

For those that are judgmental, I cannot change the past, nor will I excuse the present. They cannot know because they’ve not walked in our shoes. Their views will be their views. I’m blessed to be mature enough to not care.

As for Deanna discovering Opening the Box, the chances of that happening are less than my winning a billion dollar lottery. I’ve done everything possible, except change your words or mine, to prevent that from happening.

Perhaps those who fear Deanna’s finding out are tapping into their own threads of pain: what if my husband kept these feelings all these years? That’s completely understandable. After all, we are a remarkable story that touch people in different ways.

On the bittersweet side, a reader asked me, how will you ever reconcile what you could have had, with what you lived? And what he lived? What if you were meant to be together and just didn’t decide to take the step?

My answer is there is no reconciliation, no responses to a dream not lived, no regrets for decisions not made. We made the right decisions for us. We did live the dream all these years, in our hearts. And we continue to, today. The love I feel for you, Rob, and what you feel for me, is a gift. Not a burden, not a stone we can’t put down. There is no need.

I will say goodbye for now, and go off into the night, carrying the love you’ve given me.

Always,Mary

I should tell you, dear reader and listener, that next week’s issue will be the last Opening The Box.

What joy I’ve been able to share. What kindness people have shown.

The only thing I ask is to remember:

Heartbeats are finite. Possibilities are infinite.

Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary

Do you have a question you’d like me to answer?

I welcome them, even if they may seem difficult to ask.

Just drop a message to me on Substack or send me an email.

Wishing you a present and a future filled with wonder and joy.

IThis one’s for the builders. The thinkers. The quiet risk-takers. The “I have an idea, but…” crowd.

Sid Mohasseb isn’t just an investor, educator, or founder—he’s a philosophical firestarter. In this conversation, he breaks down entrepreneurship as something far deeper than business. It’s a birthright. A way of seeing. A way of exchanging what we have for something better—even when the outcome is uncertain.

You don’t need a startup to be an entrepreneur. You just need a pulse and the willingness to choose. Every decision—every deck you build, every pivot you make, every “ordinary” choice—is a risk exchange. And Sid argues that it’s in our genetic code.

We go deep into:

* Why entrepreneurs aren’t risk-takers—they’re risk navigators

* What Martin Luther King and Mother Teresa have to do with entrepreneurship

* How to stop chasing failure and start chasing learning

* The mindset shift that turns daily life into creative fuel

* Why “fearless” is bad advice—and “mindful fear” is where the power is

* The #1 myth about minimum viable products (and who really defines viability)

“Change is our best friend,” Sid says. “It’s the only thing that gives us options.”

This is one of the most clarifying, energizing, and perspective-flipping episodes we’ve done. If you’ve ever felt called to do something more—this will remind you: you already have what it takes.

🎧 Tap to listen—and ask yourself:What are you willing to exchange for something better?

Sid also introduces his $1 forever-access learning platform: AnabasisAcademy.org, designed to provoke, engage, and awaken your next best self.

My guest today is Randy Taylor, a man whose life reads like a novel and whose work is rewriting the story of healing for thousands. A former top-tier broadcaster turned behavioral performance coach, Randy is the founder of Taylormade Leadership and the creator of There~Apy—a science-based alternative to traditional clinical therapy. He’s spent 35 years studying human behavior and now helps people not just cope, but heal.

We talk candidly about:

* Why traditional therapy often expands the very trauma it's trying to heal

* How your brain’s “files” hold the key to your anxiety, PTSD, or self-doubt

* What it means to create new neurological pathways—and how it actually works

* Why we say, “You are not broken,” and mean it

* The heartbreaking loss of Randy’s daughter—and what healing looks like from that kind of grief

* My own experience with undiagnosed PTSD after exposure to sarin nerve gas during the Gulf War

This conversation goes deep. It touches the parts of us we often silence: the private unraveling behind public success, the years lost to trauma, and the quiet question so many of us carry—Will I ever feel whole again?

Randy’s answer is clear: Yes. You can. And he shows us how.

A few unforgettable truths from this episode:

“No one was born with a doubt.”“You weren’t born broken. You’ve just been storing the wrong file.”“There’s nothing we cannot unlearn.”

If you’ve tried everything and still feel stuck, this may be the perspective shift you didn’t know you needed.

Want to learn more about There~Apy or connect with Randy?→ Visit freefromtherapy.com→ Veterans and new clients receive a free first session.

New episodes of Experience Over Expectation drop weekly.Subscribe to catch raw, honest conversations about reinvention, healing, and living beyond the plan.

With heart,Mary

I cuddle myself in a warm robe and have a cup of chamomile tea with three drops of honey. My little brown dog Pup, now 16 years old, lies in his bed nearby, glancing up occasionally to make sure I’m still here. We keep close eyes on each other these days.

On this relaxing Friday night, I decide to spend time with Rob, as I so often do. I close my eyes and withdraw a thick letter of 19 pages, front and back, this one written from the red margin line on the left to the right edge. Not knowing where to start, I closed my eyes again, I opened the legal-sized pages that had been folded in half, and spread them before me as if they were a deck of magician’s cards from which I would blindly pull.

Here are the first words I saw:

I want to think of you in the future and so I have started to. I think of seeing you in the future and saying, “Mary, have we really been together for this long? Where have you been and what have you done? How’s your family? Hold me close and whisper in my ear. I love you.”

I would be wrong not to admit I want you in my life in the future, so I’ll let the future show me if I’m wrong. I’ll handle it when I have to … and yes, I’ve learned so much from you. Our time together is not too precious to break through barriers. But the difficult times of being apart make for greater times in the future so I look forward to having you in my future.

What a dreamer I am but I like it, so maybe we will be there. May I always hold this and when I fall, be there to catch me.

I am in this beautiful place as I write. The gentle knock at the door was only the wind but I opened it anyway to let you in. “Hello Mary, right on time as usual. Have you brought something to talk about?” You sit there, happy to watch me writing. You walk over to me in this Colonial setting and I remember the poem, “The Highway Man.”

“The Moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas.”

I have thought of that poem before when I thought of you as I stared at the Moon from my backyard and drew you to me.

Hold me close, Mary. I cannot be romantic about you because you’re too f*****g real. There is nothing I desire more than to be with you. No, you are not an addiction or a fixation…simply my realization and my joy.

For Mary I have set myself freeAnd open for weakness.Such strength from such need.

Your eyes captivate me and call me over the miles, not compelling or demanding, just there.

I, if I haven’t told you lately Mary Louise, love you totally and completely and forever, with my red puffy eyes and all.

I stopped, because I wanted to answer the question I saw. That, and I was overcome by his words.

Dear Rob,

Yes, we’ve been together this long. Thirty-five years. I just read a passage where you said you’d think of us together in the future, and here we are. And what a fine place to be. I’m so grateful to be with you all these years later. There have been times of difficulty when I couldn’t feel you, and it was impossible to think of opening the box.

But now, here you are.

You wrote to me in 1990 from Strasburg, Pennsylvania, just a few miles away from where I live now. So wonderful – so full of wonder – I feel that we could still be together. As it turns out, I am in your future. I am so convinced you know this, too. There could be no other way.

As I wrote in my last letter about answering people’s questions, I know you’re alive. I know where you live. Such things are easy to find, these days.

I just looked up the distance between here and Strasburg, and it’s 63 miles. Then I looked up the distance between where I live and where you live. And of course, it’s 63 miles. Well, 62.8, precisely. Close enough, I would say. You can imagine my smile when I saw that.

I know if we are meant to meet on a train platform, or at a roadside stop on the interstate, or some other place, it will happen. Because it’s supposed to. Not forced or contrived. I feel as though we would be moving, as that was always our way. Except when we weren’t, times that were heavenly.

Just for fun, I looked up the symbol of 35 years of marriage. It’s coral, which means longevity. That’s pretty funny, too, because right now, my apartment is decorated in coral colors. Paintings, vases, drapes, even the bedspread is a dark shade of coral. I find it calm and soothing. I’m smiling and shaking my head, just a little.

The synchronicity remains with us, as it did years ago, and in our lives till now. I feel it is growing stronger. It’s not a scary feeling at all, and not one that makes me sad or anxious. It just feels good, Rob.

I think if you were to tell me something about this, it would be that you feel it too, and we’re supposed to be, at this time. That you are glad I am happy, not scared or sad or anxious, despite the chances of us meeting again being infinitesimal. But then again, ya neva know.

I’m writing at my desk, where I love to create. I look across the room, and find I have a confession to make.

I did keep one thing out of the locked box, and I’ve carried it with me since the first Christmas we shopped together in New York for two ornaments we could give each other. Mine was a heart, beaded with little gold orbs, hung by a beautiful gold ribbon.

The ornament hung on the tree every year for the past 35, except for one when there was no tree. I made sure it was placed right at the spot on the tree where the heart would be, generally at eye level. I would make sure to look at it every day during the holidays, to feel its warmth and your smile.

Today, I can see it every hour of the day, if I wish. When I moved into this apartment, I retrieved it as soon as I could. I have a vase in which there are small birch limbs with twinkling lights. The heart found its place and I look at it often. It gives me great pleasure.

So here we are in the future, Rob. Do you feel it too? Do butterflies flutter in your stomach when you least expect it? Do you still look at the Moon and think of me, as I do you? You told me a long time ago that you would, and I believe you do.

I love you, Rob. I’ll read again soon, and I’ll write again soon.

Until Next Time,Mary

That was such a joy to write.

A reader asked me this week if what I was writing was true. Was I changing anything or embellishing?

The answer is yes, it’s all true. And she said, “Your truth.”

Well, the answer to that is also yes. Although what I share are words that Rob has written – no changes or embellishing. I would have difficulty even attempting that, and would never want to. And now, my truth is the letters I’m writing to him. In full disclosure, yes, my apartment is decorated in coral colors.

Do you have a question you’d like me to answer?

I welcome them, even if they may seem difficult to ask.

Just drop a message to me on Substack or send me an email.

Wishing you a present and a future filled with wonder and joy.

Remember,

Heartbeats are Finite.Possibilities are Infinite.

Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary

George’s path is one of service in every sense of the word. A Harvard and University of Chicago law graduate, former New Jersey appellate judge, and federal prosecutor, George is now leading one of the most ambitious grassroots efforts of our time: a multi-day, nationwide celebration that brings the Navy and Marine Corps “home” to their birthplace—Philadelphia.

In this episode, we talk about:

* How Homecoming 250 began as an idea during COVID and became a national movement

* The legacy of military service passed down from George’s WWII veteran father

* Why honoring the Navy and Marine Corps together is both historic and deeply symbolic

* The ships, concerts, parades, and flyovers that will make October 9–16, 2025 unforgettable

* How ordinary citizens and volunteers are making this celebration possible

* The behind-the-scenes work of raising funds, building partnerships, and keeping the vision alive

💬 “This isn’t the Navy throwing a party for themselves. It’s the American people throwing a party for them.”

Whether you're a veteran, active-duty service member, history lover, or simply someone who believes in gratitude and unity, this is a conversation worth hearing.

🗓️ Key Highlights:

* Main Celebration: October 9–16, 2025 (Philadelphia)

* Navy 250 Gala: October 11 at the National Constitution Center

* Marine Corps Birthday Ball: November 10, in the very room where the tradition began in 1925

* Public events are FREE—from ship tours and concerts to parades and memorials

🎧 Listen now on YouTube, Spotify, Substack, or wherever you get your podcasts.📲 Visit homecoming250.org to learn more, donate, or get gala tickets.

Let this episode remind you: some legacies are built not just on titles held, but on the stories we choose to carry forward—together.

My guest is Rita Wilkins, TEDx speaker (with over 1.5 million views), best-selling author, and nationally recognized interior designer known as America’s Downsizing Designer.

After downsizing from a 5,000-square-foot home to an 867-square-foot apartment (her jewel box), Rita discovered something deeper than minimalism: freedom. Today, she empowers people of all generations to live with less—and live with more joy.

In this episode, we talk about:

* How a trip to Senegal changed her entire perspective on “enough”

* What it means to design your life like a home—based on your values, not your storage space

* The emotional rollercoaster of letting go of sentimental items

* Her famous “Decluttering Backwards” method

* The difference between fixed and growth mindsets when facing change

* Why Boomers, Millennials, and Gen Z are all questioning what legacy really looks like

Whether you're considering a move, simplifying your space, or reimagining your life, Rita offers deeply personal wisdom and practical guidance to help you get started, with less overwhelm and more freedom.

“When you live with less, you live more.” — Rita Wilkins

🔗 Resources mentioned:

📘 Download Rita’s free 5-step downsizing guide📙 Get her new e-book: A Journey to Less: A Life Designed for More🌐 Visit: ritawilkins.com📞 Speaker inquiries: 302-475-5663

🎧 Listen now on YouTube, Substack, Spotify, Apple Podcasts, and more.🔔 Subscribe so you never miss a new conversation that helps you choose experience over expectation.

#Downsizing #Decluttering #Minimalism #IntentionalLiving #RitaWilkins #MaryMcCorvey #ExperienceOverExpectation #PodcastLaunch #LifestyleDesign #LettingGo #LifeTransitions

That’s where Experience Over Expectation begins.

In this short video, I want to personally welcome you to the podcast and tell you why I created it—and who I created it for.

👉 [Watch the video on my Website]

I’ve lived a life that’s been full—of both beauty and breaking points. Parenthood, purpose, reinvention, love, loss, and hard-earned wisdom.

This isn’t a podcast about how to stick to the plan. It’s a podcast about what happens when the plan falls apart. And what we learn when we live through it anyway.

If you’ve ever had to rebuild, reimagine, or redefine yourself—If you’re done with pretending everything is fine when it isn’t—If you believe your life is bigger than your résumé—

You belong here.

I’m so glad you’ve found your way to Experience Over Expectation.

✨ Subscribe, listen, and stay connected.

We’ll walk this road together.

With gratitude,Mary

But before I get to that, a reminder.

In the last issue of Opening The Box, I wrote a letter to Rob, the first one I’d written in decades. I just wrote what came to mind, as I’d always done. No edits, no second thoughts. No wild declarations. No literary marvels. Just simple words that bubbled up.

It was like meeting an old friend for coffee that you haven’t seen in years.

Too much to catch up on and a question of where, even, to begin.

“Hello, I love you?” But then, that wouldn’t be news.

But the excitement inside…it was as if he could hear the words I was writing and experience them.

This week, I withdrew another letter from The Box.

It was 24 pages, written front and back, from edge to edge, like all the others. It still surprises me to think of the hundreds of pages that are in that box.

Along the way, the letter had been stapled for some reason, never folded in half or in thirds like the others. On the upper left corner near the staple were two brown spots, one circular, as if a drop had pooled there, and the other a rectangle, slightly smeared into the first line of text. A stain from a bit of chocolate, or an odd accumulation of rust? I’ll never know where they came from.

On page eight, about a third of the way down, I made the stunning discovery. I’m almost certain that Rob has a box of my letters.

Here’s why I think so:

I have lived my life for so long as if I’d die at any moment. Pieces all in place, confident that there were no loose ends or regrets. Since admitting, acknowledging, learning, that I love you I have had my pieces out of place. No regrets for sure but a loose end that defies being tied.

What happens to all of the letters you’ve written, the cards you’ve selected and notes, the tangible reminders of you that are slowly accumulating.

I foresee a huge box of stuff up the road. I know I will want to steal away years from now and read and hold them. They are precious to me because they are yours. I have told no one about you, therefore I have no one I can say, “hey, when I can’t get to them, take them so no one gets hurt.” A safe deposit box is too far away. Put a note to, “please destroy this box unopened,” on the box? Right, count on that. What to do?

Hmmm. There’s your black stocking – how unashamed you were to let me explore with frightened, inquisitive hands. Your first card and your last book and the volumes to follow.

I’m not a very selfish person but I, in this instance, choose to hold onto these very important artifacts. These physical remnants of you. Though I know what’s there and don’t really need them, I want them. What to do?

I sometimes think of us as dumb ole folks hanging, sometimes as lovers. I like sitting at the table with nothing but our shirts on, and talking.

You should know that I love you, Mary Louise. I don’t think about it much, just feel it. I could wonder if I’ve made myself love you to justify my attraction or permutate this line of thinking endlessly. But I just got what I have – bare-bones, no frills and I love you.

Mary, what is it, and what do you think? I think I’d like to lounge scantily dressed with you and read and talk and make love. Goodnight, you knucklehead.

Now, my letter to him.

Dear Rob,

Good God, you have a box too? I must have read this part of your letter many years ago but for whatever reason, I always assumed that you disposed of my missives. But you kept them, at least for awhile.

I moved my box nine times, never once opening it, knowing what I’d find inside would make me question my own life choices. Then, when Daniel and I separated and I moved out west, I wasn’t strong enough to experience you yet. I had years to go before I called the locksmith. But when I did, I embarked on this amazing adventure.

I’m so curious to know if you moved your box too, or whether there came a time when you couldn’t keep it, for your own reasons. You called yourself selfish for wanting to keep my letters. Well, stamp selfish on my hand in bold black ink. I kept every word you wrote, every card you selected, every candy wrapper we saved, because they were sweets we shared.

Dreams surround me about what your life is like now. All the years that have gone by, with the happy milestones of graduations and weddings and children and grandchildren and hopefully, little illness and no divorces.

Did Deanna ever see your box? Did she ask what was in it? Did you tell her the truth? Or did she, perhaps, just know? Hard for me to imagine she would be okay with you keeping it. If Daniel had kept letters from his affairs – yes, note the plural use of the word – in a locked box, it would have been extremely difficult.

Or maybe it was labeled something funny, like Sam's junior varsity letters and athletic socks?

Daniel knew I had a locked box from before we were married, and never asked. I suppose he just assumed I was past whatever was inside and kept it for my own reasons. As long as I was faithful, and I was, it really didn’t matter. But oh, it did.

You have been a part of my life, Rob, since the moment we locked eyes. For that year we were together, it was as if we lived inside one another, even at night when we tried to join each other on an astral plane. I laugh when I recall that I told you I’d meet you on top of the St. Louis arch. I believe we almost made it there, one night.

To think that you could have my letters makes me very happy. I guess that’s selfish, but I’m being honest. I would love to think of you experiencing some of the same things I am, when reading yours.

I’m not sure how you would react if I told you, like I’m trying to convey to you in this unorthodox way, that I’m sharing our story with quite a few people.

Almost always, I’m asked:

“Is he still alive?”“Yes.”

“Do you know where he is?”“Yes,” I say.

“Will you contact him?”“No,” I say. “If we are meant to meet, it will happen.”

Of course you know I will always keep looking for you. Not with morose longing, but with a lingering anticipation I have carried for all these years. I’ve never felt sad when I’ve looked for you, only a thought of, “Well, not today.” And I went on my way.

What does it mean that our desires were to keep our letters and cards? Does that make us all the more heinous because we not only were lovers but have been callous enough to risk hurting others? Or is there just a hint of, I only have one life, and this experience was a part of it, therefore I justify keeping them?

I don’t have the answers. I only know the choices I’ve made, and I’m living with them. I wish you peace with whichever way you’ve decided, and that you haven’t lived all these years harboring a feeling of having a loose end – my letters – out there. It would make me sad if, instead of happiness, they brought you worry. But there I go again, being selfish.

I love you, Rob. I’ll read again soon, and I’ll write again soon. I won’t ever give you these letters, as I gave you the others. But perhaps you’ll see them anyway.

Always Yours,Mary

I remain stunned at the thought that he could have a box of my letters.

What would prompt him to open them? Is it possible that in March, 2025, he felt a strong sensation to open his box, just as I did? I wouldn’t be surprised, I guess. I pray that if he did, the experience was just like the one I’ve had.

What if he shared with friends? What if he didn’t? I would be all right either way. As you can tell, I’ve made my decision about that, so no going back from here. Apparently I’m willing to be judged and found wanting, which wouldn’t be the first time.

Thank you for spending your precious time with me.

Until next time, remember:

Heartbeats are Finite.Possibilities are Infinite.

Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary

I don’t know, yet, what I will say. I trust that it will come, as it always did before.

Tonight, when I opened The Box, I touched a notebook, and drew it out. It was black hardboard, about five by nine inches, with what looked like, perhaps, about 50 pages. Inside were lines and lines of his writing, sometimes in black ink, other times in blue. I paged through without reading, knowing I’d stop at some point.About halfway through the journal, the ink turned to red, and I stopped.He wrote:

I always think of what you’re doing and what lays in store. Thank you for your letter from Little Italy.

I saw you so clearly as you wrote to me, felt the sunshine and watched a lone lady near the window write and sip wine and write. The fading sun highlighted the silver in her black hair. What is this beautiful woman writing? Can she really be content to sit alone and lazily dream and scratch?

I could never interrupt such a vision, Mary. I would sit a few tables away and feel the serenity of a deep knowing, and feel there must be so much more beneath. I yearn for a pen and paper but of course would never ask her, for she’d think it was a come on - would it be, no. For truly I would not want to interrupt you.

I am very happy to know you, Mary.

I love you, Mary.

I sit here now, shaking my head in disbelief. I made the decision to write to Rob today, and I opened his journal to a letter he wrote describing exactly that. It’s as if he’s somehow speaking to me from the past, encouraging me to write. Such things happened so often when we were together.

But now? All these years later?

What shall I say? How to begin?

(This is me, taking a deep breath…)

Dear Rob,I would say I miss you, but you are with me. I would say I love you, because I do. And you know that.I am so grateful to you for writing all those letters to me. Over the years, I’ve kept them in a locked box, because I knew the power you have in transforming me into…me. Not power over me, power with me.I wish that the last 35 years have been good for you. That you lived in peace and love with your family, and kept me close in your heart.I know you still love me, Rob. I have felt it all these years. I have been with you every day, as you have been with me. I have felt you physically as if you were reaching out to me across the miles, wherever we may have been at any given time.

So often, so many places, I have searched for you. Once, on a train maybe 10 years ago, I thought I heard your voice. It electrified me. I was so disappointed that it wasn’t you. I moved to another car, so I could sit quietly and think of you.

How grateful I am for the gift of you in my life, Rob. You would think I’d like to tell you myself, and oh, how I would. But you know. You’ve known all along.

I’ve made a big decision, Rob, to do this – to open my heart of hearts to people I do not know, to give them a glimpse of who I am and who you are – what we share together, to this day.It’s scary. My life since you has been pretty much an open book, with lots of information online and in publications. I’m not famous or anything, I just do the professional things that other people do in the 21st Century. I’m just a regular person, and I like it that way.

I am in Philadelphia, where I have lived for many years, almost since we last saw each other. I like the city, and my daughter Angela is here. Daniel and I divorced after 32 years of marriage. It was hard, but I’m okay. My resilience has been tested, but I’m strong enough to have done what I had not done since I locked that box of your letters, cards and photographs.I opened it, Rob. And what joy I’ve found inside.

I cry sometimes, but they are tears of grateful joy. How humble I feel that you and I were given such a gift. A treasure of a year’s synchronicity.

I have a photograph of you in the park by the waterfall. It is framed on my desk, so I can look at you as I write. You look happy, Rob.

You might ask why I am sharing our special story with hopefully, many people. I am certain that you would never have expected it, nor did I, for sure. But when I opened The Box, the love that flowed out toward me was so generous, so kind, so beautiful.I just felt like if other people could experience even a sliver of it, I might enable someone to have a new perspective on their own lives. It’s not a lofty goal, it’s just a thought.

These words have flowed from me just as our writings on paper did many years ago. Not edited, not second-guessed. Just written.

If you should ever read this and want to write back, please, please find a way. I know our feelings for each other haven’t changed, but our actions have. We are more mature, and our love has withstood the test of time. We need not hurt anyone.

I’ve talked with my family about what I am doing in Opening The Box. They are quizzical, but they know me and love me. I worry about Angela, who grew up with her father and me in a happy marriage. It will feel odd for her to know that deep in my heart, you were always with me. She will be fine. That’s what parents do, worry. You know that yourself.

I will write to you again soon. I want to share with you a bit of my life and how much you’ve been a part of it. I have the letters you wrote from the past, and what an inspiration they are to write to you again.They are all in the Box.I think you’ll love this. I open the lid with my eyes closed, reach inside and find you. Tonight I found the passage you just heard read by someone who is kind enough to voice your words. It feels odd, but comforting to hear your words aloud.

I love you, Rob.Always Yours,Mary

And there is my first letter to Rob in 35 years. I wasn’t sure if I’d be overcome with emotion, or cry, or erase everything and not write at all. But I find that I’m smiling. Glancing at his picture on my desk. Knowing that somehow, someway, we are connected.

I want to write to him about my life, and share what our Opening The Box readers are sending to me.

Thank you for spending your precious time with me.Until next time, remember, Heartbeats are Finite. Possibilities are Infinite.

Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary

What made me decide to open this locked box of letters from Rob after so long? I only know the feeling I had. The dawning conviction that the moment had come. That it was time to call the locksmith.

Every day since has led me back to that box. I feel the weight of it in my hands. The chill of the metal. The muscle memory of lifting the lid. I close my eyes and reach in— to hold what he wrote, to touch what he touched.

I could say I’m rediscovering a long-lost love, but that’s not true.

I have loved Rob all along.

Tonight, I withdrew a letter from Virginia.

A sleepy rumpled blanket enclosed you

As I watched you dream and stir.

Who knows this woman Mary,

I’ve spent some time with her.

Such wonderment I choose to bestow on you

To break through and fly

And float for a time in our solitude

In a separate place, you and I

When I came to you at the mirror you were busy putting curlers in your hair all around your beet red face. When I said, “We’re going home, Mary,” you turned, no words, rushed into my open arms. We hugged and cried.

What a picture we would have made for all those who know how strong and cold and in control we are.

As I felt you I felt I was holding onto myself and I could feel our pain.

As you slept the night before I held you for a time close and strong, and imagined I could draw all the hurt from you but I couldn’t; try as I might.

Those 20 some hours together were feeling hours without barriers, they were so, so good, they were so, so, right…they were so, so frightening.

As time passed, our physical visits became more difficult. Our love had grown into something beyond words. Beyond anything we could explain to the people around us, if ever we had tried.

With every passing day it became clearer that something was happening that was much bigger than a mere tryst or an affair or an all-out sea change of life.

I believe he was expressing fear – so, so, good, so, so right, so, so frightening, because what was between us went so far beyond those things as to make them irrelevant.

Rob and I must have talked about being “just friends”—a platonic relationship—as if that were even possible. As if our spouses could accept it. As if we could.

Because here's the truth: infidelity isn’t always physical. Sometimes, it’s having this kind of feeling—this depth of love—outside your marriage. And while I’ve had a happy marriage with Daniel, at least for a time, I know that even a “platonic” version of Rob and me would have needed explaining. And if no explanation could be found, then even a happy marriage would feel threatened.

Rob and I tried to process our love like humans do. We defaulted to the physical because it was the only thing we understood. But what was happening between us was so much more.

Thirty-five years later, I can tell you: whatever “it” was—let’s call it love—it’s just as strong now. Maybe even stronger.

I’ve tried to think of a human experience to compare it to. The birth of a child? Or perhaps the end of a life?

I once stood at the bedside of a friend who was dying. I watched his face soften, watched something shift in him. Was he seeing a tunnel of light? People he loved? The universe? He didn’t look frightened. In fact, he looked... amazed. We told him we loved him. We told him his life had meaning. And then, as we all do, he let go.

I’m not trying to sound philosophical. I’m no scholar. But I do think what Rob and I experienced had the kind of layered joy and pain that philosophers have been writing about forever. There was something deeply human and deeply beyond human in our connection. Something that felt, each time, like both birth and death.

And in between... there were the letters.

What About You?

Have you ever experienced a connection like this—one that defied explanation? One that stayed with you, despite time and silence? I’d love to hear from you. Please write to me.

Next time, I’ll begin something new.

I don’t have the letters I wrote to Rob. But I still feel the same way I did 35 years ago. I believe he does, too. So I’ll write to him and respond to his letters—from here. From now on, I’m doing this for me. A gift of ethereal connection.

What will I say?

I don’t know.

Come find out with me—on Opening the Box.

And always remember:

Heartbeats are Finite. Possibilities are Infinite.

Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary

I was in a car where the seats were facing backward — always a little disorienting.

It had been years since we’d seen each other, or even spoken.But I knew that voice. That unique intonation. That ever-so-slight Brooklyn accent.

I heard what the man was saying, but it didn’t matter.I was so sure it was Rob.

I was struck numb.What should I do? What should I say?

I told myself to put on a nice expression — the first sight he’d see of me.Then I sat, leaden. Unable to move. Just listening.

Just experiencing that voice.

Trains were always part of our backdrop.Metros. Transit lines. Amtrak. Subways.

Rails became a metaphor — two people moving forward, feeling side-by-side, but never quite able to meet.Not really. Not in any lasting way, it seemed.

Every moment we shared was borrowed from someone — or something — else.But we grabbed those moments anyway.

During the year Rob and I were lovers, we met several times in Washington.The city’s rich metro system was part of our rhythm.The sliding doors were fast — quick to open, quick to close. Just a sliver of a window.

On one special day, I knew Rob would be on the Metro, coming to meet me.He’d need to change trains at Metro Center — the busiest stop in the system.

Somehow, I timed it right.I saw him leave one train and walk toward another.

He looked up. He saw me. He stopped, stunned.And I went to him.

Today, I pulled one of his letters from The Box. In it, he wrote:

Because we were making love afterward, I never got to reveal the thoughts and feelings you wrenched from me when I saw you on the platform.

You. You pop up when I least expect it — and now I feel you can pop up at any time. I incessantly look for you everywhere.

I saw you — but no, it couldn’t be. I lurched physically forward, involuntarily, then caught myself. It couldn’t be you.

As you walked toward me, I melted. I was raw. I couldn’t focus on anything but you — and even that was terribly, terribly difficult.

I kissed you without thinking. Held you without wondering. I was alone with you on a crowded platform, and the world be damned.

So the next time you wonder how I am when I drop all reality, control, and barriers — think of that moment near the escalator. You had me then. Totally unhampered. With no baggage.

Thank you.

And oh — what a moment.

The world dropped away.The air was sucked from my chest.Even the roar of the trains in that cavern went silent.

Hard to imagine a better moment.But many followed that day.

Over the years, I’ve fantasized that he looked for me, just as I’ve always looked for him.On trains and platforms. At airports. On highways. Through crowds.

And now — the question you may be wondering:Was it really him on the train that day I was riding backwards?

With an anxious glance in a pocket mirror, I put on lipstick and checked my hair.This was for me — he wouldn’t care what I looked like.I took a deep breath. Tried to paste on a smile, one I was too nervous to pull off.

I so wanted to see him.

The man on the train had been talking since I first heard his voice — about what, I can’t recall.

I remember being vaguely aware that it didn’t sound like Rob.

But the voice. The voice.

Finally, I stood. Straightened my clothes. Put on some kind of smile.And went to face the man I loved.

No.

It wasn’t Rob.

I was deflated in an instant.Disappointed beyond measure.

Whatever expression was on my face would have concerned anyone else — but the man just kept talking. I was a stranger, after all.

I returned to my seat, gathered my things with trembling hands, and moved to another car.

That one had seats facing forward.

If we are fortunate, we’ve all experienced surprises that stay with us for life.If we’re even more fortunate, someone has loved us enough to arrange one:

A surprise birthday party. A candlelit dinner. A bouquet of flowers.Washing the dishes three times in one week.

Good surprises — in thought and deed — are the stuff of love.When both align, and are given with a gentle hand, the stuff of love.

But sometimes surprises aren’t good.

Someone you love is struggling. Or you are. The house falls apart. The pet dies. You get hurt. Or you’re asked for too much.

Recently, I found myself in one of those situations.Someone I care about — and who Angela, my daughter, also knows — made a request.

It was unrealistic.

And frankly, unfair.

My old reflex kicked in:If I couldn’t say yes to the request, maybe I could help resolve the issue anyway.

Because I cared.

But I felt out of control. And I needed someone to talk to.

Angela — technically my stepdaughter, but truly my daughter — has always been there for me.And I’ve always been her Mary.

She is a treasure in my life.

“Mary,” she said gently.“Focus on the things you can control. You taught me that.”

Yes. Physician, heal thyself.

Still, I wanted to help. Because helping would make me feel better.But Angela asked:

“Has this person asked for your help?”

“Well… no,” I said. “But—”

“But what?” she asked.

And that’s when I realized:What I called helping was actually selfishness.Unrequested assistance isn’t always welcome. And sometimes it’s not even needed.

So I made a decision: Say no.

That one choice gave me back my power.It let me focus on what I could control — and let go of what was never mine to carry.

Angela reminded me of wisdom I’d given her.And I got to apply it to myself.

So, I’ve shared a surprise from the train — and a not-so-good surprise that was resolved by reaching out to someone I love and trust.

Now I ask you:

💬 What surprises have you experienced?

Have they stayed with you? Changed you?I’d love to hear — reply to this email and share your story.

And always remember:

Heartbeats are Finite. Possibilities are Infinite.

Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary

Today, I touched another poem. Just a short one, but filled with the visceral reality of my relationship with Rob.

I try to remember, unsuccessfully, when we actually had a meal in a restaurant. As I recall, there were no such things. No vacation weekends. No extravagant experiences.

Just presence.Just us.

We treasured each moment together for the gift it was, never wishing to share even a breath with another living soul. Even ordering food took away heartbeats we could’ve spent in conversation. So we met quietly, bringing small offerings: flavored seltzer, a surprise treat, something handpicked and thoughtful.

When it was possible, we met at a neighborhood park — lush green grass underfoot, red maples, beech, and white pines displaying the seasons. A waterfall gurgled nearby. Sunshine — plenty of sunshine — followed us on walks. Few people gathered there, which suited us just fine.

The year we were together, we celebrated my birthday in that park.

Later, he would write this:

Was a cool shadow passing On the lover’s waterfall that noon. Words and gifts and touches exchanged, It was over much too soon.

A birthday in the parkBeneath the October leaves.Hidden in a separate placeSafe within the trees.

Mary, I have been catapulted by you into a new existence and I hunger for it. Yet I am tied, for now. And yes I would find relief in the end of my marriage. These past several months I have pictured myself as a great divorced father.

I have rehearsed what I would say to Sam and Justin, and how hard I would work to fill their lives. I figure Deanna will just have to hate me or understand.

And I can do it! What stops me? I have fantasized more about leaving my family than I have about leaving you. I want you that much. I try not to get critical of myself for this because I know I’m exploring my options. But deep, deep down inside I know I am capable of it — and all it takes is a simple statement: ‘It’s over.’

Right now, unless I go berserk, I’m not capable of saying this — to you or to my family.

So what can we do?If you want to stay with your family, I will help.If you want to stay with me, I will help.If you want to leave me, I will help.If you want to leave your family, I will not help.

I don’t want us to end.

I don’t want us to end until one of us can’t — or won’t — do it. “It” meaning cope; maintain our balance; stay whole; find the fulfillment we had in our lives before us.

I’m discovering so many things in these letters — things that remind me of the desperation we both felt, the belief that our choices might devastate the people around us.

I’ve spoken before about Daniel, my third husband, whom I was married to for 32 years.

But in the time I was with Rob, I was married to Tim.

Tim and I had also begun in an affair. That decision had already ended his first marriage.

I know — it’s tough to keep up.

My relationship with Rob convinced me that my marriage to Tim was over.But I struggled — hard — almost entirely because of his two daughters. They were precious to me, and they had already been through one divorce. Now here I was, staring down another.

If I’m honest, I married Tim out of guilt.I knew from the start I wouldn’t be happy. But I had a demanding career, and we were anchored by time with his daughters. That was the part I loved most. It held us together for six years.

I desperately didn’t want to hurt them. And I knew I would.

So: unhappy marriage. Two stepdaughters.An affair with Rob — whose very thought sent me into ecstasy.And a challenging job.

It was, in hindsight, the emotional cocktail of a nutcase. And I was the bartender.

I don’t have any of the letters I wrote to Rob. I have no idea whether he, too, kept a box. Maybe locked, maybe hidden. Maybe long gone.

So I must rely on a faulty memory — along with all my other faults.

I don’t recall asking Rob to leave Deanna.

I knew he loved her. They were college sweethearts. She was his first. Before me, the only one. That kind of connection deserved his full decision, and I respected that. I trusted him to choose whatever was right.

I could be mistaken. Maybe I did beg. Maybe I got down on my knees and pleaded with him to leave her.

But I don’t think so. He struggled enough with himself.

All in all, it was a very confusing time — punctuated by relentless anxiety, uncertainty about the future, and tests of our own personal sanity.

Sounds like a walk in the park.

Happy Birthday.

Actually… it was a beautiful birthday. Because every moment in his company was a gift.

I’ve described a confluence of things that led to the tension — the anxiety, the grief, the hard-earned joy.

When have you experienced a set of circumstances that felt like everything was raining buckets of emotion — good or bad?

A wedding is one example. That’s why they make so many movies about them. Getting married is easy. Staying married is very, very hard.

💬 Reply to this post and let me know your story. When have you felt the emotional weather of everything at once?

As always —Finite Heartbeats. Infinite Possibilities.

Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary

I’ve touched another letter from Rob, and it prompted me to think about love and loss, or rather, the loss of something we truly believe in.

The problem — or the gift — of the love Rob and I share (because we still do love one another) is that the physical aspect, the melding of two people who could not stay apart no matter how much we tried, was only one plane.

Physical love certainly mattered. But the other planes — the mental, emotional, and visceral cocoon in which we interacted — were beyond anything I’d experienced before or since.

Years passed after our first meeting in 1985. We didn’t even remain in touch.

Later, we would agree that the desire was mutual — and kept us both awake at night — but taking action was not an option. Until one day in 1989.

A simple phone call. A simple request. Someone needed something the other could provide.

We met. And much as we tried to be casual, there was never such a thing between us. The year of love that would continue to this day began.

Today’s letter, from Washington, D.C.:

You weren’t there, Mary. Not at Fairfax Station. Not at Metro Center, not at Union Station. I searched everywhere for you in your London Fog trench coat. I was shaking and filled with sorrow as I waited for the train to take me to Union Station.

I’ve wondered many times about how much I would love to live with you. To tell you, ‘I’ll always be there for you in spirit and body.’

You asked me if it would be enough to know our love goes with each other even if we’re not together. I am always with you and will always be with you in spirit and love. My body is divorced and it’s not enough, at times, to have you for so short a time. I felt the great pain of our separation last night and throughout the day. ‘No more Mary. Mary is gone.’ I haunted myself.

You sat with me at softball games all summer and went to Maine. In the fall you froze beside me at soccer matches and playing with my children. This winter you spent Christmas with me and went to Aruba. And so you will, for the rest of my life. For the rest of my life, Mary.

Even now as I head north on the Amtrak, somehow, I believe you will appear. But I know you won’t. I keep looking up for you on the train. For you have shown me that for as sure as you may vanish you also do appear.

I feel like a passenger car that accidentally uncouples from the train at the top of a long hill and speeds backward toward certain destruction.

I am falling, Mary. And I’m frightened.

As he said, he haunted himself with the perception of losing me. But he need not have. I was, and still am, with him. I remain in love with him — as I know he is with me.

I wonder why, today, that particular passage came out of The Box and struck me so deeply.

The almost tangible sense of loss — especially the physical — is a recurring theme in my life. I imagine it may be in yours, too.

We all experience losing the thing we love the most, whether it’s a marriage, a job, a dream, a person. Even the loss of self.

It’s a part of living.

On that particular day, Rob and I had parted ways — after struggling with the reality that our decisions could devastate our families.

The sense of loss was knowing we could not continue. Even after nearly a year of meeting, we couldn’t be casual. We couldn’t be anything other than what we were: deeply connected and deeply torn.

Neither of us believed our future lay together. But neither could we conceive of parting.

No anger. No harsh words. No regret.

Just, as he said, a fear of falling — out of control.

When I think about loss in my life, I remember the physical pain the most.

The raking. The scraping. The burning in my heart. The sense of disbelief — that what couldn’t be happening was, in fact, happening right in front of me.

My third husband, Daniel, came into my life after Rob.

He convinced me that it was possible to love again. To believe in something ideal — that two people could truly remain committed for a lifetime.

I wanted to believe that. Not just for myself. But for Rob, too.

I loved Rob enough to let him go. And I truly wanted him to be happy.

And so I began again. And the loss was something only time could heal.

Daniel and I met under what we’d come to call "love at first sight." There was chemistry. Shared life experience. A connection born from the fact that we were both in career transition.

We married. We raised his daughter.

And I never told him what I’d experienced with Rob — that it made our own meeting pale in comparison.

It became family lore, this myth of “love at first sight.” And I let it live.

Daniel was the only man to whom I remained faithful for 30 years — even after he became a serial cheater. I foolishly believed he would stop.

The deepest loss of that betrayal wasn’t just the marriage. It was the shattering of my belief in ideal love.

I had trusted him to be true.

You may be thinking:

Wait — you had an affair with Rob. How are you any different from Daniel?

It’s a fair question.

My answer is this: I believed my karmic punishment was “losing” Rob.

The pain of that loss — physical, emotional, spiritual — is indescribable.

I thought I could start anew. Make a different choice. Live by a different kind of truth.

But I was wrong.

The biggest payback came as a tsunami of pain — as Daniel, woman after woman, lie after lie, destroyed my ideal of love like a beach umbrella in a storm. Swept away. Irrecoverable.

It’s a small consolation to know: I can never be hurt like that again.

Time has healed the wound. But the scars run too deep for anyone else to reach my soul.

Except one.

What losses have you experienced?

💬 Reply to this email and share your thoughts or stories. I read every word. And I truly want to know.

Remember:Finite Heartbeats. Infinite Possibilities.

Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary

But before I tell you what I discovered, I’ll answer three questions:

What’s in The Box?Where did it come from?Why did I carry it locked for 35 years?

The Box is filled with letters and photographs and cards, and most of all, love.

A love I’ve experienced only once in my lifetime. One that has swept over me at unexpected times, reminding me that I am loved, still. One that I treasure to this day.

The letters in The Box come from Rob.

I met him in 1985, a moment I’ve always described as heart-stopping, breath-taking, memory-making, and life-changing.

And — it was reciprocated.

I thought I might literally lose the strength to stand. We were suspended in time, connected across that room by some unknown but totally knowable energy that descended upon us from a distant plane.

I knew I’d never be the same.

Regrettably, his wife also witnessed that moment. She would remember it instantly some six years later, when he revealed he’d had an affair he could no longer keep secret.

So now you know what’s in The Box. And you know where the words and images came from.

I kept them locked away for two reasons:

First, I was married to someone else. Two husbands, actually, over time. But The Box was mine — my life, my experience, and my decision to keep what lay within sacrosanct.

Second, I knew that its contents would reveal the deficiencies in my current world — that of being married to someone who did not, quite, measure up.

I didn’t want that feeling, because for many years, Daniel (my third husband) and I had a very happy marriage. We raised his young daughter together. I believed that opening the box would only result in my running off the emotional rails — something my marriage didn’t need or deserve.

With that 32-year marriage now behind me, I knew I’d open The Box at some point.

And now I am.

Today, I unfold a hurried missive from 1990, written in blue ink as a plane neared Boston:

I want to kiss you so boldly as if I know you and go to bed with you as if we are accustomed to doing that with each other. But right now I wonder if we will be more strangers than lovers and wonder how long it will take to put the matter to rest. Perhaps an instant. I don’t know. I want to close my eyes now and think of you.

We are 17 minutes out! About 17 minutes more than I can stand… within half an hour I could be pulling you close to me and asking how you are; telling you I love you, missed you, and how happy I am to see you.

Oh will you be there, Mary? Are you all right? Are we all right? Smile for me and hold me close and Please Please Be there. Mary there’s snow on the ground — the first time we can be out with snow and maybe a chill and a runny nose — I didn’t bring handkerchiefs but I’m not going back. We’re down. Just gotta find all my stuff and You.

(And this from the hotel lobby, in a pen with black ink): We’re checking in!”

Then the rest of the page left blank — as we folded into each other’s arms and made a new memory.

I remember that day in Boston with crystal clarity.

Waist-high snow had been shoveled by some kind soul, fencing each side of the walkway. The January freeze was inconsequential. The runny noses were funny, taken care of with a chuckle and the back side of a mitten.

Gloves came off because I wanted my cold hands to be warmed by intertwining his fingers with mine — our palms touching with the perfect fit of the human species: a man and a woman, together, at last.

All these years later, I feel him as if he were here.

I touch the paper he touched. I read the words he wrote. I rediscover the anxious anticipation he felt — and remember how, yes, it was put to rest in an instant.

What an honor that another human being not only cared so deeply for me, but wanted to memorialize it in this way — enough to finish the letter with three words dashed off in a different ink, as if in a sigh of relief that we were, indeed, all right.

There are pages and pages of that letter.

I’m glad I felt so strongly as to keep The Box in my care for decades.

What have you kept for a long time?

It need not be locked away for 35 years.It could be something you see every day — or so often that you no longer even see it.But when you do, it brings you joy. A feeling of connection. A meaningful touch from the past.

You may also be keeping something that brings pain. You may not bring it out — or not very often.

I’ve been through seven downsizings.

Downsizing is important at any age, because it helps us cathartically rid ourselves of physical and emotional things that should no longer be part of our lives. Some decisions are tough. Some are easy.

I’ve listed a resource at the end of this newsletter you may find helpful.

For me, I knew without question: I’d keep The Box.

And I’m so glad I did.

See you next week, when Rob’s letter inspires me to explore what it means to lose something you truly believe in.

But now,

💌 Reply to this post and tell me — what have you kept? Something treasured? Something hidden? Something you're ready to let go of? I want to know.

Remember:Heartbeats are Finite.Possibilities are Infinite.

P.S.

Special thanks to Rita Wilkins, the Downsizing Designer! For everyone looking to downsize be sure to read and subscribe to Rita’s Substack.

Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary

In this memoir in motion, I reach into that box, blindly, dare I say, bravely — and pull out a memory, a question, a turning point. The stories are personal, sometimes poetic, and always honest. But they’re not just mine.

Because you have a box too.

Let’s open them together.

At midnight, I watched the clock turn from Saturday to Sunday.

So high in the city sky, I didn’t know the weather — had not paid attention, didn’t care, really. I was restless, not ready for sleep, and not interested in finding recreation.

I sat at my desk, chin resting on my upturned palm, staring at the twinkling white lights across the room and out the window — the rows and rows of Philadelphia’s lights.

Unbidden, butterflies rose in my stomach — like starlings mid-migration, flipping east in perfect unison. I recognized the feeling, but there was no reason prompting it.

But certain as the clock had turned, and as unexpected as the starling’s flock, I knew.

It was time.

I remember purchasing The Box some 35 years ago. I don’t recall where. It must have been a Home Depot, as the bland, camel-colored steel and brown leather handles and small silver lock attest to a mass-produced product.

But what was inside was anything but mass-produced.

The intent was to protect the treasures with the heft of steel — and present a box that did not draw attention from the two husbands whose lives it could have touched. And didn’t.

The Box was always tucked away, remaining quiet and safe, withholding the papers filled with words, thoughts, deeds, passion, love, loss, hopes, dreams.

It was the real-life manifestation of a year’s synchronicity.

I knew at all times exactly where The Box sat. I’d moved nine times in 35 years, back and forth across 11 states. Through seven downsizings. But always, The Box stayed with me.

The Box had been in my best friend’s mother’s attic. In the stow-away space below a building built in 1835. In the closet of a penthouse. In a storage unit while I went to rehab.

I knew, too, where the key was.

That shiny, small piece of silver metal could have sent me traversing paths I was not ready to travel. I knew its location at all times — until it was lost.

It remained so for a number of years, as after 32 years, yet a third marriage became tattered and torn and finally dissolved. The Box came with me, still without a key. Because it was mine.

On this night in March, 2025, I struggled to understand why, suddenly, I was experiencing the sensory expression of butterflies — furiously flapping wings, eager anticipation of something that was to come, though I did not know what.

The feeling began in my stomach and spread across my body — down my arms and legs to fingertips and toes. Up around my head, sweeping instantly yet slowly, between each strand of hair.

Yes, it was time. No memory jogged. No call rang. No email arrived. No text pinged.

I just knew.

An Indian man named Mr. Patel answered the phone when I called, somewhere around 12:15 a.m.

“Can you unlock my box? The key is missing.”

I had taken photos so he could see the job.

“Of course,” he replied. “Someone will be there shortly. Be downstairs.”

I went to its current location, tucked away neatly in a cubby on the left side of a walk-in closet.

The Box looked at home there, as it always had, in whatever place I’d stowed it. But the energy around it was perky, I thought, as if it anticipated its fortunes were about to change.

I tugged it out, smiling at the thought of what was about to happen — though I wasn’t sure exactly what.

The Box was heavier than I remembered, I thought, awaiting the elevator. I had to hold it with both brown leather handles on the ends. I ran my thumbs over the cold steel lid, believing for a moment that I could feel the warmth inside.

And then, I was on the street, awaiting the locksmith.

The late-winter March wind whipped furiously and frigidly, with prickly sprinkles of rain against my cheeks and blowing my hair in my eyes. My hands trembled. But no matter. I just wanted to see that white van.

And there it was.

The young man took The Box from me and thrust a flat screwdriver once into the silver lock, which popped in a second.

“You won’t be able to lock it again,” he said, taking the cash from me.

“There’s no need,” I replied.

And he thanked me.

Moments later I was back in my apartment, the unlocked box in front of me on my desk.

I realized I had no plan for what to do when I opened The Box.

Should I take out all of the letters and photos and cards I knew were inside? Should I splay them across the dining room table like a feast, and carefully choose which course to eat first?

I finally decided I’d lift the lid, and with my eyes closed, reach inside until I felt something I wanted to see.

When I opened my eyes, my gaze fell upon this:

Wake for a moment Mary I must be touched again to put to rest this flood no longer how but when. But no, you dream on, and I I watch you as you sleep holding all that you have given me safely in my keep.

-Rob

I was now awake.

We all have The Box in our lives.

It could be a physical one, like mine — or a digital cache, or an emotional bubble we’ve tucked away until the time is right.

In this newsletter, Opening The Box, I will open my box once a week to discover — with a blind hand and much anticipation — what I’m to write about.

I invite you to come with me on the journey, and to tell me the things you discover about yourself along the way.

✉️ Reply to this email and tell me — what’s in your box? I truly want to know.

And I leave you with this thought:Finite Heartbeats. Infinite Possibilities.

Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary