It’s Me, Sara Louise

Hi! You might know me as C’est Moi, Sara Louise. Before that I was Sara in Le Petit Village. Now, It’s Me, Sara Louise. Hello again.

  • Did You Ever Know That You’re My Hero?

    I’m going to bare my soul a bit here.

    As much as the last eight years have been rough, there have been moments in the past couple of years that have nearly broken me. I couldn’t eat, could hardly move, and would lay on the couch feeling half-dead, barely conscious, floating on a wave of depression and self-induced malnutrition.

    But, I would force myself up, reminding myself of all the incredibly fortunate things I have in my life. I’d sip on a smoothie, shove a spoonful of peanut butter in my mouth and push through because I knew if I could make it over the hump, focus on work, focus on the good things, I would be OK. And I am.

    Then, with encouragement from my oldest and dearest friend, I decided to cut myself open over these keys and let it all bleed out. And you showed up for me.

    You read. You commented. You messaged. You sent care packages and gifts. You checked in, and you showed me that I was not alone. And that I was loved.

    So whether you have been with me since those early gleeful Le Petit Village days or have only recently stumbled upon this space somehow, I want to say thank you. Thank you for your kindness. Thank you for your support, and your words of encouragement because they mean more to me than you can possibly imagine. From the bottom of my broken, healing heart, thank you for being part of my tribe. 

    You give me strength. 

  • Burn It to the Ground

    You know, when I first found out about ‘her,’ I was so humiliated. I was embarrassed. Ashamed. I didn’t want anyone to know. But why should I be ashamed and embarrassed and humiliated? I’m not the one that did anything wrong. All I did was be patient and loyal for years while I was being mugged off. How mugged off? Majorly mugged off. Well, no more. Buckle up.

    A little over a year ago, I was here in New York, trying to rebuild my life and adjust to the fact that my marriage was well and truly over, all those years wasted, with nothing to show for them. After all, he had a baby with another woman; that’s a hard one to come back from.

    But the thing is, he was still lying. He was telling me that it was all an accident; he wasn’t with her; he had no contact with her or the baby, BLAH BLAH BLAH LIES. And then a cousin of mine made a shocking discovery…

    A cousin in Ireland was getting married. He and his wife were looking for a chauffeur and came across one’s Facebook page. And while they were scrolling through photos of happy newlyweds posing outside of a Rolls or in the backseat of a limo, one couple stood out. Because there he was, my husband, with his bride, who was not me.

    My husband is a bigamist.

    That sweet and funny Frenchman you all grew to love back when I was Sara in Le Petit Village, married another woman while still married to me.

    He got married in 2019 and carried on as if nothing had changed.

    Less than a month after his “wedding,” we took a family vacation with my mother, godmother, best friend, and her kids and frolicked on the Jersey Shore. We even signed another lease and began marriage counseling, all the while, he had a soon-to-be pregnant bride in another country.

    So for all those years, while I was waiting for my new life back in the U.S. to begin finally, he was building a life with another woman. They met, dated, moved in together, got engaged, got married, and a little over a year later, had a baby.

    And there it is. I won’t be ashamed, embarrassed, or humiliated anymore. He will be.

  • So, what would you do?

    What would you do if one day, after years of being lied to, full-on gaslit, you’re confronted with the truth that you always knew to be true?

    I was done. Over. It had been enough. One too many excuses of why he had to leave again (always promising to come back in a few weeks) and not live life here with me (work travel… sick grandmother… lost passport … stuck on a work trip with Covid… so many lies lies lies).

    I finally did it. I told him not to come back, that I was done. And then it happened.

    It wasn’t long after he was gone that out of the blue, his stepmother liked one of my Instagram pics. That had never happened before; I didn’t even know she had an account. So I popped over to her profile to follow her, and there it was. The proof that I wasn’t crazy. The truth. Another bombshell courtesy of social media and my sociopathic ex — a photo of him, the woman from the Facebook profile pic four years before, and a smiling baby being held up between them.

    I knew it. I always had. He had a whole other life and a baby. A baby. (You know who doesn’t have a baby? Yeah, me) What’s worse? I had ignored my intuition the entire time. I should have listened to myself. Trusted me. But, I let the lies take over. I let them control my life. For years.

    Somehow, in my marriage, I had become “the other woman.”

    So, what would you do?

  • The Gas Light Burns Bright

    You know, the thing is, when someone you care about lies to you, your default is to believe them. 

    When your spouse repeatedly lies to you and says, “no, no, no, no, that’s not true, why would I do that,” even if your gut knows, you tell yourself to believe them because you want to believe them, and they’re telling you to, begging you to. 

    Because why lie when the truth would be so much easier? Sure, it would hurt at first, but at least it would be over.

    I wish the bandaid had been ripped off. But it wasn’t. For years there was a slow, painful peel, and the gas light burned bright and burned long. 

    P.S. When you read the next chapters, and you think, “how could you have let this go on, how could you have not seen it, how could you have stayed…” understand that when the person you’re married to is lying to you THAT much, and you’re in it, living it, and have invested so much time, so many years of your life, you want to believe, because you just want to live a life. A normal life. And that’s what he stole. He stole my life. 

  • Don't Cry Over Spilled Milk

    Don’t cry over spilled milk. That’s what they say. Little did I know that about an hour after
    I took this photo, I’d be crying over so much more…

    (I wasn’t sure if I could put it all out there or if I even should. But then I thought, you know what, I’m gonna do it. Maybe it’ll be cathartic. Or maybe it would be a huge mistake that I will regret for all eternity. Who knows? Not me. But I know one thing, could’ve, would’ve, should’ve, so I’m doing it.)


    It was a Monday morning in November 2016. I was still staying at my mother’s house in Texas, and my husband was living and working in Dublin while we waited for his green card to come through. 

    After waking up, I did my usual, I texted good morning to my long-distance spouse, poured myself a cup of coffee (spilling a bunch of milk in the process), and settled into my morning routine of checking email and social media sites. 

    On Linkedin, I saw that my husband had commented on a post, and in that comment, he had tagged someone. It was a woman with a name that I didn’t recognize. “Probably a work colleague,” I thought.

    I tried to move on with my morning, but that woman’s name kept niggling at me. Who was she? Maybe she was a new work colleague. Probably a new work colleague. But, we usually talked about those things. At least I did anyway.  

    I let curiosity get the best of me and popped over to Facebook to search for her. I was curious if they were connected on there too or if we had any friends in common. 

    After typing her first name and then finishing her last, a bunch of accounts appeared. As I scrolled down the list, one, in particular, jumped out at me. I knew it was her immediately because there she was. A big bright selfie smile in her profile picture… alongside a smiling photo of my husband.

    There he was. My husband was in another woman’s Facebook profile picture. 

    P.S. I’m still trying to figure out how to tell the tale of the past six years or so of my life. It’ll be a jimble jumble jumping around mess, I’m sure, but I need to tell it. I need to get it out. Bear with me.

  • No More Vacations

    If you’ve followed me on Instagram over the years, you know that pre-pandemic, I traveled quite a bit. Back and forth from Texas to Dublin, London, and Copenhagen I would go. 

    I’m sure it looked fun, I’m sure it looked fabulous, but it wasn’t, really. These were me trying to hold my marriage together trips, not fun, fabulous trips.

    I’d bounce around rolling my carry-on, smile plastered on my face hoping for the best. These were not vacations. (But of course, there are a few amusing anecdotes I’m sure I’ll be pulling out in the future. Stay tuned…

    But, this summer, I, Sara Louise, was finally going on vacation — an actual holiday to a new destination. I was going to Maine, a state so perfectly poised for vacationing that their license plates have “Vacationland” stamped on them. (And let’s not forget the lobstah rolls.

    My Auntie Ilene, who you may recall, had invited me to her summer cottage on a bay in Maine. How perfectly charming does that sound? 

    You know what doesn’t sound perfectly charming, SHINGLES. Yes, shingles. I got Shingles right before I was due to leave. My body went into such shock at the thought of relaxation that it revolted with a stinging, burning, aching rash. But, with an OK from my doc and an “if you still feel up to it” from Auntie Ilene, I deposited Fifty at camp and hit the road north to Vacationland because if you’re going to suffer with Shingles, you might as well do it while sitting on the dock of the bay. 

    And that’s what I did,  I sat on the (floating) dock of the (Linekin) bay. (I did some other stuff, too, but if you follow me on Facebook or Instagram, you already know that.

    Meanwhile, at camp… Fifty caught Kennel Cough. KENNEL COUGH!

    I caught Shingles; he caught Kennel Cough. And there you have it. No more vacations for us. The end. 

    P.S. Fifty is on the mend and getting stronger every day. Thank you for your positive thoughts and messages of support they meant the world to Fifty and me. 

  • Moving On

    “You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could’ve, would’ve happened… or you can just leave the pieces on the floor and move the fuck on.” – Tupac Shakur

    And that’s what I did; I moved the f**k on. 

    Sidebar: I may go into detail later about what happened and how everything fell apart, but not now. For now, trust me when I say that I am better off, and believe me when I say as far as my marriage went, I gave it my all and left everything on the field. EVERYTHING.

    ❤  ❤  ❤  ❤  ❤

    I don’t like road trips. And yet, one year, one month, and four days ago, I found myself driving almost 2,000 miles from my mother’s house in Texas to my friend’s home in my old hometown in New York.

    Fifty and I were embarking on the next chapter. And the next chapter meant staying at my friend’s while I attempted to put my life back together and figure out what I wanted my future to look like. The world was my oyster. (If by oyster, you mean a skint bank account and no real idea what I’m doing.) 

    Somehow, after years of torture waiting for life to begin, to finally kick into gear, first because of visa delays and then because of BS excuses and lies delays, life had become a fresh notebook. Blank pages were waiting for me to fill them up with new chapters. 

    Care to read them? 

  • 13 Going on 30 (something or other)

    I did something crazy.
    I, an adult woman, got braces. 
    Not Invisalign. Braces. 
    It’s been on the list for a long time but due to life and whatnot (y’all know about all the whatnot), it kept getting pushed further and further down that list. 
    (Except, I will say that a few years back in The LPV I did go to get them but ended up needing a root canal and left the office over €1000 lighter and there went the braces. But in hindsight, I’m glad that l’orthodontiste didn’t put braces on me because maisongarçon (French for homeboy obvs) jacked it all up, caused a massive infection, which led to bone loss, and then oral surgery a couple of years ago to fix it. Merci fils de pute! (Don’t try to translate that last bit… it’s naughty.)
    Anyway, a few weeks ago, I decided enough is enough; I’m getting them and I’ll make life work around me for once. (This is when my theme song should begin to play btw.)
    (Note to self: pick a theme song)
    So, now I have braces and there still very new and I’m still getting used to them and the fact that I can’t get my Olivia Pope on with my popcorn and I have to forgo my beloved gummy bears, but I’ll get used to it. And get used to the fact that I’m a grumble-grumble-inaudible aged woman with braces.  
    But I will say this, a big part of all the nervousness about being an adult with brace-face disappeared as soon as my shamazing orthodontist said this in response to my embarrassment about being seen with them: 
    “They’ll see a grown woman taking care of herself.” 
    To my orthodontist I say, PREACH QUEEN. 
    And that’s that. I’m doing me right now. 
    What’s new with you? (I genuinely want to know.)
    Are you letting life work you over, or are you making it work for you? (That should probably be werk).
    Your Brace-Face

  • F i n a l l y

    Something amazing is happening this weekend.

    (No, not me blogging twice in one week even though that is fairly spectacular.)

    I’m moving.

    After four and a half years of living like a gypsy, splitting my time between Dublin, London, Copenhagen (I kept that one close to the chest), and my mother’s in Texas, I finally get to be still.

    I know that the thought of unpacking box upon box is horrible to some, but for me, I’m elated! After four and half years, I’m unpacking kitchen boxes into MY kitchen, putting books on shelves in MY living room, and hanging clothes in MY closet.

    I could go on and on and wax-poetic about all of the feelings I’m feeling but I don’t have that kind of time.

    Because I’m moving.


  • Confession

    Confession: I miss blogging.

    Bigger Confession: It’s difficult to blog when life hasn’t been going swimmingly and you’re not sure what to say, and what you actually should say, or more importantly, what you should not say.

    I will say this though. I love my husband. He loves me. But unfortunately life isn’t always that simple. I’m in Texas and he isn’t, for far too many reasons and complications to list here. (Really, it’s been ALL THE DRAMA. ALL OF IT).

    And truthfully, I would have returned to this space sooner if it wasn’t for the perpetual state of limbo that I find myself in. Because although we got the spousal visa, my happily-ever-after has still not arrived, and honestly, it might not. I may have to consider a different happy ending. One that looks very different than originally hoped for.

    I’m here and he’s not, but I want to be back here-here, as in blogging here.

    And there it is.

    So, I’m going to try and come back, and I’m not totally sure what I’ll even be blogging about or how often, but I’m pretty-please asking if you can hold off on any personal questions. Just know that I’m good and whatever will be, will be. C’est la vie.

    À bientôt mes amis [ kiss emojis ].

    P.S. Fifty’s good too. He said to say hi.