GINA CHICK: 'We got through cancer and the loss of our child. Then something else broke us.'

The following is an extract from We Are The Stars by Gina Chick, published by Simon&Schuster.

Separated. It sounds so easy, like using the curved shell of an egg to smoothly scoop out the sunny yolk, one deft move, no mess. There's nothing easy about this.

I half-expect Lee to run out, flatten himself across the bonnet, crying, "Don't go."

He's not going to. We both know this is the end of the road. We've navigated cancer, chemo, birth, family, the death of our child, and the growth of a community from first seeds through to a verdant forest. Eight years wound entirely into each other's lives, and now we have to unravel those ribbons.

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Star watches me from the top deck with Lola, her new pack sister, a scrawny black kelpie whippet pup with enormous ears that angle towards me like radars as I call out with a cracking voice, "Bye, scallywags. Don't eat the next-door chickens, okay? Or if you do, don't leave any evidence."

I've found an apartment in Sydney, and can't have animals there. Only what I can fit in my car. I'm leaving everything behind, truly untethered.

Lee ghosts around the car, looking lost.

"Got everything?"

"Yeah, think so. If I've forgotten anything, well…"

"You know where I live."

"Yeah. Yeah, I do."

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It's never been awkward between us, but we don't know how to do this. No matter how deeply we've torn at each other, implicit in our darkest arguments is the understanding we'll always circle back, talk things through until they're done, pick apart our projections and beliefs until some deeper truth shines raw as polished bone. Our love lies deeper than any tumult. Love is where we live; it's kept us together. We're both as stubborn as the other, yet when it's needed, we'll admit we're wrong as we dig for what's real, because love is not lying to each other, even when it hurts.

What's real this time is insurmountable. I can't argue with desire. Desire just is. He yearns to be a dad again. And underneath my grief, much as I wish I could hate him for it, I want fatherhood for him as well.

This is all part of the gift of Blaise's parting. If I'm to say yes, I have to say yes to all of it. Even this. Especially this.

He hugs me. I don't let myself soften. He's not my harbour any more. We're dry-eyed for this parting, which feels surreal. My car's packed to the gills with clothes, a massage table and some books. Nobody to consider now but myself. I don't know what it is to put my needs first, it's been so long since I've been single.

"Righto, that's it then. I'm off."

"Bye, Gigi."

"Bye, Li-li."

I'm not sure what to feel as I drive away from the house on the hill, one last look back on the wide opalescent ocean of my childhood, no sound from the hounds wagging their tails. They probably think I'm just off to the shops for some lunch.

I wish I could cry. My heart is a stone.

All those years ago, wrestling with the idea of marriage vows, I saw Lee and me as two sandstorms, sometimes overlapping, sometimes whirling away across the desert. I committed to the space we make between us. Even though I no longer see the whirling wonder of him on the horizon, the space between us is still alive. I drive away, feeling the pull of him through every part of me like an elastic band stretched tight. I reach into myself, pull the cord out by the roots.

He's not mine any more. Deep down, I know he never was. Nobody ever is.

Grief is the flipside of the coin of love. Both are proof we breathe. For all my strivings, I am at the mercy of my own wisening heart. Humans don't fall in love with the person; we fall in love with the lesson they're here to teach us. When that lesson is done, it's done.

Surprising beauty moves into the space Lee leaves in me. Sunlight falls to the forest floor, calling new growing things to strive and stretch for the light. I take lovers. Men, women, and those who don't fit into easy categories. Wide, lean, scruffy, manicured, dark-skinned, pale as milk. I love them all, cherish every moment of discovery. Bodies are a wonder, to be rolled around in, shrugged on and off. Internet dating is a revelation. Festivals are a joy. How much life can one woman swallow? A lot, it seems

I live in an apartment overlooking the silver-hammered ocean over Tamarama Beach, where my massage table is the only piece of furniture apart from a couch. I make music, write songs, and find communities of fire dancers, drummers, poets and artists. In quiet moments I grieve Lee, but in truth, the pain is a slow hum. He still walks the world. All that's changed is our shape, and in the aftermath of that breaking, I see how necessary it actually was. We've freed each other.

Lives don't make sense, looking forwards. It's only when we look backwards that we see the true reasons for our choices. When Blaise was in the ICU, the voice that spoke of her gift was right. Her passing has sculpted me. The huge space I've carved out in myself by saying yes to every part of losing her reveals a hidden strength. I have enormous capacity to hold others. I'm bigger, brighter, clearer, kinder. Less pushy, more loving. I'm not afraid of anything I might find inside.

I live sniffing. In this new freedom, Wolf Mother is insistent. She points me across the seas, following the meandering trails of 5Rhythms workshops that count towards the teacher training. Stories about what's possible evaporate. I can bound in any direction, and do, with a fierce glee that rains sparks from my paws.

Lee and I still come together to run our wilderness camps and Quest programs. We finish our decade of training with Malcolm when he visits Australia. We'll be Quest Protector teacher trainers after this. In that week, a gorgeous woman flirts with him. I approve, and nudge his ribs when she wanders away, vivacious and vital and voluptuous.

"Are you going to let that arse walk out of your life?" I say. I know what he likes.

He laughs, but his attention sharpens as Hannah flashes a huge smile back to him, and later, he gets her number.

We're no longer lovers but I get to keep my friend, mostly without the screaming arguments that peppered our relationship, although Lee still has the singular ability to press my buttons until I explode into an insane batsh*t-crazy hurricane banshee.

But now, whenever this happens, and after we've made up, I get to drive away.

We Are The Stars by Gina Chick. Image: Simon&Schuster.

We Are The Stars by Gina Chick, published by Simon&Schuster is now available for purchase.

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Feature image: Supplied.