Brian and I finally made it to Hawaii; we have an apartment and a deck full of plants and a list of plans for our new island existence. I should be ecstatic to start our new life here (what better place to begin a marriage?) and I am; the problem is that I’m in newlywed honeymoon bliss… by myself. For some reason, champagne breakfast in bed in paradise seems a lot less romantic and a lot more alcoholic when you do it alone.

After a record seven and a half months in the same place, Brian and I are separated by a few continents and bodies of water again. He left on June 4 to meet his ship on deployment in Asia, and I’ve been struggling to settle into our new place and into the concept of being alone for the first time in awhile. I keep thinking every time we do this that it will get easier and that I’ll somehow magically be composed and reasonable when saying goodbye, instead of the sobbing mess clinging to Brian at the airport security line. Logically, I know that three months is a ridiculously easy deployment compared to the six or nine straight months apart we’ve endured in the past. But my emotions aren’t logical and here I am again, feeling crazy.

I get frustrated with myself because I’m not one of those girls who can’t stand to be alone. I tell myself that I’m independent, that I’m capable, that I don’t need to depend on anyone else for my own happiness. Each time we go through a long separation, I try to prove this in one of two extremes: excessive solitude or obsessive overscheduling.

When I lived in France, I spent the vast majority of my time alone. I lived by myself, I passed the hours reading or watching trashy French TV, I hibernated in my tiny apartment to escape the mind-numbing cold. I had a few good friends who kept me from being a total hermit, but, in retrospect, I was probably a little withdrawn and depressed. When I lived in San Francisco, I tried the opposite approach and threw myself into work and socializing as if I would die if I stopped to catch my breath. I scheduled every minute of the day with dinners and happy hours and shopping dates because if I stayed busy, I wouldn’t have to think about any of those pesky emotions. This strategy clearly didn’t work either since I cried more during that year than in any other time in my life.

This time, I’m trying something new. I’m admitting that it’s OK to be sad and miss Brian when he’s halfway around the globe and that it’s OK to have a breakdown or two because I’m living several thousand miles away from the people who are most important to me. It’s OK, and I don’t have to be fine all the time. Huge, life-disrupting changes are painful, even when they result in living in Hawaii.

I used to be afraid of losing myself in a relationship, because needing someone else was equivalent to giving up my identity and becoming a clingy, needy, desperate girl who can’t cut it on her own. I don’t believe that anymore. I need a lot of people in my life. I need my family and my friends and, yes, I also need Brian. We depend on each other to brave the challenges and to celebrate the victories in this crazy world, and I am lucky to have a partner in crime who is in it for the long haul. I know I can survive on my own, but I am choosing to build a life with someone else. And, in the sage words of “When Harry Met Sally,” “When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”