Not all divorces are sad, and other things you're not supposed to say out loud
Some thoughts on my would-be wedding anniversary.
Welcome to Delightfully Difficult! My name is Allison and I write about motherhood, midlife, and everything in between. You can learn more about me and what to expect here, as well as connect with me on Instagram. Thanks for stopping by!
Today would have been my wedding anniversary. I know I’m supposed to say that I’m sad, that I’m lamenting that it’s over, that choosing to end my marriage after more than a decade left me a little lost, a little guilty. But if I did say that, did defer to the social norms about how a woman should feel after “breaking up her family”, I’d be lying.
The truth is, I am none of those things. I am not sad. I am not lost. I do not feel guilty. I am happy in a way I never was before, both because things are objectively better but also because I no longer feel the need to shrink myself to fit into the spaces that are comfortable for others.
I’m not supposed to say any of this, though. Women who step out from under the patriarchal confines of marriage simply because it wasn’t good enough are not meant to find joy, and most certainly not if they have children. Instead, we are supposed to suffer, to worry about whether we will ever be lovable again, to feel guilty, to feel greedy and selfish, rather than ambitious and empowered.
I was lucky in that my marriage ended without much fanfare. There was no singular moment in which it all fell apart, but rather it was a slow disintegration, like a slow burn in reverse. The end, when it came, was accompanied by a moment of clarity so powerful I struggle to describe it, yet it was not a surprise, at least not for me. I was not, like so many women, unceremoniously kicked out of the marriage bubble and left to figure it out without time or resources on my side. To leave by choice is, of course, a privilege, one that has certainly shaped my experiences, but one that I know is not the case for far too many. But for me, it was a choice, a long time coming, and one that I was as ready for as one can be.
Not that it was easy. No major life change is, and especially not one that fundamentally shakes up who you get to be and how you move in the world. But for the first time in more than two decades (and spanning a few relationships), I was able to be me.
Well, the me who was at the whims of a small child and a 9-5, but enough me that I didn’t have to meal plan around someone else’s preferences or debate whether we should paint the dark brown walls a lighter color for the third year in a row.
The me who could pick the Netflix shows and hike on the weekends and take time to do the things I wanted to do without feeling guilty about it. The me who could eat Arby’s at the kitchen table, instead of secretly in the Target parking lot, where I’d tried to parcel out a few minutes to myself, disposing of the evidence in a public trash can while fielding texts about what was taking me so long.
And slowly, over time, I came back to myself, to that me I had forgotten about. To the me that hid from myself because I had a public-facing career and needed a shield to protect inner-me. To the me who internalized both personal and societal messages that I was too loud, too opinionated, too educated, too much. To the me who no longer had to leave her big, bold ideas, opinions, and successes at the door.
I also started to trust myself again. I learned new skills. I got my finances in order. I started tackling debt and saving for my son’s future. I navigated a roof replacement (with solar! With the insurance company!). I fixed a leaky pipe. I learned how to clean out my dryer vents (seriously, do this). I figured out how to use my lawnmower. And yes, I painted the brown walls, vaulted ceilings and all.
And in doing all of these things, I built self-confidence. Confidence in my skills and abilities, yes, but also in myself. In the idea that if I put my mind to something, I could do that thing. Confidence that I had professionally but that rarely extended to myself as a person, a throwback to when I’d internalized that self-worth is tied to achievement.
Confidence in making new friends, letting others go, building the village that I never had before. Because for all of the concerns about divorce “breaking up the village” and causing distress amongst the friend group, sometimes separating is the only way to build a village in the first place, a village that also provides love and support for my son.
And lastly, but perhaps most importantly, I started to like myself again. To enjoy my company. To laugh at myself. To respect myself enough to set boundaries and actually enforce them. To dig into how I ended up where I did so that I don’t do it again, to uncover patterns in my life and learn to forgive myself, for without forgiveness there is no acceptance, and without accepting yourself, it’s hard to like yourself.
And so here I sit, on what would be my anniversary, thanking the universe for giving me the courage to choose a better life, for the friends and family who never once made me doubt whether it was the right decision. For me, yes, but also for my son, who has a happier, healthier mom. A mom who will have dance parties in the living room, will make messy science experiments in the kitchen, and who will explore “enchanted forests” on the weekends. A mom who can be silly and goofy and awkward and fully present without worrying about what others will say. A mom who can be too much in all the best ways.
A mom who knows that through it all, the decision to leave was really just an invitation to come home.
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This is beautiful. Also-yes-the meal planning freedom!! I've spent nearly a decade diligently meal planning each week. And now, in this newly separated existence, I've learning something surprising: children actually DO NOT need meal planning. Husbands do. My kids and I are perfectly fine winging it each night, and the whole process is much easier. Who knew?
I loved this piece and really appreciate what you articulated here so beautifully. I identify with so much of this and, after divorcing long ago and then panic-dating for years, I personally feel no desire to partner up these days. It’s fascinating how triggering that can be for others, even those living very out of the norm lifestyles. A woman who wants to be able to follow her own rhythm is confusing to much of the world. And we need more of her.