What if Divorce Is the Most Loving Thing to Do?

Sometimes successful marriages still end.

It is currently not widespread news that my husband of nearly ten years and I are now separated. We have told the people that need to know and trust that over time the information will slowly disseminate. It’s decidedly not the same as the excitement of telling others you’re dating someone, or getting engaged, or pregnant. As soon as I tell people, it’s quite awkward. Even though both of us are honestly enjoying the fact that friendship seems to be the most authentic expression of our relationship, other people assume we must be devastated. I don’t feel like a sad, single mom—I feel like the bravest, strongest, wisest version of myself that I have ever been—and yet I still must contend with the shifty eyes and uncomfortable apologies, as if it’s their fault.

I’m not sure why we hold this belief that a marriage that ends can’t be successful, why we often refer to them as having failed. I think it’s been hugely important to my wellbeing in the process to acknowledge all the ways it’s been beautiful and healing, to know that neither of us are the bad guy in this story—we were just two imperfect people that were doing our best. We’ve been brave enough to tell each other the truth, even when it was uncomfortable, even when it lead to an outcome that we didn’t hope for, and as a result, we found a sense of authenticity that we didn’t expect.

Our first separation was in 2020, when COVID stripped away all the distractions and left us alone with each other. At the time, all I knew was I had a hazy sense of a lack of connection, and I was tired of pushing to make it work. I realized that I didn’t know what I would do to support myself and my child as a single mom, and that’s when I made the decision to go back to school for Early Learning and Child Care. At the same time, Jason was going through his own journey of growth and healing, which made us feel that things had changed, the connection had improved, and we wanted to work it out. There was some truth to this.

We bought a house, I ran a dayhome, we had a second baby, and Jason had a change in career. Our relationship really looked like it was working. We generally like each other, work well as a team, parent in a very complementary way…but something was still missing. And I was so tired of trying to figure out what that missing piece was, trying to force it into being. It’s a strange thing to not have any difficult issues in your marriage, but still not want to be physically close to your partner or have the warm feeling like “this is my person,” and then feel so much guilt about it. So. Much. Guilt.

I finally started coming to the conclusion that we had literally done as much as we could do to have the marriage we hoped for, one where we felt a sense of connection spiritually, emotionally, physically. I allowed myself to acknowledge what my inner knowing had been trying to tell me, honestly, since the beginning of our relationship—that this wasn’t the person for me. I felt platonic love for him and our shared values, and I always assumed that, if we did marriage “right,” it would turn into the romantic love I longed for. Turns out I have no control over that, and I’ve burnt myself out trying to.

As soon as I got the job I have now, it became clear to me that a final barrier had been removed, and within a few weeks we made the decision to officially separate. It took a couple months to sort some things out before I could leave, but I found an amazing place and moved at the end of July. And it’s kind of amazing to me that we were both so at peace with this decision, that even though we are separating, we never abandoned each other—we waited for both of us to be ready for it, and I really believe there’s something beautiful and profound in that.

Some photos from my time with the kids in our new home. Baking, playing with goopy creek stuff, climbing on me like a monkey, and hiding in the couch are some of the new shenanigans we get into.

Lately, I’ve been remembering our time together through a new lens. One thing that keeps coming to me is the vows I made on our wedding day, telling Jason that I promised I wouldn’t be perfect, I wouldn’t always get it right, but that I was committed to growing and learning and becoming the best version of myself. It’s almost ironic that keeping those vows is truly what brought us here, that the very reasons I got married are the reasons I no longer want to stay married. I absolutely believe that Jason and I were together to find healing, but I married him because it was safe; I knew that if anyone was going to do the heart-breaking, it would probably be me.

And that’s not really how love works, is it? It requires that two people show up vulnerably in this process of sharing pieces of themselves with each other and asking, “Do you accept this part of me? Will you delight in my light? Can you hold space for my dark?” And the other person might say yes, yes, yes. Or…they might say no. And that ‘no’ can feel devastating. When I was 21, it was too risky—my self worth was tied up in that answer, so I would abandon myself to try be who I thought that person wanted. I often never even considered whether that person was someone I wanted.

Now. Now, it’s different. Now, I know that I am the one that holds my sense of worth and safety. Even though old patterns are rising to the surface (oh my good Lord, that’s a story unto itself), I have the capacity to take responsibility for them rather than subconsciously putting them on another person. I’m acknowledging that I can’t control how someone else feels about me, nor me about them, only how I show up for myself and for the process with integrity and authenticity. I’m choosing a different way of being that feels deeply risky, but that also makes me feel truly alive.

Our ten-year anniversary passed on September 21st. I texted Jason “Happy non-anniversary,” and we went back and forth acknowledging that this isn’t what we expected, but how much we appreciate this new love that finally feels right for us, the fact that we are still chosen family, and the way we’ve held space for each other to become more whole versions of ourselves. More than anything, we’ve been best friends throughout the last ten years, and even though that will shift as we move into our new worlds, I’m just so grateful for that.

Life can’t be scripted. I can’t control my circumstances, or the choices others make, or the way I feel. But I can choose to tell the truth, even when it hurts like hell or I know that other people will be disappointed; even when the person I’m most afraid to be honest with is myself. I can choose to feel all of it, letting pain and fear and grief wash over me without trying to numb it away.

Then, I can open the door to what could be.

P.S. I had said a while back that I wouldn’t be writing in this particular space anymore, but I’ve changed my mind and changed the name. Again. Because I’m allowed to try something, and then something else, and something else again. There’s no rules. I do what I want.