Saying Goodbye to Your Future, Along with Your Marriage
Just four years ago, at a rustic farmhouse in southern Spain, all of our friends and family had gathered to witness the life-long commitment my husband and I made to each other. Now, after several months of separation, I was sitting on my friend’s porch watching her pose for pictures in her own wedding dress as an email from my soon-to-be-ex-husband popped up: “I would like to file for divorce this week. Can we do that?”
At 28, I had been slightly ahead of my friends and family by marrying. But many of those friends had not only caught up to me, they had surpassed me, buying houses and announcing pregnancies-two things I had wanted for myself. Instead, as someone else’s marriage was starting right in front of me, I was facing income instability, losing health insurance, paying down lingering debts, dividing assets and property, paying for divorce attorneys and mediators, and paying two rents instead of one, which quickly dashed any hope of near-term financial health and freedom.
In the years preceding, I had amassed different accomplishments of my own-like leaving a long-hated Wall Street career to pursue freelance journalism-and felt like I was finally living on my own terms. But my impending divorce put all of that into sharp, immediate focus. In many ways, divorcing while young is less about grieving the ended relationship than it is about grieving the loss of your future. Thoughts of where in San Diego we might have purchased a house or whether or not we would have moved back to New York to be close to my parents lingered. Wondering what our children would look like-would they have inherited his dark, Spanish complexion? Or would my blonde hair and blue eyes have snuck through some unknown recessive traits of his?
With all of my dreams and future plans extinguished, my family and friends-and some psychotherapists-began encouraging me to undergo a "second adolescence," something that countless rom-coms and magazines glamorize in how to deal with a break-up. “Go out! Get drunk! Have sex! Go on a trip!” everyone said. As a professional food and travel writer, some of that was already on the docket, but a newfound guilt swirled around my lifestyle. Before, I would go out with my ex-husband. Now, I felt like a washed up divorcee battling a hangover in her thirties while her other friends had been up for hours, breastfeeding or having breakfast with their partners. Even though I was 32, still relatively young in the spectrum of marriage and child-rearing, I felt like a failure for enjoying myself in a way that seemed many people were beginning to grow out of.
Eventually, I started to date again. Falling in love with another man was terrifying, exhilarating, freeing, and humiliating all at once, especially because I never thought I’d be in that position again. Over-analyzing every word from a text message, being unable to think about anything else after we spent time together, and realizing that this new person was not legally or spiritually attached to me-and therefore had no obligation to me in any way-took some getting used to. My attached friends flooded my inbox with questions. They were seemingly happy in their coupledom, but couldn’t resist the juicy details of a new entanglement from a safe distance. Though I knew they were happy that I was getting back on my feet, I felt like a spectacle for being in such a different place. If I didn’t have good news to share, because we had a fight or any other kind of hiccup, I felt immature and like a consummate failure in relationships compared with their relative successes.
My insecurity peaked during a trip back to New York for a cousin’s wedding, when I realized my on again off again relationship with this man was more off than on, while everyone in attendance was either younger and recently married or older and married for a long time. My sister and I jokingly shared a slow dance. During the rest of the visit, I learned of more pregnancy announcements, toured old friends’ new homes and felt bad that all I had to show for the last several months was a new tattoo and a lot of good stories. Everyone had been loving towards me but I felt more acutely than ever that I was on a different path than most people close to me-sometimes I felt like I had regressed, and other moments I just felt alienated from a reality I thought I had, and then lost.
My aunt, who called to check in on me at some point, graciously shared a perspective I might not have encountered on my own. Her husband died six years ago after battling a five-year illness-an event she was prepared for but that left an enormous hole in everyone’s hearts. Though they were married for more than 30 years and I was married just four, she told me that she didn’t envy me at all, because she knew where her husband was and I had to deal with the fact mine was still out there, living life.
Her words simultaneously knocked the wind out of me while providing a glimpse of hope. Though I didn’t know her pain, I watched her gracefully endure it over the years, and it was deeply humbling that she would ever put my own experience on her level. It also highlighted the gravity of my own grief, which I had often underplayed because I had “only” been married for four years and split before having children-a seemingly easy divorce. But I suffered an immense loss, and her words gave me the strength to finally feel validated in my pain.
The insecurity that follows divorce comes and goes in waves, as does the various stages of grief. At a certain point, I realized that most of these insecurities were of my own making and that people were more understanding towards a grieving ex-spouse than I had anticipated. Friends and family were patient with my anger, sadness, and confusion; for the most part, they were too concerned with their own lives to be judging whatever had happened in mine. Still, divorce is one of the loneliest experiences-only you and one other person go through that exact situation, and the other party is no longer able to be there for you. And at an age where many people are pairing up, not splitting up, it can feel even lonelier.
Still, my aunt reinforced how lucky I was to have experienced such pain relatively early in life. She told me it took her 56 years, after the death of her husband, to realize what really matters in life. She thought I was blessed to have that knowledge at 32. It took a minute, but I’m finally discovering that comparing myself to others is a waste of time. And I'm realizing that finding strength and capability within myself should always be a top priority; that every painful process begets wisdom and, sometimes, beauty. I’m also remembering how independent I used to be and how much I used to love doing things alone. Having now experienced a variety of “firsts” since my marriage ended, I can say that my aunt is right. I now look at the world and many people with kinder eyes and greater patience.
And having to start all over again when I least expected to? It was overwhelming, exhausting, and daunting beyond measure. But the funny thing about major upheaval is that when one thing falls out of alignment, it has the tendency to destabilize many other things in life. Getting divorced while young forced me to look at myself and my life with a rigorous scrutiny I never would have employed had things continued along as usual. I may no longer have that partner, or any of the dreams that came with him, but I have the opportunity to start anew and with an unlimited future as a gift. One I get to enjoy entirely on my own terms.
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