First The Dark Days

Before my marriage ended, I spent years wondering about it ending. Not constantly, of course. There were many good times, plenty of level road between the valleys. But there was also a gnawing sense that something was not right, a pervasive feeling I would constantly tuck back into bed, sans words to assign to it. I would understand years later it was my own wisdom trying to find its pulse with me, trying to work with me. Periodically, I would hear of someone else’s marriage ending - someone I knew, or maybe an online personality I followed. As someone with no dating experience who was married by 22, I was hungry for data. I became a quiet researcher each time: how had it ended? What was the reason? Did their families shun them? How was she going to make it with kids? Did she want it to go this way? Would she ever share about it sometime? 

Now, I take my turn in the hot seat. I am the one whose marriage ended, I am the one making her way out of the desert of divorce, with women looking on from a distance, messaging me their secret longings of getting out, whispering their worries through their Instagram messages slipped to me on their phones. Publicizing even small parts of my divorce brought women quietly to my inbox in droves. Every month that passes, I think I will come to a more secure resting point, where the grief will stop slamming against me like a wave that takes me under unsuspecting, sputtering, water invading my sinuses, body tossed under the surface like a ragdoll. A point where I will be able to give inquiring women full faith that their choice to honor themselves will bloom into a glowing dream of softness and relief, all troubles behind.