Two years ago next month, I watched my husband walk into a date, comfortably holding hands and laughing with his married co-worker.
There was no truer definition of “out of body experience.” I can tell you that, a few months before that night, navigating the aftermath of my spouse’s affair was not on the list of survival skills I ever thought I’d need. In fact, even driving home that night, I still had no idea what was coming for me. Naively, I thought he’d come home, we’d go to therapy, commit to working through it together, and eventually get right back on schedule to live happily ever after. This was not in the vision I had for my life and my little family, and I was determined to steer us back on course, whatever it took. Hope is really powerful when it’s all you have.
I was a stay-at-home mom, having stepped away from my beloved job in healthcare to raise our little family and support my husband in his dream career climb. I was making grocery lists, helping with homework, and hosting play dates, blissfully unaware that the rug underneath me was about to be yanked out and set on fire. My life was everything I expected it to be, hiccups and all. We had just celebrated a milestone wedding anniversary, and we had three kids who were growing into decent little humans. The fact that I had no backup plan for a catastrophe had never crossed my mind.
Famous last words.
I’m finally on the other side of the worst of it, only looking at the devastation in hindsight, and I still can’t fully process it. I thought I was strong and independent before, but I had no idea how deeply those qualities would be tested. I can so vividly remember the crippling loss and desperation I felt early on when I lay down at night after holding it together all day for the kids, tucking them into bed all by myself, and finally being alone with my emotions. I almost can’t let myself sit in reflection for too long, because it still makes my breath catch to think of the magnitude of those feelings and how they paralyzed me in those moments. I’ve lost count of the number of bootstraps and pairs of big-girl panties I’ve worn through over the last two years, and I think I’ve listened to every self-help and divorce care podcast in existence, bookmarking quotes and committing skills to memory. And still, nothing could’ve prepared me. You don’t divorce the same person you marry, and especially not when betrayal twists the plot and heightens the already tense emotions of divorce.
I stand before you today, two years wiser, stronger, and more confident in myself, with the scars to prove I’ve earned every ounce of it. It’s a good thing it was never presented as simply an option to get through it in the moment, because I would’ve screamed that I couldn’t while I curled up in defeat, waiting for it to be over. Some days, I did exactly that before I finally gathered myself enough to get back up, knowing no one was going to do it for me. I had to feel every emotion, learn every lesson, and endure every minute for myself. The happy housewife I used to be would’ve said I had it all under control while I volunteered for another class party and had dinner on the table when my husband got home from work. The woman I am today has learned that control is an illusion, and the looser my grip is on it, the better I can roll with the punches that will inevitably always come. Instead, I am practicing boundaries, prioritizing my own peace, and accepting that grief and gratitude can share space. My glow up is in full swing, but it is still a work in progress as I continue to heal and learn more about myself every day. The path is not linear, and the bumps are many, but I am more determined than ever to embrace the knowledge that an apology won’t change the trajectory of my new happily ever after, and all the power is in my own hands to close this chapter and rebuild better than before.
