The Heavy Lifting

Divorce is a word that can feel like failure. For years, I avoided it. I told myself there had to be another way—something I could fix, something I could save. I clung to the idea that if I just tried hard enough, everything would fall back into place.

But eventually, I had to face the truth: my marriage wasn’t just unhappy. It was over.

When I filed for divorce over two years ago, I thought the hardest part would be saying the words out loud—admitting it to myself, to him, to the world. But that wasn’t the hardest part at all. The hardest part was everything that came after.

I started carrying the weight of a decision I had to make alone. Therapy became my lifeline, helping me wade through years of unhappiness and a marriage that had quietly unraveled. I walked through open houses, imagining how I would uproot my son from the only home he had ever known. I met with financial planners to calculate how I’d rebuild a life I hadn’t planned for, one that no longer fit the picture I had painted in my mind years ago.

It wasn’t just logistical—it was deeply emotional.

Every decision came with layers of guilt. Guilt for filing. Guilt for leaving. Guilt for disrupting my son’s life. I wrestled with the idea that this was my fault, even though I knew it wasn’t. I feared the conversations I’d have to have with him—how do you explain to a child that their home won’t be their home anymore?

The house, once filled with memories, began to feel heavy. I saw echoes of the past everywhere—the height marks on the doorframe from when my son was little, the paint color we argued over but eventually picked together, the corner of the garden I planted while still holding onto hope. I started to realize that it wasn’t the house I had to let go of—it was the version of myself who believed this place would last forever.

When It All Collides

And then, in the middle of all this, I lost my job.

It wasn’t just a job—it was a part of my identity, my stability, my sense of purpose. Suddenly, everything felt unmoored. Divorce had already left me navigating an unknown future, and now unemployment stripped away what little footing I had left.

The days stretched long, the nights even longer. I started measuring time differently: how many months since my last paycheck, how many applications sent, how many dollars left in my account. Every rejection email felt like a crack in the fragile structure I was trying to hold together.

For a year, I have been out of work. And in that time, my soon-to-be-ex never once asked if I was okay. Not when I was recovering from four surgeries, including a cancer scare. Not when I was struggling to pay for insurance or keep up with my share of the bills. Not when I was quietly breaking under the weight of all the uncertainty.

He never asked. He never offered.

But now, after being laid off himself and with six months of living expenses saved, he’s ready to act. He wants to sell the house—quickly, urgently. I’m supposed to hop to it because now it’s convenient for him.

The timing stung. After two years of carrying this process alone, now I’m expected to jump into action. Not for my benefit, but for his.

What He Doesn’t Know

What he doesn’t know—what he didn’t care to ask—is that I’ve been preparing for this moment for years.

Not for him. For me.

I’ve already done the work to let go. The therapy. The financial planning. The quiet detachment from a house that had become too heavy to hold onto. I’ve grieved this place, the memories it holds, and the dreams it represented.

Losing my job taught me something unexpected: how to focus on what I can control when so much feels uncontrollable. It taught me how to keep moving forward even when the next step wasn’t clear. That same resilience is what carried me through this divorce.

What he doesn’t know is that I’ve already left. I’ve already said goodbye—to the house, to the marriage, to the idea that I have to shoulder the weight of it all alone.

What I’m Learning

In the past year, I’ve lost my job, my marriage, and the home I’ve lived in for over a decade. And while I’m still in the process of letting go, I’ve started to uncover what lies on the other side.

I’m learning how to build a life on my own terms, even when the blueprint isn’t clear.

I’m finding clarity in small moments, in rediscovering what truly matters to me.

I’m beginning to find peace—not a perfect, all-encompassing peace, but glimpses of it—in the act of saying goodbye to what no longer serves me.

Letting go isn’t a single act. It’s a series of choices, a process that unfolds slowly, one step at a time. It’s not the end of something—it’s the beginning of something else.

And while I don’t have all the answers yet, for the first time in years, I’m starting to feel ready to see what comes next.