Since I began telling those close to me about my divorce, the very first question that always comes up is, “Why?” And it’s usually quickly followed by, “Did he hurt you?”
The second question rolls off my tongue with ease because I was never hurt in my marriage—not physically. No hand was ever laid on me, and I’ll make that clear every time anyone asks. But it’s odd that this even has to be asked, as if hurt is the only valid reason to leave.
Now, the first question—"Why?"—that’s more complex. For a while, I didn’t know what to say because there wasn’t some big event. There wasn’t infidelity, abuse, or some major blowout. I woke up one day and knew I had to leave the marriage... so I did.
Our relationship was built on shaky foundations—mistrust, alcohol, insecurity—and no matter how many years passed, how many therapy sessions we attended, or how many promises of “I’ll do better” were made, it never truly worked. There was love though; in fact, there still is. But not the kind of love that holds a marriage together.
Looking back, I knew my marriage was over before we even got pregnant. I stayed because, at the time, I had hope that maybe, one day, I could love him the way he deserved—the way I knew he loved me. Then, we got pregnant. After trying for so long, we were both on a high and covered up all the cracks with Band-Aids. That high lasted until our son was around nine months old.
At that point, I tried to leave. To give my ex credit, he made changes and became more present, but still, that deep-rooted love I had hoped would grow never did. I took a hard look at my life and realized my son was living in the same home I grew up in, witnessing a marriage where the parents were just going through the motions. And to be fair, we were failing at it.
I swore, long before I ever became a mother, that I wouldn’t let my child see what I saw—a loveless relationship, parents existing side by side but not truly together. Even though things were improving on the outside, I was lying to myself, and to my ex, about how I felt. That lie started to eat me alive.
I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t sit through another conversation about doing better without seeing the changes that mattered. I couldn’t overcome the toxicity of how we started. I couldn’t trust him, and I couldn’t even trust myself anymore. I realized I was protecting him—shielding him from the truth, defending him against a world that didn’t understand our dynamic. I fought for him, and for us, but he couldn’t fight for me the way I needed.
Now, let me be clear: I wasn’t protecting abuse. I was protecting his truth, the battles he faced, but eventually, I grew tired. I realized that I couldn’t keep fighting for a love that was never going to flourish, no matter how hard we both tried.
So, “Why?” Because I got tired. Tired of fighting for something I knew wasn’t going to last. I’ve struggled with the guilt of tearing our family apart over something that might seem small to others, but was so critical to me. But now, months later, we’re both in a much better place. He’s still one of my closest friends. I trust him completely, and he knows me at my worst. He’s the person I call when I feel the weight of depression creeping in because he’s seen me at rock bottom, and he knows what to say.
He’s the father of my son, and he blessed me with five years as a bonus mom to his kids. I will forever be grateful for the family he provided me, even if I couldn’t give him the love he deserved. We’re better off as co-parents and friends because we both deserve a love that’s undeniable. A love that our kids can look at and say, “That’s what I want. That’s what I deserve.”
And if that’s not a reason to let go and start anew, I don’t know what is.
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