The Case for Divorce

And why it makes people so uncomfortable

Divorced women make people uncomfortable. I do a bit about this in my stand-up comedy set": You hear a lot of unsolicited “My husband and I are in a really good place right now.”

All jokes aside, I think there is some truth to it. Happy divorced people receive frequent nervous glances from folks, like maybe you’re secretly peddling this amazing new superfood juice that’s given you a glow.

It’s true that I am happier since my divorce. I feel more like myself. My life has been a hell of a lot harder, and I never would have expected the extent of the devastation. But the rebirth has been nothing short of miraculous and beautiful.

I took a walk in the rain yesterday—I didn’t intend to walk while it was raining, but it started lightly sprinkling while I was walking my dog, and I decided it was lovely and not scary or uncomfortable, so I kept going. And it felt downright magical. I kept seeing flowers and plants I’d never noticed before like it was somehow my first day on Earth.

I decided to walk to the wild poppies that grow in the ditch in my neighborhood, as this is their last week of life for the year. And as the rain fell on me, I suddenly remembered a story my mom’s friend, our former next door neighbor, used to tell me. She’s shared it nearly every single time she’s seen me since I moved away for college, including the last time I saw her, a few years ago. I smile each time and never tell her I’ve already heard it. The funny thing is, it’s a story about me, and I have no memory of the actual experience itself.

“Do you know,” she begins each time, “that I’ll never forget looking out the window one summer night and seeing you dancing in the rain with your boyfriend. You must have been 17 or so. You were so carefree; you had no idea anyone was watching you and you looked so happy.”

I was never sure exactly how to feel when she told me this story. I felt sort of pleased and embarrassed at the same time—obviously my old boyfriend and I weren’t together anymore, but it was still a really sweet story. I was also disappointed that I couldn’t remember it. What an ingrate—to have had the adolescent magic of dancing in the rain and not even have the decency to remember the night!

But still, I tried to conjure a false memory. I imagined the temperature of the air, the smell of his shirt, how we laughed as we held each other and danced as the rain fell. I tried to remember what it felt like to be so in love with someone you wanted to stand in the rain with them and stop time. As this memory of someone else’s memory drifted into my mind as I walked in the rain 30 years later, I realized I must be about the same age my neighbor was when she saw us out the window, give or take five years.

And suddenly the memory of two teenagers dancing in the rain took on new meaning, through the lens of the midlife woman. I felt a sympathetic pang for what was potentially her own pang of longing. I mean, obviously I don’t know—maybe she was disgusted or irritated or thought the idea of making a scene or dancing outdoors was undignified. But for the sake of this story, I’ll allow myself to believe that she felt a little flicker of longing.

Lovesick 1990s teenager

I remember confessing to Therapist #4 that I wondered if I would have a hard time when my teenager fell in love and started dating. Would it spark a midlife crisis? Would I be jealous? Would I remember what it felt like to be that alive? Then the pandemic hit and everything turned upside down, so when that moment came, I had nothing but full-blown gratitude that my daughter was able to experience something that felt good.

But then, a few years later, it became moot. I got a divorce.

And now, as I walked in the rain alone, mentally cataloguing strange varieties of plants and flowers, there is no pang of longing for my own freedom or happiness. Because I have it. As I passed a particular stretch of the ditch, bridged by a strip of grassy land, another memory flashed in my mind. Me, at age 20, walking over a similar grassy bridge in some state park in Iowa, holding hands (with a different boyfriend, I was kind of a hoe, you guys), and taking in our silhouettes in the golden fall afternoon light. It was the first time in my life I’d felt so full of bliss I thought that one lifetime would surely never be enough. I was so greedy I longed for immortality.

Bliss, Interrupted

Anyone who has ever fallen in love again at midlife (or 60, or 80) says the same thing: “I feel like a teenager again!” I think our society is quick to judge this declaration as impulsive or practical—it screams “midlife crisis,” doesn’t it, this longing to inhabit one’s adolescent brain and body again. Teenagers are reckless bundles of hormones, acting on impulse and infatuation, irresponsible, lacking wisdom and life experience.

But goddamned if they aren’t also fully alive. And they are likely less clouded by “shoulds” and societal expectations. They can follow their intuition and their hearts—they know what feels good and they seek it out. It’s no wonder folks in their 40s, 50s, and beyond secretly long to experience a drop of that fully-aliveness.

Joie de vivre has been my trademark state of being for much of my adult life, but since my divorce I’ve allowed it to run unchecked, like an off-leash animal darting into the wild with unbridled enthusiasm. No apologies. No shrinking. No looking to the left and right for permission.

Alone with my (leashed) dog on an afternoon walk, I felt the delicious freedom and aliveness I imagine I must have felt 30 years ago as I danced in the rain with someone I loved.

What does this have to do with divorce? Well, maybe nothing. If you’re married to the right person. Look, we all know marriage is hard work and there are good days and bad, good YEARS and bad, They Who Know Better have been wont to prophesy. There are people who have been married for decades who still dance with their partner, rain or no rain. One does not need to get a divorce and begin again in order to feel that sense of aliveness. But actually, some of us do. I read a brilliant quote submitted anonymously to Redacted earlier today:

I married his potential and divorced his reality.

To Stay or to Go?

Some people marry their college or high school or even junior high school sweetheart and they nail it. Rough patches, marriage counseling, weathering storms, sure, but they are deeply connected. Their lives are better with one another in it. They feel like home. They make each other feel more alive, like their very best self.

Some of us try, (and try again, and will probably try YES, EVEN ONE MORE DAMN TIME BECAUSE THEY ARE HOPELESS ROMANTICS) but don’t do it for the right reasons. Or maybe they marry the wrong person for the right reason. Of those people, some stay and some leave. And it’s the reluctant stayers who feel so deeply uncomfortable in the presence of the leavers. We emanate a scent of what could still be. Our freedom feels like a protest. Our decision to do life differently—girl dinners and late nights and deep conversations and radical authenticity—feels like a rebellion.

Not everyone wants to dance in the rain. Not everyone wants to touch souls or be affectionate or have deep conversation. But if you were and are a girl who enjoys dancing in the rain while gazing into her partner’s eyes, you should probably marry someone who can give you that. Because I have news for you—you may not grow out of this.

There comes a time when a certain type of woman hears a certain little voice inside whisper something that she’s known for a long time but hasn’t wanted to hear. Something that can’t be reconciled.

In my favorite book ever, This American Ex-Wife: How I Ended My Marriage and Started My Life, Lyz Lenz writes:

“American society has its own religion of not quitting, of sticktoitiveness, of branding divorcees as selfish, and that religion is the religion of “do what's best for the children.” It's an insidious faith that rests on the fundamental belief that parents (specifically mothers), must sacrifice themselves for their children.”

She also writes, “There is a million-dollar self-help industry dedicated to helping women cobble together the broken pieces of their marriage.”

Wisdom power couple Mary Oliver + Kenny Rogers

I think marriage counseling can be amazing, I really do. But I think sometimes we need to turn to the immortal words of The Gambler himself, “You gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em. . .” well, you know the rest.

As I turned for home and admired a thistle in the ditch, I remembered a hike years ago in which I exclaimed over a beautiful wildflower I loved. I was corrected—it was actually a Class B Noxious Weed. That revelation made us both laugh—he wasn’t trying to be a dick, and it was sort of classic me, to not know the difference between a wildflower and a weed. I think eventually my propensity for wildness became less adorable.

And I guess I don’t care anymore. I worship weeds and wildflowers. I walk in the rain. I feel alive. I have come home to myself. You certainly don’t need a divorce to make it happen (Cheers to the Happily Marrieds!), but one way or another, you should try to tap into your inner teenager who once danced in the rain. (Unless that sort of thing makes you roll your eyes. 😉) Remember that thing that makes you feel truly alive, connected to yourself, longing for life. Another anonymous writer shared this gem:

You owe no one your happiness—chase it.

In my writing circle a few weeks ago, we read Mary Oliver’s iconic poem, Wild Geese, and then we free-wrote about the line “. . . let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” That line always used to make me weep, or ache with longing. I thought it was lost to me. Sure, you could answer her other iconic inquiry, “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” but I would add this: “What does the soft animal of your body love?” Now is the perfect time to remember—midlife exists as a second adolescence, after all.

XO,
Steph

Spinning is also a good way to recover your inner child.

Big news!

• Next week the first Redacted post drops! If you aren’t subscribed yet, please head over and do that here. If you are a divorced woman with one sentence you’d like to share anonymously about your divorce, fill out this form here.

• You should absolutely catch one of our online women’s writing circles. We free-write to prompts, share, connect, and meditate together. It’s beautiful and affirming and NOT about perfect writing—just expression and creation. Learn more here.

• Are you a divorced, or divorcing, woman who is looking for catharsis and support? Join the July session of Writing Divorce, a four-week course for creative writing in community.