I sat with the decision for a long time before I made it. When I finally did, I thought I was prepared. I wasn’t.
If I could go back and hand myself a letter that morning, this is what it would say.
Dear me,
You’re standing at the edge of something you’ve been avoiding for years. You are not reckless. You are not broken. You are finally honest. Say that to yourself out loud if you need to, because you’re about to hear a lot of voices telling you otherwise. Yours is the one that matters.
Here’s what I wish someone had told me.
This is going to be harder than you think. And different than you imagine.
You’ve rehearsed the worst version of the conversation in your head a thousand times. It won’t be that. The real hard parts will be the small ones. The Tuesday you realize no one else is coming home. The first birthday you spend alone. The moment your child asks a question you don’t know how to answer. Prepare for those, not for the fight you’re bracing for.
Your kids are watching how you handle this, not what you decide.
They won’t remember the timeline. They won’t remember the legal details. They will remember whether you were steady, whether you spoke kindly about the other parent, and whether your home still felt like home. Give them the version of you that’s grounded, even on the days when you’re not.
Start documenting everything tomorrow.
Bank statements. Tax returns. Debts. Assets. Passwords. A list of what’s in the house. Photos of the garage. The appraisal on the car. I know it feels clinical. Do it anyway. Future you will thank present you.
Don’t make big decisions from adrenaline.
The rage and the grief will both try to push you toward moves you’ll regret. Selling the house in a week. Cutting off contact. Changing your will in a fit. Wait 72 hours. Then wait another.
Find your people before you need them.
A coach. A therapist. One or two friends who won’t flinch when you cry. Build that team now, not after you’ve already drowned. Divorce is not a DIY project.
The loneliness is temporary. The clarity is permanent.
You will feel more alone than you have ever felt. You will also, slowly, become someone you actually like. Someone who makes decisions from her own voice instead of from fear. That version of you is worth every hard day between here and there.
You don’t owe anyone a comfortable version of this.
People will want a neat story. A reason they can understand. A timeline that makes them feel better. You don’t have to provide it. You are allowed to say “I’m not discussing that” and mean it.
The thing you’re most afraid of isn’t what will happen.
You think you’ll regret this. You won’t. You’ll grieve it. That’s different. Regret is wishing you’d made a different choice. Grief is honouring what you loved about the life you’re leaving. You will feel grief. You won’t feel regret, if you do this with care.
One more thing.
You are not burning your life down. You are putting it back together on honest ground. It will not look the way you planned. It will look like yours.
Start.
Love,
The version of you waiting on the other side.
