Eight years ago, I found myself unceremoniously inducted into the Divorce Club—an experience I often joke about, claiming I wanted to stay married while my husband and his new partner had different ideas. This humor often elicits knowing laughter or awkward smiles, depending on who’s listening.
Since that chapter began, I’ve faced numerous challenges. Transitioning from a stay-at-home mom to job seeker isn’t easy, especially when employers aren’t exactly lining up to offer fantastic opportunities. The financial repercussions were severe. I spent five grueling years fighting for child support, all the while losing my home, my credit score, and a significant portion of my mental health. Foreclosure and bankruptcy might sound like trials of character, but trust me—they’re anything but pleasant. The emotional toll was just as taxing. Parenting four kids while trying to maintain stability became a monumental struggle. My ex-husband’s sporadic presence in their lives felt like a whirlwind, leaving chaos behind with every visit.
Yet, somehow, we navigated those treacherous waters. My children are flourishing now: two are in college, and two are in high school, transforming into remarkable individuals that fill me with pride. As for me, I’ve put in the effort to establish a safe space. I frequently write about divorce, providing guidance and reassurance to those who reach out, seeking hope in their darkest moments.
But here’s the kicker: I owe those people an apology.
I’m the one who waves the victory flag, shouting encouragement about survival, forgiveness, and healing. I respond to heartfelt requests for help with empowering affirmations like, “You’ve got this, sister!” or “Yes, it’s painful now, but you WILL rise like a phoenix!” I tout how effectively parallel parenting has worked for me, claiming that ignoring my ex-husband has made everything peachy keen.
Well, I must admit—I was somewhat disingenuous. A couple of weeks ago, I unexpectedly ran into my ex, and it was clear I wasn’t handling it like a seasoned survivor.
Let Me Set the Scene
Three nights a week, I work late, overseeing the before-and-after school childcare program. On those evenings, I often encounter participants in various community activities hosted at our school.
On this particular night, I was minding my own business: making copies, organizing files, and entering important data into spreadsheets. Everything was normal until I noticed a figure at the door. As I rushed to let them in, I froze in place—my ex-husband stood before me, accompanied by his young child from his new marriage.
In that moment, I felt like a deer caught in headlights. And the sight of him with a toddler that bore a striking resemblance to our sons? It knocked the wind out of me. All the feelings I thought I had buried resurfaced like a bad horror movie, dancing around my mind.
Neither of us spoke. I could have greeted him with a polite “Hello” or a snarky remark, but instead, I made a face—a knee-jerk reaction that I had no control over. I looked like I had just stepped in something unpleasant, and I was mortified.
As he glanced down at his child and then back at me, I felt my heart race. After he left, I was left trembling, feeling nauseous and ashamed. Here I was, a self-proclaimed expert on moving on, and I couldn’t even manage a simple greeting. I spent the drive home berating myself, grappling with anger over his past behavior and the pain it caused our kids.
When I got home, the house was empty. My boys were out with friends, leaving me alone with my swirling emotions. I reached out to my best friend, pouring out my heart. After a comforting conversation, I made a martini and sat on my porch, shedding a few tears.
So much for “moving on,” right?
After I recovered from what I now call “FaceGate ’15,” I realized a few things. First, maybe this parallel parenting strategy isn’t as foolproof as I thought. If I had more opportunities for interaction, perhaps running into him wouldn’t feel like being blindsided. Second, I need to acknowledge my own vulnerabilities. I’m not as far along in my healing journey as I often proclaim. Lastly, this journey is tough, and it’s essential to extend grace—not just to others, but to ourselves. As I often tell women starting this journey: It’s okay to stumble.
We will all be okay, right? Now that I truly understand how complicated healing can be, it’s time to retire that embarrassing face.
Leave a Reply