A: I think exiting a long-term partnership or marriage gives you a rare opportunity to transform your life. It’s a chance to examine the areas beyond your romantic relationship where you felt dissatisfied and imagine what contentment might actually look like for you. Don’t squander it. You did not just go through hell to end up back there again because of a lack of intentionality.

I think you need to put some work into vision casting, which sounds cheesy but is necessary. That might include therapy, writing, reading, dating, fucking, exploring new hobbies, or revisiting old ones. That period can be as wild or as tame as you want it to be, but exploration is pretty fundamental to figuring out what you actually want.

We are all indoctrinated to follow certain scripts about relationships, marriage, sex, and monogamy. Sometimes the life that works best for us does look traditional, but I think it’s important to choose that life for yourself rather than defaulting to the one that has been spoon-fed to you since you were in diapers.

And this is not meant to put pressure on you to get everything exactly right. One of the gifts of divorce is that it teaches you how to leave something that isn’t working. That is an important skill, and you should not be afraid to use it.

If you get into a relationship too soon, realize you are unhappy, or discover that something no longer fits, speak up, break up, or make a change.

Also, there’s no finish line. Healing and living run alongside one another. Have fun, bb.

Q: How did you heal from your divorce?

A: All the usual suspects: therapy, exercise, falling in love. But, more unconventionally, with the help of psychedelics. Namely, psilocybin.

Research suggests psilocybin may help people loosen rigid thought patterns, reduce symptoms of depression, and process difficult emotions with more openness and perspective. After my divorce, grief, shame, fear, and questions about “what next” and “who am I?” felt especially consuming. I wanted something to pair with the work I was already doing in talk therapy to help me move through the heavier stuff.

Microdosing mushrooms helped me feel “unstuck.” They helped me experience more acceptance, forgiveness toward both my ex and myself, and a greater sense of peace.

My favorite company for mushroom products is Schedule35. I love their peach gummies, but they also have chocolate bars, tea, and capsules that don’t taste like mushrooms (big for me!). I also appreciate that I don’t wake up feeling hungover afterward.

You can check them out here and use my code SCARLETT for 15% off.

Q: I’m 33 and have been in a relationship with my boyfriend for almost eight years. I want marriage, but he doesn’t want it “yet.” He says our relationship isn’t strong enough for marriage. I can agree that we aren’t in the healthiest stage, but we’ve been on this roller coaster for years. It’s comfortable, even in the discomfort.

I’ve let go of having kids for many reasons, but one of the main ones is that he doesn’t want to marry me, and I want marriage before children, if I have them at all. Now he is suddenly sure he wants kids, but I still don’t meet the criteria to be his wife.

We are in counseling, but it seems like all the issues in the relationship are being placed on me, even from the therapist’s point of view. I feel like I’ve been holding the relationship together for a long time. Counseling was my idea, and I had wanted to try it together for years. I’ve been waiting for us to get better, trying to focus on the good and ignore the bad. Now I’m spiraling into resentment, and I don’t know how to walk away.

I shouldn’t stay any longer, right? I keep screaming in my head, “If he wanted to, he would.” But I’m terrified to leave because what if we are on the brink of finally understanding each other and becoming what we need for one another?

A: Girl. Girlllll. GIRL.

I don’t think I have anything novel or transcendent to tell you, but I do think it’s really important that you spend some time with your feelings about becoming a parent and try to disentangle that decision from him. What do you want?

Kids or no kids, it doesn’t matter. But you should not outsource such a critical, life-altering decision to a man who has kept you on the line for nearly a decade and still isn’t sure whether you meet his criteria to be his wife. Typing that out makes my eye twitch.

Breakups generally have two outcomes: You leave and realize it was the right decision, or you leave, regret it, and explore whether reconciliation is possible. And what if you want him back and he doesn’t want you back? Well, then you have your answer about whether this was your husband.

It sounds like you’ve been putting an enormous amount of effort into this relationship, which begs an important question: Do you want this man, or do you want this man because he remains unsure whether he wants you?

This entire situation makes me want to shout at you in all caps, with love, that you deserve someone who chooses you fully. Do not waste your life trying to measure up to the standards of a man who has eight years’ worth of information about you and is still conflicted about his commitment.

Q: Was there any pushback from your ex when you decided you wanted a divorce? If so, how did you handle it? I’m struggling with wanting out, but my husband very much does not want a separation.

A: First of all, this is very common, and I’m sorry you’re navigating it. It’s hard to hurt someone you may still feel love, care, and tenderness toward. It’s hard to make decisions for your own well-being when they are tied to someone else’s pain.

But I want to remind you that this is not a collaborative decision. Both people have to agree to remain in a relationship, but only one person has to decide to leave. You do not owe anyone a romantic relationship simply because they do not want it to end.

I would be clear and firm: “We need to separate. I know this is painful and will be a challenging transition, but I am committed to navigating it with as much respect and dignity as possible.”

I would also avoid repeatedly engaging in conversations that are only meant to guilt you, wear you down, or convince you to abandon your decision. You can acknowledge his pain, but you do not need to take responsibility for making it go away. And while his feelings certainly deserve compassion, they do not get to determine whether you stay married.

You might also consider involving a neutral third party, like a therapist, if your conversations quickly become combative or unproductive. Having someone there to help keep the conversation grounded can make it easier to communicate clearly and begin discussing what separation will actually look like.

Have a question you’d like to submit? E-mail contacthappyenough@gmail.com.

90 Days Hard: Part 2 will be coming at the end of August; catch up on the first installment here.

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In my adolescence, I’d barge in, scream “get the fuck up!” and slam the door behind me. Sometimes I’d open and shut it repeatedly, hoping I could make myself a big enough disturbance to break through to her. I’d stand there, lock-jawed, grinding my teeth in rage at my powerlessness. Out of breath and the only one bothered by my display. There wasn’t a thing I could do to make her the person I needed.

“I’m not even getting high,” she said. A defense she’d employed at various times over the years. I guess it was supposed to soften me to the destruction she’d sown. It only made me angrier. You’re pawning our family heirlooms, thieving, covered in abscesses, and missing your granddaughter’s life... TO NOT EVEN GET HIGH?!

This terror and pain needed to be for something. She should at least be getting high.

It was only a half-truth, of course. Her tolerance was through the roof, and she often only had enough money to avoid getting sick. I was saddened that she’d devoted most of her life to something that rarely made her feel good.

I know something of that.

I’d been dosing male desire since about the same age as she began finding escape in substances. You can certainly ruin your life with a man. It’s simply a socially sanctioned and encouraged form of annihilation. It also no longer got me high.

In April, when Brian and I had our four-day immersive breakup experience, I felt nervous about dating again. Cursed with knowledge, I could no longer ride the wave of male attention with a more complete understanding of the safety concerns, both emotional and physical, that came with it.

We walked his dog in the field behind his house and played a fun and bizarre game of “They’re a 10, but...”

“He’s a ten, but he wears Hey Dudes... could you do it?”

“She’s a ten, but she won’t leave the house for even an errand without doing a full face of makeup... ”

“They’re a ten, but they eat like your pickiest child?”

“They’re a ten, but they’re trying to build an Instagram following?” Unimaginable (too imaginable).

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I didn’t know anything about what proper dosing was, but my dealer said that each pill had approximately 1.5 hits and that it would be wise not to do it all at once. She suggested small finger dips and waiting an hour between each one to get my bearings. Restraint is not something I struggle with. I have always experimented with substances, but I have always been methodical and measured about it.

My parents were heroin addicts, so I know the importance of keeping your hands on the wheel.

I was nervous about doing a new drug in a public setting. I had no idea how my body would respond, how it would make me think and feel, and the lack of clarity about how much to ingest was adding to my anxiety. I was defying my drug protocol, which is to always try a new substance in an environment I feel safe in, preferably my own home. I was trying to be laid back and fun, which was at odds with my personality. I like information and control.

My boyfriend and I tried to be inconspicuous, passing a small Ziploc with the goods to one another covertly, feeling sly about our secret in a sea of people who were also probably on drugs.

Movement is an electronic musical festival that takes place every Memorial Day in Detroit. The city explodes with visitors from around the world, and parties pop up all over town to celebrate techno music in its birthplace. It likely drives 90% of Salomon’s annual sales.

I am not sure whether I took too much or if I was just worried that I had taken too much.

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You’d think I’d be well practiced at extending grace for the decisions people make when they are in pain. Grace has been thrust on me since I was a child, and it’s less beautiful when you are constantly on assignment, when it’s routine and not miraculous.

But now, there’s a 170lb, 6ft obstacle in the way of my work. It’s preventing me from getting a chapter to my literary agent, to do the only thing that I’ve wanted my entire life. Should I be grateful that he’s still there? That I won’t feel him on top of me or beside me, but I can keep him a little bit longer, as a problem. I’m going to enjoy his gravity as long as I can; his pull will inevitably dissipate.

It’s preventing me from making myself a blank slate for brands. My job is to be aspirational. I am a mess of unremarkable accomplishments, like getting out of bed and moving laundry from the washer to the dryer before it starts to stink and taking 48 hours to gather the strength to unclog a toilet and scrub my 7-year-old’s dry poo flakes off the bowl.

I am tasked with selling people my life, but today I was daydreaming (is there a word for daynightmaring?) after I dropped the kids at school, when I almost rear-ended a semi. As I swerved to the shoulder, I thought, “Oh, that would have been nice.” To be fair, that’s not entirely new.

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The announcement first came to me from myself, while I was still married.

It wasn’t a prophecy so much as a calculation I made while wrestling for years with the decision to leave. I didn’t need tarot cards to see the future. It was part of the deal I made with myself: in exchange for my freedom, I would need to steady myself for the speed of what might come next.

And when it did, it unfolded with the vague familiarity of a movie I’d already seen. Partly because my own brain had rehearsed it, and partly because it followed a pattern I’d watched play out again and again in divorced men once I started paying attention.

Besides my mind’s eye, I’ve had my daughters’ streams of consciousness to help with preparation. A steady flow of information about their lives, including nearly half they spend with their father.

“Daddy’s going to propose in the summer... in Chicago...”

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“I don’t want to go to Daddy’s. Why do I have to go?” Because your daddy loves you, and he is so excited to spend time with you. My daughter doesn’t not want to be with her father; she just doesn’t want to be without me.

“Why can’t we all be together?” Whatever my answer is, it will be unsatisfactory by all our standards.

I’m frazzled before I enter the subdivision. I feel like I’ve gone three rounds and I haven’t even gotten into the ring. I don’t stand a chance.

The doors’ wreaths have been exchanged. Evergreen for delicate spriggy things. His girlfriend is ushering in Spring before January’s close. I don’t blame her. The green taper candles on the entryway table are now pink, gesturing toward the next major holiday. She refreshes the decor like I do Instagram.

I notice everything. I’m like an investigator, but there isn’t a case to solve; I just catalog the scene for my own masochistic ritual. I wonder how long I’ll be startled by his girlfriend’s tiny shoes and coats hanging in the entryway closet. I’d never considered my feet before, but suddenly I’m self-conscious, and eight seems like a ghastly size. Perhaps had I been more Thumbelina in my presentation, I could have had a loving husband. I’m exhausted by my own response to the stimuli. Enough already.

When you’re married to someone, the changes they undergo feel incremental. Sometimes you’re even orchestrating them. At minimum, you’re a witness. But when you see your former partner anamorph in the care of another handler, it shocks the system.

When I picked out his clothes, it was a loving act, a gesture of care. Now I see his new shoes next to Polly Pocket’s, and I’m revolted. The divorced mind will criminalize even gifts.

Grow up, can’t you do anything for yourself?

Those aren’t our style.

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Several times a day, he fills it with filtered (allegedly) water from the fridge’s dispenser and discards the empty cup for his next round on the brown speckled granite island. Several times a day, I’d swoop in behind him and move it 3ft over to the “drink section” of our kitchen, the small slab of counter to the right of the stove. His unknowing (allegedly) participation in our domestic dance was a ritual unique to our marriage but recognized by every woman alive.

I need clean sight lines. I need the island to be desolate. I need shiny crumbless counters. I have forfeited every surface of my home to the chaos of my children, but I am stubborn about this territory. My last remaining stronghold.

I swipe away the mess of my life the old-fashioned way. With a tattered dishrag, wrung of the hottest sink water my fingers can stand, and a drop of blue Dawn soap. After I’m done wiping, I crouch down and make myself eye level with the counter to check for missed debris. My mother taught me this. You have to be especially vigilant around the toaster.

When I wash my hair, I collect the dark strands that were trapped in a week’s worth of messy buns, piled on top of my head, unable to shed my DNA onto the pillow, couch, and supermarket floor. I swirl them into a hurricane and leave the nest to dry on the shower wall. My ex-husband would be incensed by the clumps. I’d grab a scrap of toilet paper and trap them like I would a spider, careful not to let it make contact with my skin, and drop them into the wastebasket to extinguish his annoyance.

And so we danced. For fourteen years.

His home is immaculate now. My former home. His girlfriend keeps it so. But sometimes when I drop my girls off, I can’t help but notice the grit on the granite beneath the glow of the always-lit candle and weekly bouquet of flowers. We all have our zones of obsession, and ours must differ.

When I first met my boyfriend, I was easily fooled by his performance of a Man Who Was Different From the Rest. I landed in Raleigh full of hope. We were long-distance, and the miles between us extended the beginning and propped up a version of ourselves that could only endure short visits.

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“Mommy, why can’t we be with you today?”

This isn’t what I wanted to write about. All month I’ve been trying to tell the story of the couples I’ve been spending time with — the women who want to be divorced, and those who are in process. I’d been piecing my encounters together into a narrative that will have to wait until December.

I think I’m a good coparent. It’s important to me, and the success of my coparenting relationship is propped up by a mix of character strengths and defects. Primarily, I am correcting my own childhood through theirs. I have a blueprint of what not to do; I have a map of how to traumatize children, and I avoid the on-ramps.

And a shallow but effective motivator is: I like to be good at things. I like to win. I’m adept at performance, and I don’t have to feel it to act it out. I don’t have to like you, respect you, or find you interesting... I can just pretend. Michelle Obama said, “When they go low, we go high.” And coparenting has given me plenty of opportunities to rise to the occasion when I would much rather sink and rage.

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Below you’ll find my very non-expert thoughts, feelings, and advice on four reader submissions. There’s an extra question at the end that could use some community input, so if you feel compelled, jump into the comments and help her out.

“I’m divorced, I want to date, but do I really need to get on the apps?”

If you’re serious about wanting to find love, sex, or making a connection... yes. You do. I understand your hesitancy, and they are not without their issues, but if you want to find someone, you need to go where the people are... and they’re on the apps. Us elder millennials and beyond might be nostalgic for meeting someone “the old fashioned way,” but at this point the apps basically are. And if Zohran Mamdani and Rama Duwaji met on Hinge, don’t you owe it yourself to connect with a handsome leftist who will eventually make you the first lady of a major American city? And if a guy holding a fish who wants you to be in your feminine energy is more your speed, they’re there too. Additionally, can I suggest that any app can be a dating app if you want it to be? My partner and I met on Instagram.

Don’t stop going to church, the farmer’s market, or give up on being connected to someone through mutual friends. Finding love, or just some temporary companionship, takes keeping an open mind and a diversified strategy.

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“How did you help your kids NOT have the narrative or POV that “mom left?”

Who does that story even serve? Certainly not the children. It’s heartbreaking and deeply harmful for any child to believe they were abandoned on any level.

I was fortunate to have a co-parent who recognized that blaming me wouldn’t help our kids thrive. Not every parent has that. Sometimes an ex feeds that storyline out of their own pain or emotional immaturity, but that only harms the children.

Who “left” or initiated the divorce is irrelevant. What matters is that kids feel secure and loved, and that both parents work together to protect that.

We all mess up during a divorce. We say things we wish we hadn’t, we let emotion spill over. That’s normal and human. Your kids won’t be defined by one or two slip-ups, and both you and your ex deserve some grace in those moments. What’s most important is that you can eventually get on the same page about how to help everyone come out okay on the other side of this.

Language should always be “we” focused:

“We decided that we aren’t going to be married or live together anymore. But we love you, we’re here for you, and we will always be a family.”

If your kids are struggling or bring up that you were the one who moved out, you can validate their feelings without oversharing:

“I know this is hard, and it really sucks for all of us not to be in one home together anymore.”

If your kids are older and can process more, you might gently explain that financially or logistically it made the most sense for you to be the one to get a new space, or whatever the case may be. But it’s so important not to burden them with adult worries.

They don’t need to carry the emotional or practical weight of your decisions.

You don’t need to explain the intimate details of your split. It’s not developmentally appropriate or emotionally helpful. Too many parents center their pain and let it spill onto their kids, when the goal should always be protecting their sense of safety and love.

How do you support your children’s relationship with their other parent, when you also need space to heal?

My methods won’t apply to everyone, and I understand that some situations require more boundaries. But one of the ways I help facilitate my ex having more connection with our girls is by saying “yes” when I can. He often asks if he can pick them up from school on days when it’s my responsibility. He gets to touch base with them, give hugs and kisses, and it also saves me a trip. Sometimes he helps one of our daughters with homework or jumps on the trampoline with them for a few minutes, and then he’s on his way.

I’m comfortable with him being in my house (and also desperate for childcare), so occasionally he’ll text to ask if he can spend time with the girls for an hour while I take a walk. None of this requires us to spend time together, but it supports his relationship with them and shows our kids that their parents can cooperate and be kind to each other.

I’m also happy to let my kids FaceTime him whenever they want. If I’m feeling tender or need space, I just go into another room.

What’s the best way to handle money in a post-divorce relationship?

I would lay down in the street before I was ever financially dependent on someone else again. Finances can be a vehicle for control, and I want to be in a romantic relationship because I want to be there, not because I need to be.

Real intimacy is built on mutuality. Shared expenses should be split proportionally based on each person’s income. That doesn’t mean there can’t be gifts, treats, or “let me cover this because I love you and I want to do something nice for you” moments, but financial autonomy is paramount.

Everyone should have the freedom to stay in a relationship for the right reasons, and fiscal independence ensures that. But yes, please - absolutely find someone to split rent with in this economy.

Now for our community question:

The parenting plan can be a great source of stress, if you have any wisdom to share in the comments section that would be wonderful.

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Have a question or situation you’d like to submit? E-mail them to: contacthappyenough@gmail.com

This honest and cruel work we were doing didn’t always spill into the streets.

We spent a good many hours, while our littlest girls were in preschool, standing in our kitchen—a brown-flecked granite island between us—buffering the accusations we lobbed at one another:

My boyfriend was in a sex cult, and I was a fucking idiot.

My ex-husband was vapid, shallow, and a shell of a person.

I don’t think any of those things are true, but our respective brokenness desperately hoped so. It can be easier to let go of a bad thing than accept that something might just not be the right thing. Villains are useful. They give shape to our pain; they allow us to blame something, someone, instead of contending with the possibility that no one—or worse, everyone—is at fault.

Sometimes I’d lie on the carpet and cry, and while he easily stepped into anger, he’d occasionally shut our master bedroom door and slump down against the wall and allow himself to collapse in grief—which, I for one, appreciated.

But that closeness I felt wasn’t all just in relation to the spectacle of over-the-top emotion. We were engaging in conversation for the first time in years.

“You can’t really mean that? You can’t really be okay with another woman acting like a mother to our kids? I know you.” He mocked me then in a sing-song voice, “It’s just more people to love them!”

He delivered my line.

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There are few things more excruciating than listening to someone detail their dreams. I imagine reading someone write about them might be one of those things.

Without the storyteller in front of you—someone to meet your gaze, corner you, and hold you accountable to the retelling of a fragmented subconscious vision—I worry even more about your attention in this dynamic.

Here, it’s just you and my typed words that are in a digital tug-of-war with the various apps that beckon to you with their hits of dopamine. The scroll is sexy with its 7 seconds of rage-inducing video and women who are impossibly beautiful selling you things that will not make you more like them, just poorer and with more shit in your house. Genocide and peelable lip stain, a mass shooting and you can get it on Amazon. I understand the timeline’s siren call.

I cannot force you to hear me. However, I think if you’ve ever been torn between two things it might be of interest to you. And I will make my retelling brief.

He visits me often there, in that liminal space where even my own mind betrays me. It’s not enough that I must see him every Sunday, most Fridays, every birthday, and some holidays. We are entwined, in our children’s DNA and until one of us meets our end.

These in-person encounters, with a now half-stranger, are usually quite dull and without incident. We talk to each other with the same warmth that you access for your neighbor when you run into them while retrieving your garbage cans from the curb. Exaggerated sitcom kindness meant to communicate to an audience, “These people are friendly!” Our audience: three small girls.

He’s more alive in my dreams. In some ways he’s more alive there than he ever was to me in person, but who can even remember at this point. I wonder if we met today, first on a dating app, what we’d think of one another. I’m not sure he’d make it through my political filter, and me through his age parameters.

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They appeared in movies and sometimes when my friends and I had a friendly interaction with a couple at a bar, we’d retreat to the bathroom and giggle about being propositioned to join them. That never happened, and I tried not to take offense.

Middle age has shown me that young people often mistake living off-script for desperation. The passage of time makes us all desperate to reclaim the second part of life and make it look like something we’d have chosen originally, had we known better. If this foresight were available to us, there would be fewer divorces, fewer wasted degrees, and fewer passions abandoned. But the learning is tied to loss.

My dating years, which consisted of my teens and early twenties, were consumed entirely by being chosen. The idea of being one of many, or even one of two, was in direct opposition to my understanding of romantic partnership. I needed to win. Winning meant being crowned by men I’d given little thought to liking. My value was contingent upon male selection. Reciprocity was moot.

I was obsessed with being picked, that obsession led me down an aisle I never should have traipsed. These violent delights have violent ends — divorce, if you’re lucky; endless unhappiness if you aren’t. That need to be chosen is why I ended up married so young, and why, almost immediately, I started poking at the edges of the very institution I’d rushed into.

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The nausea that had left me hospitalized for weight loss and dehydration during my last pregnancy had already begun to set in. The medications they put me on to quell the nausea and stop the vomiting left me so constipated, I wound up in the hospital again. I was turned onto my side while a surly nurse fingered my ass to remove what felt like fossilized poo.

With a toddler at home and a husband on TV, I worked as a bartender until I went into labor after a shift at 26 weeks. I sat down at the bar once I’d clocked out and began to feel the familiar tightening of my uterus. I stared at the stopwatch on my cell phone timing my contractions, customers I had just served sitting on either side of me.

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My period was two days early and I was relieved, I didn’t worry about pregnancy anymore, but I was supposed to be spending the weekend with my boyfriend. I was glad the flow would be reduced to intermittent brown goo by then.

Not because my period stops sex, but because it’s a hassle and a reminder of my humanness, and my life, and the reality that I inhabit a body that is changing, pursuing death- one that interrupts the fantasy that I am unencumbered and free.

Time with my boyfriend is an escape from the constant vigilance of managing lives that aren't just mine.

Even his title, boyfriend, is a bit juvenile and pre-dates my divorce, marriage, the raising of children, and the paying of bills. It harkens back to a time when I didn’t have to lean against the counter and rub my chest when I remember that I have no retirement and no one is responsible for caring for me.

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I’d hung several of our children’s drawings up on the blue walls with Scotch tape. When I opened the windows, they flapped in the breeze. My head was framed by primary-colored stick figures as I answered the judge’s simple and heavy questions. Against that backdrop, I faced whether or not the marriage was irretrievably broken. Whether there was a chance for reconciliation. Whether this was in the best interest of our minor children.

I thought the answers were a bit more nuanced, but the court was only looking for yeses and noes. This marriage is certainly broken, and the kind we had should not be restored. What’s best for our children? Your Honor, I think the only thing I can really assert is that we love them so deeply it feels like an assault on their innocence just to say their names and birthdates out loud in this room. But we are not insane people, and I have been trying to toe the line of sacrifice and survival since the day they were born. So here I am betting on my version of survival. And I decided that being fully present for my half of their lives had to be as good as being half-present for all of it.

My ex-husband joined Zoom court from the side of the road.

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My life, the fact that I belonged to this family at all — quite literally a miracle — has, at times, felt like a curse. Narrowly escaping being suctioned from my mother’s womb or alternately placed in another woman’s charge, I suppose I should show some gratitude for having my two feet on the ground here with these people.

I am a product of my mother’s childhood, and when I reflect on my own, I worry about my kids — how much of our story is written by what came before us, by the impact of lives we haven’t even lived.

She was beaten nearly to death when she was three — accidentally locked in the basement, screaming for help while company was over. She had to pay for the careless disturbance. Slapped for cutting a small hole in her underwear when she was removing a tag. Hit for spilling milk.

Between the drugs and dysfunction of her relationship with my father, care and protection were paramount to my mother.

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I enjoy the counting of laps, the tenacity at which elementary school children pursue plastic foot charms to add to their shoelace necklaces, and I relish when the little girls compliment my manicure. Haughty with the approval of first graders, I stand in a patch of sun and feel good about being a mother who shows up. I filter all my moves through the lens of my adult children, "She was always there" I imagine them saying.

And she yelled a good bit and she hated a mess and she deep sighed with great drama over simple requests. She was on the edge, but she was there.

I stand in my patch of light and impose my well-meaning intentions into their childhood audit. Building a record of presence that might be evaluated later, by my children and myself. I clock in at their childhood for an hour, even though there are 27 other things I should be doing, none as important as this, but some that would provide me with the temporal relief that comes with crossing things off a list.

This Happy Feet I stood distracted as deep revelations washed over me. I zipped home to get on a FaceTime call with my boyfriend, my boyfriend who is rooted firmly 700 miles away for the next decade. “We’re never going to get what we want.” I slumped over at the waist dramatically, this fact one of the only truly knowable things about our future together, that it wouldn’t be joined.

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We stood in the driveway. I was walking towards our mailbox, expecting nothing but always hopeful. I left him standing next to our 2010 Kia Optima, a college graduation present I received from my grandparents a few weeks after we began dating. Two months later I drove it to West Virginia, following him there for his first broadcasting job.

That summer, I burned a CD and listened to John Mayer's Edge of Desire on repeat and thought only of him.

A new car for a new life with my new love, awash with possibilities - my desire led me all the way to a place so devoid of the comforts I was used to that within a few months I found myself holed up in our unfurnished spare bedroom, crying on the floor, after a second hairstylist left me even more unrecognizable than the first.

I'd bring my laptop to Tim Horton’s to apply for jobs and master’s programs. Desperate to have my professional life mimic the contentment of my relationship. My only friends were his coworkers, I hated my job, and my hair was really ugly.

The early days of our infatuation seem more mythical now. But I observe them as a fact, because my brain remembers. Like the capital of Illinois is Springfield. Both are true, neither makes me feel anything. The intensity of our love has been reduced to an origin story for my children, they pull out our wedding photographs and I put on a sing song voice to tell them the legend of us.

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Regardless of the details, the dissolution of a marriage is always at least one thing- a pain in the ass. They require a massive reorganization of nearly every facet of your life. There are assets to be split, friends to sort, possessions to divide, insurances of every kind to modify, emergency contacts to update. And oh, the children.

Divorce is marked by endless loss and ceaseless tasks. With no mention at all of the emotional implications, the errands and paperwork alone are enough to cripple even the most “capital A” Adult.

Nearly half of first marriages will end and yet we don’t have the skills to navigate this transition well. Informed by my own personal suffering and suggestions from my online community, I have compiled a list of recommendations if you’re on the observer side of things. Numeric lists throughout are reader submissions.

Say something. Really. Acknowledge what is happening in your friend’s life. People love to avoid the topic or ghost. I’ve heard from dozens of people who said it would have really meant a lot to have the people in their lives simply mention what they were going through (from in-laws to neighbors).

Divorce doesn’t need to be weird, but people are really good at making it awkward. Here is a little script:

“I wanted to reach out and tell you I've been thinking about you. I know a life change like this can be overwhelming. I’m here for you.”

Depending on the nature of your relationship you might be more specific in the support you offer. That might look like:

Offering to get together for coffee or dinner and making a plan. If they have children, you might suggest a playdate. If you are particularly close to them or your children are friends, you might offer to have their children over for a few hours.

People are not good at accepting help, none of us like to be a burden, so you might reach out with a classic options list (this was popularized for postpartum support, and I think it’s a great method to implement when people are going through anything at all):

“I’d love to spend time with you or be of help in some way. I know it can be hard to accept support, so why don’t you choose one and let me know! 1) If you’re emotionally exhausted and don’t have the energy to engage. I drop off dinner. 2) We go out. 3) We get the kids together.” You know your people better than me, so adjust accordingly.

Don’t say anything. Unless your friend has explicitly told you that they want to receive updates and gossip about their former partner, don’t share it. They don’t need to see their ex’s Hinge profile, hear about their dating escapades, or know about the recent photos you saw of them with a new partner. These things can be painful and triggering and it’s best to only offer information that’s directly requested.

Showing up. Divorce can be incredibly lonely, many people lose part or all of their community and support system. It can be hard to navigate social spaces that are typically arranged around couples- I'd encourage you to continue to include your friend and extend invitations to gatherings. This is one of the most submitted pleas. People going through divorce are longing for connection.

Many suggested the following:

1. Come over in sweats, make me go for a walk.

2. My friends would just insist on coming over and bring wine/pizza/food.

3. Going for coffee and really listening to why you’re getting divorced.

4. Check in via text. Repeatedly. It can feel too needy to reach out.

5. Coming to my house to offer emotional support as I purge/go through difficult things.

6. An open invite to be the third wheel.

7. Something to do when I don’t have the kids to distract me from the heartbreak.

8. “I’m bringing pizza, you can’t say no, what night?”

9. A standing invitation to family dinner, once a month or whatever can be accommodated. Something to count on.

10. Don’t leave them out of group events because they are no longer coupled.

11. Check in to see if they have plans for the holidays and extend an invitation.

12. Invite them over to dinner with their kids and when they don’t have them.

13. Show love to my kids, take the pressure off of me if able, because I can’t be the “fun” one a lot due to overwhelm.

The separation and divorce process can take a long time, and the adjustment and healing period can extend for months, into years. Most people need support even after things are officially over, and many people navigate this without family.

A divorce registry. We are all familiar with wedding and baby registries, but in more recent years showers for other major life events have become popularized. It’s lovely to receive gifts during a time of celebration- but you really need your people to show up for you when you are going through a major change that is often accompanied by financial strain and new expenses.

A divorce registry was not on my radar until a friend suggested it to me and the burden it relieved (emotionally and financially) cannot be properly articulated.

I weep when I think of how so many people eagerly supported me and my daughters. I wish every person navigating divorce was blessed in this way.

There can be a great deal of shame attached with expressing financial need and a wonderful way to help a loved one is to encourage them to set up a divorce registry, sitting with them as they go through the process, and sharing it with friends, family, your church community, and on social media.

I used Fresh Starts Registry, it is simple to use and the website offers a host of other information and helpful resources - ranging from step-by-step guides to navigating divorce and scripts for how to approach the topic with the people in your life.

Celebrate or observe. After my close friend’s divorce was finalized, we took a girl’s trip to Vegas. We ate, drank, and laid in the sun. We ushered her into a new beginning. I was happy to be by her side for that and thought that when my divorce was finalized, I might want to honor the end of my marriage in a similar way. When my legal proceedings were over, I did not feel celebratory. I felt hollow and sheepishly tender, and I knew a party wasn’t what I needed.

Give your friend space to have a wide range of feelings on and around the “day of.” Reach out to them on D day and check in. Ask ahead of time if there’s anything they want to do. Whether it’s dinner, a party, or a trip- your friend will appreciate your presence and thoughtfulness around such a significant life event.

Thoughtful gestures.

1. Drop off a small gift on firsts, Christmas, Mother’s/Father’s Day, birthdays.

2. Occasional snail mail or dropping off a card or activity for the kids.

3. Drop off a meal.

4. Gift certificate for house cleaning.

5. A divorce box full of goodies- mug, socks, book, tea, wine, snacks, cozy pajamas. Could also do for the kids.

6. Door Dash, Uber Eats, coffee gift card. Most of these can be sent by e-mail with a note and it’s so nice to receive and know you’re being thought of.

7. Bring coffee, fold laundry, hang out.

8. Offering to help fix things in my home, mowing my lawn, assistance with “male coded” tasks.

9. To proactively offer to help with the kids or take them somewhere fun.

10. Organize a meal train.

11. Gift cards for necessities like gas and groceries.

12. Drop food or a gift off without obligation of an interaction and text to say you left it at their door.

Being a good friend.

1. Don’t feed the gossip loop, be a protector/defender, be present.

2. My best friend allowing me to talk ad nauseam about the same things as I processed the loss.

3. Validation that your decision is yours and doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else.

4. Just saying that you don’t judge them and not telling them to fight and pray.

5. While we were cohabitating, my friend would invite me to stay at their house on my “off” weekends and that was lifesaving.

6. Non-judgmental listening.

7. My loved ones reminded me of all my wonderful traits, most of which my ex denied.

8. Upon seeing the divorced person asking upfront if they would like to talk about it or not.

9. Their “bad” is bad enough.

10. Believe what they tell you of their marital experience.

Financial, legal, and practical support.

Encourage them to explore their options and set up free consultations with legal representation.

1. Connecting them with a trusted financial advisor, divorce attorney, or mediator if needed.

2. Help setting up their new living space, assembling furniture, hanging pictures.

3. Assistance with moving day logistics, offering a vehicle, muscle.

4. Basic toolkit as a housewarming gift.

5. Ring camera for door as a gift to provide a sense of safety.

6. Help with school pick ups.

Be an adult. You can be a loyal friend or family member, while treating the other party with respect and kindness. If you’re someone who has ties or a relationship to both parties, your friend might be experiencing some anxiety about losing the friendship. In most cases, involving emotionally mature adults, it is *insane* to pick sides. This is a very weird energy! Don’t do this. If you have been on the periphery, there’s no reason that you shouldn’t extend warmth to both people.

Smile, say hello if you run into them in public.

If you are closer to one of the individuals, you can honor the primary friendship by showing kindness to the other person but not engaging in conversation about the divorce, coparenting, etc.

We don’t need to be a society that fails people in divorce. We can move beyond the good guy/bad guy narrative, resist the need to assign blame and judgment and walk alongside families during a challenging transition. We can show love, care, and extend support to friends when they need it most and help ensure that they aren’t burdened by shame and left alone in the emotional wreckage of divorce.

Leave a comment and share what support you needed most during your separation and divorce. Feel free to share any books, podcasts, or resources you found helpful.

“You can’t have sex on a first date” he said.

I didn’t want to have sex, I only wanted him to want to. And this wasn’t a date. Although he had bought me several rounds of drinks at varying locations throughout the evening. We moved through the dying nightlife of an Ohioan city, toward an unspoken common goal—my hotel room.

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