One Breath at a Time: Finding My Way Through Divorce

I’ve wanted to write about my separation and divorce for a long time, but until now, I just wasn’t ready. The words felt too heavy, the emotions too raw. But today, something feels different. Today, I feel like I can finally share a piece of that journey.

Ironically, before everything in my marriage unraveled, I had been working on a blog about how hard marriage can be. I was writing about how staying—truly sticking it out—takes grit, patience, and resilience. And how sometimes people say divorce is “the easy way out.” But let me tell you—those people haven’t walked this path. Both staying and leaving are hard. They each come with their own heartbreak, their own battles. Sometimes you make the choice, and sometimes the choice is made for you, whether you’re ready for it or not.

One thing I’ve always been clear on: no one should stay in an abusive marriage. Ever. But abuse can be so insidious that you don’t even realize it’s happening. You keep your head down, convinced that hardship is just part of the deal. You’ve been told marriage is hard, so you push through. You sacrifice, you endure, and you lose little pieces of yourself along the way. Especially as women, we’ve been handed this message over and over: enduring is our burden. Sacrifice is noble. Pain is part of the package.

It wasn’t until I stepped out of the insulated world of my marriage that I really began to see it. All the ways I had accommodated things that didn’t feel right. All the parts of myself I had silenced or dimmed. And it hurt. God, it hurt.

When my marriage ended, it broke me open. I couldn’t breathe—literally. Every day felt like I was gasping for air. I would focus on my breath, just to get through the next moment. I tried to go for a run one day—thinking I could physically run away from the pain—but my body couldn’t do it. Walking wasn’t enough, and the tears came fast and hard. The shower became my safe space to cry, to plead with God, to just let it out.

Even thinking about it now makes my chest tighten. That level of pain doesn’t just disappear overnight. I tried to hide it, especially from the people who love me. I’m the strong one. The go-to. The helper. It’s hard for people to see me undone. But the pain leaked out anyway—in my face, my eyes, my brows. My sister worried about me constantly.

But through all of that, I kept returning to what I tell my own clients: emotions come in waves. Let them come. Let the tears fall. Don’t fight the tide. Give yourself grace. Just breathe. One breath at a time.

And slowly, things started to shift. I began waking up without instinctively turning to see his head on the pillow. I had nights where my leg didn’t reach across the bed, searching for him. The grief still visits me sometimes, but I’ve made space for it. I’ve stopped resisting the waves.

I’m healing. I’m still breathing. And maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to feel whole again.