Because I Want To
Because I want to. End of story, and the beginning of this essay.
Drama is not a prerequisite to a difficult decision. You can stop something that you’ve had enough of. You can end a marriage that you don’t want to be in any longer. You can say no because you want to. And you can do it with grace.
The more cleanly you make decisions, the more wind you’ll feel at your back. There's more flow because your energy settles in one direction. The more beauty, because flow feels good. And, the more of a chance you have to choose your hand.
You don't have to destroy something to leave it.
I got married in 2006 and divorced in 2015. We had a one-year-old and a six-year-old. Friends, family, and onlookers wanted the best for us but still sniffed for deceit to explain the reasoning. There was none. “How bad could it be?” they’d ask. “It’s not that bad,” I’d say, “but it’s not that good either.”
I dutifully followed a trajectory that was not mine, it was society’s. At 30 I married. We bought a house, birthed babies, swapped the dog for two cats, and lived happily-ish until I admitted that I was compromising. The voice deep inside me knew there was more. And I wanted more!
I struggled deeply when Owen was born in 2008. The challenge of becoming a first-time mother monumentally changed me. By the time Emma was born in 2014, I went in knowing, and came out knowing even more. With each baby, I birthed more me, simultaneously becoming more whole and more depleted.
It was like any other Saturday afternoon in February (but not). Our daughter napped and our son played at a friend’s house. I sat on the dining table. My then-husband sat on the couch. From across the room, level-headed and emotionless, we agreed to divorce. “This isn’t forever,” we said, “and we’re not ‘staying together for the children,’” we agreed.
We had no idea what lay ahead, similar to when we married.
While the decision was mutual at the moment, it didn’t stay that way. He reneged the more certain I became. But it only takes one person who’s sure.
We honored the decision. Living together for months, almost like normal, while I amassed the used furniture in our garage, awaiting the moment I found a place to move. We saw therapists and avoided lawyers. It was messy, but we did it. I did it. I led the entire charge—soup to nuts. But he deserves credit for rolling with my punches. He made way for a reality he didn’t want.
With 50/50 custody, I’d show up for my kids as one hundred percent me, fifty percent of the time, opposed to fifty percent me, one hundred percent of the time. More commonly moms wilt for the sake of their children, fearing they’ll lose them part-time to divorce. Instead, they lose themselves. (Insert oxygen mask analogy.) Choose your hard.
Like a mom who lifts a wrecked car to save her baby—my mental, emotional, and physical strength became superhuman. There were dozens of balls in the air, and only a few fell down. I juggled people, places, feelings, and removed rings. I never imagined this to be my crowning accomplishment. Alas, I cleared a monumental hurdle in our family’s trajectory, with grace. I’m proud.
You’re allowed to do or not do something because you want to. It’s tempting to resist simplicity. To explain it away. Your wants are enough. They can be disliked and argued with, but that doesn’t make them any less true.
At two, I went through my first divorce. It was my parent’s divorce, but I tagged along. I know how difficult two homes can be. On a bananas schedule, I brought my world from one house to another in a duffle bag and relearned the rules each time I landed. “They get along,” I’d explain with hope and minimal confidence. Really, they didn’t have much to do with one another.
“I just wish I could see both you and daddy before school in the morning,” Emma says. My heart breaks. What have I done? I dust myself off, call her dad, and we plan a family dinner.
Remarkably I reenacted the choice I despised as a child. This time, with feelings still fresh after 36 years, I act with compassion.
It’s been six years since our divorce. My daughter is seven and my son is 13. The events we fully lived are only half-remembered. Today, we co-parent well, our kids are thriving, and we are too.
“Does this mean you’ve found yourself?” you ask. Do we ever? It’s the quest that matters. I chose the right hard for me. “Will you marry me?” you ask. I don’t know, and because I don’t know, the answer is not no (or yes). But I will love you.
This essay is over because I want to stop writing.