First Sunday: To the Man I Loved Before

There I was sitting on my mid-century modern sectional sofa, face-deep in a bowl of microwave popcorn. I don’t even like popcorn. It’s loud, it’s messy, and it gets stuck in your teeth—much like the messy details of a legal separation process. But it felt like the only fitting accessory for my current ensemble: an oversized t-shirt that he gave me and the accessory of existential dread.

I was staring at the TV, watching a high schooler on Netflix agonizing over which dreamy jock to go to prom with. Usually, I’d opt for the classics—the mature, timeless tension of Julia Roberts in Notting Hill, Meg Ryan’s banter in When Harry Met Sally, or the "as you wish" devotion in The Princess Bride. But tonight? No. I needed the high-octane, low-stakes dopamine of the Young Adult rom-com. To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, The Kissing Booth... give me the ones with three sequels so I know the torture and the payoff will be sustained for rest of the week. Week? Who am I kidding? For the rest of the day.

In a time in my life where everyone around me is chasing the next adulting task, I was busy chasing a feeling from the eleventh grade.

Let’s face it—when it comes to the high-stakes, low-logic marathon of the Young Adult rom-com, my stamina is legendary. My ability to binge-watch a Netflix trilogy about prom dates and locker-room longing is equal to none. While my own love life was currently under construction, my commitment to a teenage sequel was the only long-term relationship I could actually count on.

Because in my world, the sequel just got canceled.

After twelve years, I’ve realized I couldn’t make the "perfect" marriage happen. But here’s the thing: I wasn’t even looking for perfection. I wanted the flaws! I wanted the grit. I was looking for a partnership where you actually work to grow together; where you have the terrifyingly hard conversations and occasionally put your partner’s needs before your own—because that’s what you do.

Apparently, "what you do" wasn't on his to-do list. Instead of a "happily ever after," I got "rejected and denied."

Now, I’m navigating the kind of divorce help that can’t be found in a script. When you’re in the middle of a legal separation process, there’s no upbeat montage or pop soundtrack to help you sort through twelve years of shared kitchen utensils and shattered expectations. You’re looking for divorce help in podcasts and self-help books, trying to find the light when the magic 8 ball continuously reminds me that my "outlook not good." I pride myself on keeping a stiff upper lip because being emotional with an emotional husband led to arguments on a hamster wheel. It went nowhere. So, naturally, I need to do the opposite. One of the healthy things I can do for myself is to stop holding it in. They say "let go and let God," but in my case, it’s more "let go and let the tears out."

I told myself I’d let my body process the emotions and release them into the wild—which sounds incredibly chic in theory, but in practice? It translates to sobbing on the commute to work, leaking a few quiet tears between stops throughout the day, and a full-blown emotional carwash on the way home. It turns out, my emotional "release" has become a full-time job. Business is booming. I am happy to report that my tear ducts do work. I thought otherwise after all the years of my emotional shutdown.

It is naive to think, but I thought I could make anything work.

For goodness sake, I make the impossible possible at work on a daily basis. But, I’m learning that you can’t maintain a bridge if you’re the only one holding the cables. So, as I navigate the legal separation process, I’m sifting through what to keep and what to toss. The ring? Gone. The resentment? Working on it. The recipe for the only thing he ever did right? That, I’m keeping... for now.