Leaving wasn’t the end. It was the beginning of a life I never imagined possible — a life where I finally found myself.
When I got married, like most people, I believed it would be forever.
We don’t walk down the aisle thinking about endings — we think about beginnings, about hope, about building something that lasts.
So when, a decade later, I found myself contemplating separation — especially with a child involved — it wasn’t a decision I took lightly.
For a long time, I thought I could survive in a loveless marriage. If we could just be good partners — share responsibilities, raise our child — that would be enough. I believed love was a luxury you could live without if loyalty was still standing.
But over time, I realised I wasn’t just unloved.
I was alone.
There’s a specific kind of loneliness that comes from sharing space with someone who makes you feel invisible. A loneliness that’s heavier than solitude because it happens in the presence of another person. Life felt easier when they weren’t around. And that was my wake-up call.
It wasn’t just about me anymore. It was about what my child was learning.
What she would carry forward into her own relationships.
Because children don’t learn what love is from fairy tales or social media posts — they learn by watching us, day in and day out.
And so I asked myself the hardest question:
Would I want this kind of marriage for my daughter?
The answer was a gut-wrenching no.
I would want her to be loved, respected, lifted up — to be with someone who makes her world bigger, not smaller. Someone who celebrates her brightness, rather than feeling dimmed by it.
Leaving wasn’t about giving up. It was about choosing a better future — for both of us.
Not Looking Back
It took me a couple of years to act on my feelings.
But once I finally left, I never looked back.
It was easy.
Before, I carried the heavy, suffocating weight of an unhappy marriage.
Now, I still carry responsibilities — but they’re manageable, and they’re mine.
And somehow, they feel lighter.
People expect you to go through the seven stages of grief after a separation. I didn’t.
I didn’t feel empty. I didn’t feel lost without him.
I felt alive.
Buzzing with energy and hope.
Like someone had thrown open all the windows after years of breathing stale air.
Losing — and Finding — Myself
My real struggle wasn’t grieving the relationship.
It was the massive sense of identity loss.
When I looked back, I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment I had disappeared.
Was it when I became someone’s wife?
Someone’s mother?
An employee?
A manager?
Somewhere along the way, there had been no space left for me, the person.
I tried to go back to who I was before marriage — only to find that person didn’t exist anymore.
I had to reinvent myself from scratch.
It wasn’t easy.
It was tough, uncomfortable, and lonely at times.
But I took the time. I sought counselling.
I got a neurodivergence diagnosis that helped me understand myself better than ever before.
I built networks and found support groups.
I found new passions, followed them, and let them shape me.
And eventually, I fell in love with the new me.
A version that is wiser, stronger, more self-aware.
A woman who refuses to dim her light to make others comfortable.
“I Hope You Find Love Again…”
When people tell me, “I hope you find love again,” I smile and say, “No, thank you.”
Because what I know about relationships — at least the ones I experienced — is a constant, often unbalanced compromise.
It’s being held back “for the good of the relationship.”
It’s dimming your light so the other person doesn’t feel overshadowed.
It’s setting aside your dreams and ambitions to fit into a smaller, safer version of yourself.
For the first time in my life, I am comfortable being on my own.
I love the freedom.
I love the space I’ve created.
I love the life I’ve built — for myself, and with my child.
If someone comes along who can offer true partnership — someone who respects my autonomy, my ambitions, my brightness — that would be wonderful.
If someone can fit into my life without asking me to shrink it — even better.
But I’m not searching.
Because being alone isn’t something to fear once you love yourself.
Romantic love isn’t a prerequisite for happiness.
And when people ask me if I’d ever get married again, I say:
“Marriage has nothing to do with love.”
It’s so easy to get married… and so heartbreakingly hard — and expensive — to undo it when you choose wrong.
I don’t need a piece of paper to validate my love, my life or my worth.
I have myself.
And for the first time, that’s more than enough.
Living With Contradictions
While I was married, I often felt like a single mum.
Most of the responsibilities of raising our child fell on me.
I worked.
I looked after our child.
I was expected to be the “good wife,” to put him first, to prioritise his needs and ambitions over mine.
Even though we were both growing in our careers, I was the one expected to step back — to stay behind to care for our child, to make the sacrifices no one else wanted to make.
Frankly, I don’t regret that choice.
It’s the same choice I’ve made since separating — and the choice I will always make.
Because careers come and go, but childhood happens once only.
I want to be there for as much of it as I can.
But choosing to be present for my child doesn’t mean abandoning the rest of myself.
I still have ambitions.
I still crave space for myself — to breathe, to grow, to create, to live.
Going from being a full-time mum to being a “most-of-the-time” mum after separation was a hard transition.
There’s this constant, contradictory pull — the guilt of wanting time for myself, and the aching loneliness when she’s not around.
Counting the days until I have time for my side projects…
And then counting the hours until she comes back and fills the house with her energy again.
If I had had a partner who truly shared the responsibilities, if I had had a strong local support network, maybe I could have balanced it all better.
Maybe I could have carved out a life where I had room to grow without feeling like it came at the cost of being there for her.
But that’s not the family structure we have.
It’s not the one I would have chosen.
But it’s ours — and we’ve learned to make the most of it.
I have learned to live with contradictions:
To enjoy the time I have with her and to crave the time I have alone.
To make the most of my quiet moments without drowning in guilt.
To love her fiercely — and to love myself just as fiercely.
This may not have been the life I pictured, but it’s the life we’re building — one honest, imperfect, beautiful day at a time.
✨Have you ever had to rebuild your life after a major change? Or had a moment when you realized you needed to choose yourself?
If any part of my story resonates with you, I would truly love to hear yours.
Let’s create a space where we can be honest, vulnerable, and supportive of one another.✨
💬Share your thoughts in the comments — your story might just be exactly what someone else needs to hear today.
If this topic interested you, you might also like last week’s episode where I discussed with Almudena Lacruz Garcia her experience breaking up a long term relationship and how she found her way back to herself.
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