Let’s face it: who truly walks down the aisle thinking, “This probably won’t last”? As I gazed into my soon-to-be husband’s eyes at 23, I was convinced I was exactly where I belonged. But deep down, wasn’t there a whisper of uncertainty? That annoying little voice suggesting, “One day, you might argue for hours over something trivial, like a breadbox being left open”?
Getting married felt akin to having my first child. My friends, all buzzing with excitement, bombarded me with questions about my wedding colors, the design of my dress, and the cake I would choose. Should we go for a band or a DJ? Hair up or down? Would we have a pre-ceremony meet-up? My main task was to pick out all the items for my registry, hoping that everyone would shower us with gifts.
My fiancé and I were like kids in a candy store, debating what kitchen gadgets we deserved simply because we had fallen in love. Looking back, we probably should have registered for vodka and therapy sessions instead.
The anticipation of expecting our first baby was electric. Would we have a boy or a girl? How should we decorate the nursery? Would we breastfeed or bottle-feed? Should we do a maternity photo shoot? Co-sleeping? Homemade organic baby food? What diaper bag would we select? My husband and I found ourselves frolicking through stores, overwhelmed with choices because we were lucky enough to be starting a family. In hindsight, those therapy coupons still sound like a solid gift idea—who has time to warm wipes anyway?
The older, wiser voices in my life, the ones with the knowledge I so naively dismissed, offered gentle warnings. “As long as you’re happy,” they’d say. “Marriage is like a second job.” “Cherish each other before kids come; it gets tougher.” I ignored them, thinking I would prove them wrong. Having experienced my parents’ painful separation at a young age, I vowed to spare my children from that heartache.
Fast forward a decade, and my husband—the father of our two wonderful boys—is moving out. Some may view this as a failure, and others may feel pity for us, especially for our children. But what I’ve come to realize, something I didn’t grasp at 23, is that our arguments were never really about the breadbox. Over time, we’ve grown into people who barely recognize our former selves. Our children didn’t complicate our relationship; rather, they clarified why we were drawn to each other in the first place. They are the source of our laughter and tears, reminding us of what we’ve done right rather than what has gone wrong.
No one throws a celebration for a separation, and understandably, people don’t know how to react. There’s no joyful procession down the aisle to choose gifts we don’t need—no monogrammed glasses or party invitations. Friends are left uncertain about whom to invite, frustrated that social media led them to believe we would last forever.
In truth, we’re discarding the puzzle that’s been missing pieces for years, yet we couldn’t bring ourselves to part with it. I’m untangling myself from the one person who has shared monumental moments with me, from witnessing our children’s first breaths to supporting each other through ups and downs. There’s no festive platter for this occasion, no DJ or cake—only sadness.
Now that the dust has settled and the news of yet another marriage ending has spread, I’ve gained clarity on several truths. Life is unpredictable, and I’ve learned that true failure comes from not trying at all. Separating has taken more courage than the act of marrying did. I still use that pizza cutter weekly, and perhaps therapy coupons might not come off as a thoughtful gift to a couple celebrating their union.
Love, in all its chaotic splendor, is an undeniable force, and no one could have dissuaded me from marrying him. Asking if I would do things differently is moot; without my husband, I wouldn’t have discovered myself. We believed in love’s enduring nature, and that belief remains unchanged.
So, please don’t waste your sympathy on us or feel sorry for my boys. A marriage isn’t a mere outfit, arguments can’t be neatly categorized, and a separation doesn’t signal the end of love. We certainly don’t need a party now; the vodka and therapy coupons have become irrelevant.
Ultimately, every relationship’s foundation is rooted in friendship, and sometimes, despite all efforts, a plant simply won’t thrive. The conditions may not be right, and sometimes all that remains are the roots. Only time will reveal how my decision impacts my children, who are two distinct boys with their own paths to forge. One day, they may face the awkwardness of first love, and when that time comes, I’ll sit them down, kiss their sweet cheeks, look into their starry eyes, and remind them, “As long as you’re happy.”
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Summary
This article reflects on the complexities of marriage and separation, drawing parallels between the excitement of wedding planning and the reality of navigating parenthood and relationships. It emphasizes the importance of understanding love, friendship, and personal growth, while encouraging readers not to feel pity for families experiencing separation.