In the waning days of college, my friends and I indulged in one last night of karaoke, filled with tipsy dreams of our future triumphs. As art majors, we envisioned ourselves transforming New York into a vibrant hub of feminist art—creating pieces so profound that they would leave audiences in awe of the human experience.
That was a time of ambitious dreams and a sense of invincibility.
As the years rolled on, we navigated our twenties, each of us dating remarkable partners. We settled into small apartments brimming with aspirations, landing jobs that allowed us to cultivate our emerging identities as adults. Our gatherings shifted from cheap beer and sing-alongs to elegant martinis and stylish soirées.
That was the season of dating.
In what felt like a heartbeat, my friends were suddenly engaged to those amazing partners. Lunches became planning sessions for caterers, DJs, bridesmaid dresses, and seating charts. I found myself standing in countless weddings in less than two years, my wardrobe overtaken by a sea of taffeta and pastel hues.
That was the season of weddings.
The whirlwind of pregnancies and new homes passed by so swiftly that it was difficult to keep track of who was expecting and who had just moved. My credit card bills became a testament to the many baby showers and housewarming parties I attended, with Pottery Barn becoming a frequent stop on my shopping trips.
That was the season of settling.
While my friends adapted to their new lives of marriage, motherhood, and careers, I quietly embraced a lengthy courtship with my now-husband of a decade. We didn’t rush into parenthood or high-paying jobs, opting instead for a small fixer-upper in a quiet area. We welcomed a child and eloped in our modest dining room. We cherished our dreams, balancing our creative pursuits with the realities of life. I maintained my art studio while my husband crafted boats. As time passed, we drifted from many old college friends but built new connections along the way.
Then one day, my friend Kayla called, her voice choked with tears. She wanted to meet, and when I arrived at the coffee shop, I found her alone, sobbing. She revealed the heart-wrenching tale of her infidelity and impending divorce.
Over the next few years, similar stories cascaded from my circle. Women who once radiated confidence about their futures were now signing divorce papers, their children caught in custody battles, and friendships strained.
From the sidelines, I observed the emotional turmoil of these transformations. In conversations laden with grief, the resounding lesson emerged: nothing is permanent.
That was the season of divorce.
As the once-vibrant seasons slowed down, our children grew taller and began to dream of their own futures. Relationships shifted once more, and old friends faded into cherished memories.
When my college friends confide in me about their divorces, they often voice concerns for their children. Despite their excitement about re-entering the single life, they ponder what lies ahead. What I find difficult to express is how their experiences, filled with heartbreak and separation, remind me to cherish my own marriage.
As my husband and I navigate the challenges of parenthood and our creative endeavors, I can’t help but reflect on the resilience of our bond amidst the chaos around us. I often wonder how I managed to weather the storm of divorce while maintaining a strong marriage.
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In summary, my friends’ journeys through divorce have enriched my perspective, amplifying my gratitude for my own stable marriage.