Eight years ago, I found myself reluctantly entering the Divorce Club, a place I never intended to join. I often joke that I wanted to stay married, but my ex and his new partner had different ideas. Reactions to this humor vary, often eliciting knowing laughter or awkward smiles, depending on who’s listening.
The journey since then has been riddled with challenges. Transitioning from a stay-at-home mom for twelve years to seeking employment wasn’t easy, and I faced significant financial turmoil. After five long years fighting for child support, I lost my home, my credit, and a considerable piece of my sanity. Foreclosure and bankruptcy might be seen as character-building experiences, but trust me, they are anything but pleasant. The emotional strain was equally daunting. Managing four children while trying to keep a stable home was exhausting, especially with an ex-husband who drifted in and out of their lives like a hurricane, leaving chaos in his wake.
Despite it all, we survived the toughest times. My children are thriving now—two in college and two in high school—growing into amazing individuals who fill me with pride. As for me, I’ve worked tirelessly to achieve a sense of safety. I frequently write about divorce and have become a source of support for others seeking reassurance. Many want to know if they too can overcome the pain, embarrassment, and sorrow that often accompany divorce.
In hindsight, I owe those individuals an apology.
I’ve often been the one championing resilience, declaring that you will endure, forgive, and heal. I respond to desperate cries for help with messages brimming with optimism and empowerment, proclaiming things like:
- “You can do this, friend!”
- “It hurts immensely when your dreams shatter, but you WILL rise and flourish!”
- “There will come a day when seeing him won’t feel like a dagger in your back.”
I speak highly of how well parallel parenting has worked for me, claiming that essentially ignoring my ex-husband has kept things running smoothly.
Well, here’s the truth: I might have been a bit misleading.
A few weeks ago, I unexpectedly encountered my ex, and I didn’t react in the mature way I thought I had achieved.
Instead, I responded like an irritable child.
Let me set the scene for you.
Three nights a week, I work late at our elementary school, which has a childcare program that requires someone in the office until closing for security. The gym is often used by the local Park and Rec for various activities, and while I’m in the office those evenings, I sometimes meet people coming for those programs.
On that particular evening, I was engrossed in my usual tasks—making copies, organizing files, and entering data into spreadsheets—when I noticed someone standing outside. As I moved to let them in, I realized it was my ex. I froze like a popsicle.
He wasn’t alone, either. He was accompanied by his little child from his new marriage.
It felt surreal, like a scene from a movie, only instead of a hero dodging bullets, it was me, desperately wishing for the ground to swallow me whole. Our eyes locked, and I could see shock in his expression. My own reaction was less composed; I wore a face that screamed confusion and discomfort.
In that moment, all the past—the good, the bad, and yes, the ugly—came crashing back. Seeing him with a child who resembled our sons made me feel ill. The buried feelings I thought I had dealt with resurfaced, dancing awkwardly in front of me.
Neither of us spoke. What could be said? I could have played it cool, greeted him casually, or even thrown out a snarky remark. Perhaps something like, “Wow, so you’re actually parenting this one?” But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I reacted instinctively—I made a face.
Yes, a face. A look of utter disgust, as if I’d just stepped in something unpleasant.
He glanced at me, then at his child, probably ensuring my expression hadn’t cast a shadow over his little one. When he left, I felt a tremor of anxiety wash over me. I was shaking—not from cold, but from that gut-wrenching mix of emotions. I felt nauseous and, above all, ashamed.
Ashamed that I couldn’t muster a simple hello. Ashamed that he was there, enjoying time with his child while I was wrapping up a long workday in an elementary office. Ashamed that after all this time and all my proclamations of strength and healing, I was reduced to making a face.
On my drive home, I ranted to myself, feeling the weight of anger and sadness. I vented about his past actions and the hurt he caused our children, gripping the steering wheel tightly as if it were the only thing anchoring me.
When I got home, my sons were out with friends, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I texted my best friend, pouring my heart out. She listened and comforted me. I made a martini and sat on my porch, allowing the tears to flow.
How’s that for “moving on”? How’s that for “getting over it”?
After I recovered from that encounter, I realized a few things. First, maybe the idea of parallel parenting isn’t as flawless as I’d thought. If I had to interact more regularly, perhaps it wouldn’t throw me off balance each time. Second, I need to be honest with myself and those seeking guidance—I’m not as far along in my healing journey as I present. Third, this process is tough, and some days are harder than others. We must be gentle with ourselves as we navigate this path.
So, if you’re struggling with similar feelings, know you’re not alone. We will all be okay in the end.
And now, I think it’s time to retire that face.
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Summary
This article recounts the author’s unexpected encounter with her ex-husband, revealing the emotional complexities that arise even years after divorce. Despite presenting herself as strong and recovered, she admits to feeling overwhelmed and ashamed during the chance meeting. The narrative emphasizes the challenges of healing and the importance of self-forgiveness, encouraging others in similar situations to acknowledge their struggles.