17 years later

As I’ve shared before, I met my ex-husband in middle school. We were together from eighth grade (minus a two-week breakup in high school) until our divorce was finalized 17 years later.

For years, I was proud to tell people we were middle school sweethearts — a fact that became incredibly painful when everything started to fall apart.

I’ve mentioned before that our infertility journey wasn’t just physically and emotionally exhausting for me — it took an unbelievable toll on our marriage. Instead of leaning on each other, we hurt each other. We said things that couldn’t be unsaid — words that would alter the course of our relationship. And beyond the words, our actions showed that we were living as friends, not as husband and wife.

During that time, I felt like I couldn’t talk to anyone. I couldn’t lean on friends or family to discuss infertility because no one truly understood, but even more, how could I possibly share the cracks forming in my marriage? I felt like I was failing. I was embarrassed and ashamed. How could I explain to people who had known us as a couple for more than a decade that during a time when we should have been leaning on each other to navigate the loss and grief, I instead felt deeply alone and questioning whether I was good enough?

When we stopped fertility treatments and decided to move forward with adoption, things seemed better. He traveled a lot for work, but we had always shared the same interests — weekends with friends, movies, concerts, traveling. We had been friends since we were 12, and that friendship helped us keep going. But the things we had said before lingered, ready to surface the moment we disagreed. Those old words and wounds became a weapon that was easily wielded, always waiting, even when the argument had nothing to do with becoming parents.

The truth is, after everything we went through, I broke. But when the treatments stopped, I began to heal — slowly, on my own, in a way that made sense for me. We tried to heal together, but sometimes it was easier not to talk about it at all. So I moved forward, and in doing so, I became stronger and more resilient than I ever imagined possible.

During that time, I read a quote that still resonates deeply with me:

“You don’t know this new me; I put back my pieces, differently.”

-A.Y.

It was true. We stopped really seeing each other. We stopped knowing each other. But we continued on — two friends who happened to be married.

And then Oliver was born. Suddenly, the only thing that mattered was being the best mother I could be to this perfect little human. To do that, I had to become the best version of myself. That meant not ignoring the hard things, even when it would’ve been easier to stay quiet. I wanted to talk about all of it, lay our cards out on the table because if I couldn’t be true to myself, how the hell was I going to raise my son in an authentic and honest way? I had someone else counting on me now, and I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t show him that I mattered. That my happiness was important too.

So, when Oliver was just a few months old, I moved out of the house we had built three years earlier hoping to hold a growing family. People often ask why I was the one to move out. The easy answer is that it was a four-bedroom house with an office and an unfinished basement for more bedrooms that I knew I’d never be able to fill. And while that’s true, the deeper truth is that instead of it still being the place where I could see warmth and love, it was overwhelmed by my darkest moments and deepest pain.

And let me be clear, I’m not saying to just throw in the towel when things get tough. I fought for my marriage. We went to counseling and tried to talk through things over and over again, but we didn’t see things the same way. We had both put back our broken pieces differently, and that’s okay. We’re human.

While I had every intention of staying married and growing old with the boy I fell in love with in middle school, life is complicated. And we owe it to ourselves to have enough love for one another and ourselves to want better for each other and our son.

It was, without question, one of the hardest things I’ve ever been through. He was my best friend for more than half of my life. But now, on the other side of it, I know it was the right decision for me, for him, and for our son.

He is a great person and an absolutely, insanely wonderful dad. I’m in a place where I can truly see past so much of the pain, and we can just be happy for each other. Despite all of it, we always put Oliver first, and that remains. Everything we do, every decision we make, is to ensure Oliver knows and sees love and happiness.

So, if you’re going through it right now – know that it can and does get better.

Honestly,

Theresa