I stood in the doorway of our living room after putting the kids to bed and asked my husband, “Do you have a moment?”
I felt uneasy, though I hadn’t shared that with him. The divorce of some friends after 14 years had sparked thoughts about our own marriage.
I’m not even sure I waited for his response. I began sharing my reflections on our relationship, giving it a solid B grade—maybe even a B+ on a good day. We had a strong friendship, three wonderful kids, and rarely fought about finances, intimacy, or family matters. I believed that with a few adjustments, we could achieve an A.
“I feel overwhelmed by shouldering the entire burden of our financial situation, and I worry about what might happen to me. I’d like your help managing our finances. Also, I want us to engage in something together—just the two of us, unrelated to the kids. Perhaps we could take dance lessons, volunteer, or try something new together. I’m open to anything.”
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My husband didn’t glance up, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening. This was a familiar routine for us—me presenting a plan while he scrolled through his tablet.
I waited for his feedback. Nothing.
“What do you think?”
Finally, he looked up and said, “No.”
I chuckled, thinking he must be joking. He always had a playful side. “No? To which part?”
“To everything. I’m exhausted from trying to change for you. I’m tired of feeling inadequate. You knew who I was when we got married. That was enough then, it should be enough now. I’m not changing.”
I blinked and swallowed hard, searching for a moment to collect my thoughts.
We had experienced this argument countless times—my desire for change clashing with his resistance. It became the main source of tension in our relationship. Typically, I could persuade him, but this refusal to work on our marriage was a striking declaration.
I was left speechless.
I turned around to tidy up the kitchen, and about fifteen minutes later, I headed up to bed.
The following week, I started counseling. I explained to the therapist that my husband and I were facing marital challenges, that he wasn’t interested in working on our relationship, and that I sought guidance on how to change his mind. She kindly clarified that wasn’t how therapy generally works. “He’s either willing to participate, or he’s not. While he’s absent, we’ll focus on what you can control.”
As days turned into weeks, my husband remained resolute. He had consistently communicated his unwillingness to change. The partnership I envisioned was not one he desired. I didn’t need to alter my explanations—he understood me perfectly, he just disagreed.
With the support of my therapist, I began to hear him. I recognized that he was a separate individual, with his own thoughts and path. I realized he wasn’t going to change. I could either accept that and stay or reject it and leave.
I chose to leave.
What followed were some incredibly difficult days. I remember moments in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store, overwhelmed with panic about losing my best friend. There were also painful conversations with our children, moments that still haunt me years later. Yet, the undeniable truth remained—we wanted different things and couldn’t achieve them together.
We divorced.
Looking back on that night and our relationship now, I see things more clearly. The absurdity of my grading our relationship and crafting a performance improvement plan stands out. I had believed I alone knew what was best for us, neglecting his perspective and dissent. I had taken on the role of my husband’s manager rather than his partner. His refusal to change or seek counseling revealed the years of unaddressed anger. My controlling behavior and his growing resentment were intricately woven through our shared history, alongside our beautiful memories of travel, love, and laughter. Our marriage wasn’t a partnership, nor was it healthy.
It took considerable time and distance for me to alter my perspective. In truth, we are better parents apart than we were together—gone is the resentment over defined roles and the quiet dysfunction in our communication. We’ve liberated ourselves from the patterns that stifled us during our marriage.
Now, our children sometimes question why we divorced. They observe our easy interactions, our conversations about upcoming movies or new restaurants in town, and they wonder why we’re not together.
Most often, it’s our daughter Mia who asks because she doesn’t remember much of the time we all shared the same space. She sometimes feels the complexities and pain of living separately.
I tell her the honest truth: her dad and I are great friends, but we were not suited as partners. The divorce ended our partnership, and while it was grief-stricken and painful, it ultimately provided the boundaries we needed. This separation allowed us to cultivate our relationships with our children independently and take charge of our individual lives. We broke free from the relentless cycle of conflict we had found ourselves in. Years later, we could reconnect as friends without the burdens of what hadn’t been working.
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In summary, though my marriage ended, it freed us to become better friends and co-parents. Recognizing our relationship’s deficiencies allowed us to grow individually while maintaining a supportive bond for our children.
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