12/30/2025
People don’t understand how heavy it is to be the one who initiates the divorce.
To carry the responsibility of saying, “This ends here.” To hold the weight of being seen as the one who walked away, even when you were the last one left standing in the ruins.
To be the person who ends something that already stopped working long ago.
Something that has been fading, fracturing, existing in name only. You’re not ending a marriage—you’re signing the death certificate for something that has already passed.
To stop waiting for change that never comes.
To release the hope you’ve been clutching like a life raft, even as it sank in your hands. To stop bargaining with the universe, with yourself, with a person who never truly showed up.
It’s not cold.
It’s not selfish.
It’s devastating.
It is sitting at the kitchen table with paperwork that feels like a betrayal of every vow you ever meant. It is crying in the shower so the kids won’t hear. It is feeling like a stranger in your own story.
It means choosing reality over hope.
Hope can be a beautiful thing. But when hope becomes a excuse to endure what is breaking you, it becomes a cage. Choosing reality is not giving up—it’s waking up.
Choosing peace over endless trying.
Trying is noble. But there comes a point when trying is just another word for suffering. Peace is not the absence of conflict. It is the presence of wholeness, even in the breaking.
And finding the strength to walk away when staying would keep destroying you.
That strength doesn’t feel heroic. It feels like heartbreak with steady hands. Like love for yourself finally growing louder than the fear of leaving.
That decision isn’t easy.
It’s brave in a way only those who’ve lived it truly understand.
It’s the kind of courage that leaves you trembling, but certain.
Grieving, but free.