Divorced Before 30

Believe it or not, I went to church on the Sunday following my Catholic beat-down. My parents encouraged me to join them at the campus chapel where I got married, and I fell for it.

I was humbled by walking through the same doors that had framed me one year ago—hope personified in ivory satin. This morning, the chapel was brimming with students who seemed weightless in the sea of their youthful vitality.

Sandwiched between Mom and Dad in a pew, I felt the weight of everything that had happened in the two weeks since I left John. Our uncontested divorce would be final within a month, and John had come to see our split as an unexpected opportunity to reinvent himself. The jarring reality of my departure inspired him act on his dream of moving to the mountains. I hoped that he would find what he was looking for.

I also ruminated on the messages I received from John’s mom and step-mom. While they absolutely loved their son, flaws and all, they were able to transcend their mama-bear instincts to reach out to me. The e-mails that we exchanged that week were “goodbye,” but I’ll always be grateful to them for allowing me the dignity of being the woman who did what she needed to do.

I shared signs of peace with my fellow congregants—peace be with you—and hugged my parents. And as the organ and the voices built around me, my heart swelled with regret. This beautiful chapel was like the scene of a crime—I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad had happened here. I wept with my entire being, and the singers surrounding me provided a generous wall of privacy. As the last verse closed, I bolted from the chapel.

The quad was quiet and still. A single Adirondack chair was nestled in the grass, and it beckoned me to descend the chapel steps. I kicked off my shoes and sunk between the solid arms of the giant chair. Unaware of space or time, I curled into the fetal position and cried.

Mom climbed onto the chair’s arm and placed a hand on my shoulder. I looked up at her through my tears. “It hurts so bad,” I wailed. As we sat in the shadow of the chapel, I knew that I’d never be the same woman who walked down that aisle. I could only hope that the new woman would find a way to channel this anguish and vulnerability into something of use or beauty.