Divorced Before 30

I was fresh off a trip to divorce court and had a few more days in Illinois to make the transition to full-time telecommuting before returning to Minnesota. My worldly possessions were already in my parents’ basement, and I had returned my keys to the landlord. In sum, I was deeply scarred and virtually homeless. Lovely. So, for the next few days, I would continue to hop between friends’ guestrooms and say my goodbyes. My stint in town had been short, but I had made some meaningful connections.

I would miss the amazing community of women at my company. Many of us participated in on-site fitness classes, and I was also part of a coed noon running group, which consisted of members ranging from their early twenties to their fifties. Best of all, I was a member of “Books and Bars,” which was, naturally, a book club that met in bars. And my fabulous boss—also divorced before thirty and now happily hitched—was one of the boozy book lovers. Lucky for me, there was a meeting the week I was in town.

In addition to the wonderful women who I’d met through church and work, I had two close friends who were nothing shy of saviors during the roughest patches with John. I became instant friends with both Shannon and Megan shortly after I moved to town, and in true post-millennial fashion, I had met them both online.

Shannon answered my listserv query for a weekday pre-dawn running partner. She is a tiny woman with a ton of energy—a hardcore triathlete and a labor & delivery nurse. She and her husband were recent transplants from Arizona, and she was, like me, eager to make friends. During the year we shared in proximity, we went on countless runs, many of which blurred the lines between workouts and reciprocal counseling sessions. She had left an unhappy marriage in her twenties, and I was intrigued to learn what insights she brought to her new union.

In addition to pounding the pavement together, Shannon and I also adopted black Lab puppies from the Humane Society the same month and enrolled in a puppy obedience class. And, I also conned her into joining my team for the Illinois Valley Relay, a now-defunct 100K race through what could only be described as the sticks. Our team of six women kicked some serious arse and set a course record, while also managing to do some all-important car dancing. That day was among the highlights of my otherwise trying year.

Megan and I joke that we met via online “friend dating,” otherwise known as the Facebook precursor, Friendster. We connected virtually based on our many commonalities—both in our late 20s, married, Lab owners, Minnesota natives, and runners. When we met up at a wine tasting, I could see that we were two peas in a pod. Tall and lanky peas who made each other laugh.

When we met, Megan was finishing a graduate degree in Environmental Science, though she was toying with the idea of trying pharmaceutical sales after graduation. She and her husband, a.k.a. “The Lookout,” were starting the process of a Guatemalan adoption, and I couldn’t believe how involved—and expensive—it was to start a family this way. Megan had exhausted her fertility treatment options, and she had great advice for me as I started to explore my own fertility issues. Her cheerfulness in the face of such a struggle was remarkable.

Initially, I got together with Shannon and Megan separately, but we started running as a small pack, defiant of snow, rain, or hair-curling humidity. Over the course of my year-long marriage, these two friends often served as my surrogate conscience; my own had become utterly disoriented amidst the strife. When I lacked perspective, they were able to help me sort through what was—and was not—acceptable. They are both fervent Catholics, so when they started to hint that it might be time to think about leaving, I listened.

During the week I got divorced, I stayed with both Shannon and Megan, and I was thrilled to see them flourishing. Shannon had started a new job as a home healthcare nurse, and she and her husband were expecting their first baby at the end of the winter. Megan and her “hubs” had been matched with an expectant mother in Guatemala and hoped to have their first baby in their arms in a matter of months.

With so many lives around me brimming with hope and happiness, I tried to keep steering toward the light. Doubt and fear abounded, but I focused intently on my next move—driving back to Minnesota. The future, by definition, is never clear, but I was confident that the coming year would trump the last. And that was enough to put a smile on my face as I jumped into my dimpled car and got the hell out of town.