Julie, Jodi, and their five-month-old son, Reuben, lived in a gorgeous “green” home that they built using straw bale construction. It was full of repurposed materials and personal touches, including kitchen counters made from chalkboard slate they salvaged from an old schoolhouse. The stuccoed walls were stained with earthy shades of matte clay paint, and the quiet room I stayed in was a deep red that was counterintuitively calming. With its wide open spaces and accents of marvelous wood, the home—much like its owners—emanated warmth and character.

On Sunday night, I sat and talked to Julie and Jodi about the last few months of my marriage. I had largely kept quiet while in the fray, as opening up would’ve meant admitting to myself how bad things had gotten. So I recounted bits and pieces of the hellish summer, my escape to Minnesota, and the divorce process. Julie and Jodi were curious about all my name-changing, and I explained that it was relatively easy, since it’s built into the marriage and divorce documents.

Before they had Reuben, the two of them decided to create their own family name—rather than choose between their names or hyphenate, they crafted an original name out of words that had significance for them. It was shocking to hear how much it cost to have their names legally changed. It hadn’t cost me anything—beyond the fairly modest cost of a marriage license—for the “privilege” of adding John’s last name to mine.

In my humble opinion, U.S. marriage law could use some work. The legal aspects of marriage should be entirely separate from the (many, wonderful, diverse) religious traditions associated with marriage. I got married in a church, and guess what?—the pastor didn’t officiate, or even attend, my divorce, and the church didn’t offer to help me work through the end of the union. How was I supposed to reconcile my “I do” with what I was about to do, which was go to the courthouse and take it back?

Technically, the legal and religious aspects of marriage are quite separate, but people don’t seem to get that. If your church doesn’t want to marry certain people, well, that’s just fine with me. But your courthouse should provide equal access to the legal contract. All adults should have the same opportunity to enter into what might become a phenomenal marriage, a complete nightmare, or some middling form of coexistence. All couples should have the same shot at making it to their “golden anniversary” party—to eat cake, surrounded by their progeny, in a house full of memories. Matching cardigan sweaters optional.

Maybe this is a radical idea, but I also think it should be a tiny bit harder to get married and a great deal easier to get divorced. Currently, it takes a hell of a lot more time, money, and paperwork to get divorced than it does to get married. Sure, weddings are ridiculously expensive. But you don’t have to throw a lavish party to get legally married. The current laws make it easy for a man and woman to get hitched quickly (Vegas, baby!) and painfully difficult for people who can’t afford a divorce attorney to free themselves from what are sometimes terrible situations.

Can I get an “AMEN!?” At the very least, I hope I can get an “I’m trying to understand where you’re coming from, sister,” because life is more rich when we attempt to see things from another perspective.

After the heavy conversations with Julie and Jodi, I went to bed with an equally heavy heart and a self-help book. (Believe it or not, someone actually wrote Chicken Soup for the Divorced Soul. But that’s an aside, and it’s not the book I read.) Sometimes, when life feels impossibly confusing, it’s reassuring to wander around a bookstore in search of written respite. So with my latest find in hand, I snuggled into the soft bed in Julie and Jodi’s red room and read and prayed and cried and slept. In that order.

My social life consisted of deep conversations with my dog, phone therapy sessions with our former marriage counselor, $75-per-hour phone calls with my divorce lawyer, and the occasional interaction with other humans who lived at the house. Who, I might add, had to talk to me because we’re related. I hadn’t even gotten together with my friends who lived in Minneapolis. It just took too much life.

So when Dad invited me to go to a concert with him and two of my brothers that Thursday night, I kindly refused. A concert? On a school night? Anyone who’s experienced depression can speak to its uncanny ability to make supposedly fun things sound like utter hell.

Nevertheless, on Thursday afternoon, I found myself riding in a pickup truck, bound for Rochester, MN, to see Bob Dylan play at a minor league ballpark. The concert posse included Dad, my brothers Andy and Skipp, and their friend who everyone calls Buckshot.

The guys had been planning this trip for months, even getting hotel rooms in Rochester so everyone could indulge in overpriced, shitty beer to their heart’s content. Why, in God’s name, had I let these people talk me into this? They were all about fun; I was all about lolling around in pajamas, bemoaning my ruined, pathetic life.

In hindsight, I realize why Dad and the boys forced me to go along. People show their love and concern in all manner of ways. Some people bake brownies. Others buy expensive gifts or send thoughtful cards. The men in my family get you drunk.

Fast forward to about 9 p.m., and all was right in my world. I sat in the outfield grass, barefoot and surrounded by plastic cups of beer and jovial kinsmen. As I gulped down the last few drops of boozy goodness, a brother would appear with a fresh supply. Bob was delivering a stellar show, and the energy was magical. A full moon lit up the smiling faces of fans who swayed in the warm summer air.

Bob played an encore, and I wanted the music to continue forever. Maybe I would just sleep on the well-groomed grass for a couple of years. No one would need to know. The band started to pack up, and the fans scattered. I was distraught. No, no—the fun must go on!

I convinced Dad that we should try to catch a glimpse of Bob backstage. We bumbled through the backyards of the unfortunate souls who lived next to Mayo Field. Sadly, an orange snow fence stood between us and the tour bus, and my quest met a strong dose of reality.

Not as strong, however, as the dose that greeted me on Friday morning when I rose early to get back for work. Because there’s nothing like more grease and salt to soothe your hungover soul, Dad and I hit the McDonald’s drive-thru. Riding shotgun in the pickup, I munched on my egg and cheese muffin and thought about the previous night’s shenanigans. I remembered nursing the never-ending beer, searching for Bob Dylan, and eating late-night pizza. Blech.

A few miles up the road, I declared an emergency. Dad pulled over, and I stumbled through the weeds and prairie grass. I retched in the ditch along Highway 52, picked myself up, and climbed back into the truck. I was OK! In fact, I was more than OK. By dragging me along to the show, the men in my life had opened my (now rather bloodshot) eyes: My life was far from over. There would be more fun. There would be more smiles. There might even be more love.

Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any more beer for a good, long while.