The #1 way that divorce has affected my current relationship is that I see marriage as less of a “destination” and more as an ongoing (hopefully lifelong) process. It’s not about the wedding; it’s about the day-to-day life that you build with someone who is your friend, partner, and lover. You’re not stuck together—marriages can be undone, after all—but if you’re lucky and you work hard at it, the two of you can create something worth sticking around for.

Here’s what the rest of you had to say about how divorce has affected your relationship outlook:

“I’m more comfortable with me. I’m more willing to speak my mind.”

“I am desperate to avoid the same pitfalls, so I overthink everything I say to my boyfriend. I am overcautious not to be ‘unfair’ to him, and I obsess over making this one ‘right.’ He’s patient, but he does have to tell me, ‘Hey, I’m not him, and this is different.’”

“I was bitter for awhile, many months. I went to a wedding a month after my separation and I hated being there. I thought the whole ceremony was a fraud, and I was in an unhealthy mental state at that point. When it comes to dating, I’ve been very cautious. I’ve done my best to make sure I don’t have a ‘rebound,’ but I’ve met someone amazing. I was friends with him before my marriage fell apart, and after my separation, we became better friends. Suddenly, I realized he was my favorite person in the whole world. We are extremely compatible and mature. If anything, divorce taught me how to think rationally about relationships. I’m taking everything very slowly.”

“I won’t repeat the same mistakes twice. I have learned so much from my divorce and past marriage and I apply them all the time to my relationship with [my boyfriend]. It’s making us much more successful!”

“I don’t commit and cling right away. I am getting out there and meeting different people. I feel like you won’t know who Mr. Right for You is if you just bait and hook the first man who gives you attention. I try to work an equal balance between my career, son, friends and men! It is definitely a challenge. I admit, though, that I have been seeing someone for about five months now and he and I both feel ready to be a bit more serious. Fortunately, he also is divorced and understands why I want and have to be careful.”

“I appreciate all of the big and small things my 2nd husband does for me. He does such an amazing job of respecting me, and it’s wonderful. I ain’t ’bout to forget it!”

“I was told unexpectedly one day by my husband that he no longer wanted to be married. The next month of my life, he wouldn’t allow me to touch him, wouldn’t sleep next to me, “forgot” to answer his phone, and would hardly come home at night. Trust has become the number one issue for me. I was married to a man who was the kindest, most loving, considerate, and trustworthy man. My family and friends adored him. He had high morals, good values, and loving traits. I, nor anyone else, would ever have suspected him of cheating. However, he did. And it hurt very, very bad because it was something so unexpected. I never saw it coming. So, I have a very hard time trusting people in my life. I feel I always will because you never know when someone will just ‘switch.’”

“I have found that I crave physical connection, not sex necessarily, but just being close to another man. The last week, I realized that I am rebounding, hard! That thought made me realize that I wasn’t wanting another man; I was wanting intimacy. So now I am trying to cultivate intimacy (not of the sexual nature) in my important relationships (mom, dad, brothers, best friend). I don’t know when/if I’ll date again, but I’m determined to be happy regardless!

*****

I Want to Know

• Do you have any advice for readers who may be feeling insecure in a new relationship?
• How about advice for readers who feel like they’ll never be able to trust another romantic partner again?

Would you like to tell your separation or divorce story? Divorced Before 30 takes submissions! Visit me at my other blog, emmasota or find me on twitter @emmasota. And, if you haven’t already, please connect with Divorced Before 30 on Facebook!

Jeske hit rock bottom after her supernova, struggling with depression and anxiety. She provides some pretty sound advice to other recently-divorced people, pointing out that another person—a new lover—can’t rescue you from the emotional fall-out of divorce. Truly, it takes time to recover, and many people are probably better off waiting to date. I totally agree. And yet, I dove into what could have been a “rebound” relationship just six weeks after my divorce. I’d been on a couple of dates in the interim, but my first post-divorce relationship got serious almost immediately. Mistake? For me, no. In fact, this week marks five years with Mr. More-than-a-Rebound.

Why did it work? Maybe it was just dumb luck, but I think there were several factors that helped:

• I was the one who initiated my divorce, and emotionally, I’d been “done” for months.
• I was already friends with my new love interest before my divorce (and before my marriage, in fact).
• I wasn’t afraid to talk to my new love about my marriage.
• I didn’t talk about my marriage to my new love all that often.
• My new love was extremely understanding and didn’t feel threatened by my previous marriage.
• I didn’t pretend to be entirely over my divorce.
• I was proactive about taking care of myself and pursuing important personal goals like getting out of debt.
• I set boundaries about how often I stayed at my new love’s place.
• I made an effort to spend time with my girlfriends and my family.
• I went to therapy to work through my divorce and wasn’t afraid to admit that I needed it.

Sometimes, you fall in love with the right person at what seems to be precisely the wrong time. Maybe it will explode dramatically, supernova-style, but it could also turn out to be the real deal. I am grateful for the amazing five years that I’ve had with my Mr. More-than-a-Rebound, and I look forward to many, many more.

*****

I’d love to hear from you on this!

Have you had what Jeske calls a “supernova” relationship after your divorce (or a bad break up)?
Or, like me, did you dive into a new relationship that has since lasted?
How long did it take you before you felt emotionally ready for a new relationship after your marriage or serious relationship fell apart?

If you would like to share your own divorced-before-30 story, please check out the submissions page! Men are welcome, too! If you haven’t already, please connect with Divorced Before 30 on Facebook!

If you’re lucky enough to experience the exhilarating thrill of finding a pretty damn good fit, the humiliating part pays off. I won’t say “perfect,” because I’m no longer convinced that’s a helpful way of looking at the world. Or bikinis. Or love, for that matter. Such a mindset previously led me on a several-years-long quest for such an inconsequential “treasure” as the perfect brown shoes. Who has the energy for that? So. I was a very recently divorced 29-year-old, living in my parents’ basement, and much to my own surprise, I actually wanted to date again.

I felt like I had seen what was behind the curtain, and the rules of the game seemed clear. I was disgusted with the old-fashioned drill of meeting guys in a lame twist of fate, like on a plane (I had), at church (check), at work (yep), or in a bar (of course I did). This time, I wanted to go about it more intentionally. You know, actually think about what qualities I was looking for ahead of time. A radical concept, I know. So, just a month after my divorce, I did the practical thing—I jumped on the match.com bandwagon and started spying on potential dates in my pajamas.

Was it too early to be dating? Maybe. But, my heart had slowly detached from my marriage months before I escaped, and I felt more at home in my own brain now than I had in years. I wasn’t looking for anything serious, but I was intrigued by the process of screening potential dates online and making better decisions about who I chose to spend my time with. I had lots of good reasons to slink my way back into the dating pool, but mostly, putting myself back out there felt assertive, and when life gets this woman down, “proactive” may as well be my middle name.

So. I showed up at the county courthouse that afternoon ready to dissolve my marriage. I arrived several minutes early to meet my attorney, the kind soul who charged 75 bucks an hour to answer my e-mails and phone calls. Rounding up to the nearest 15-minute interval, naturally. There was a crowd mulling around outside the courtroom, and everyone looked equally wary of the big wooden doors that stood between us and the judge.

It suddenly hit me that roughly twenty of us were all getting divorced at 1:00. I had expected a private session with the justice system—a judicial tête-à-tête—and instead, I was going to be part of a mass decoupling. The judge would knock off a dozen marriages in the span of one hour. It was heartening to see local government operating so efficiently.

Now, I’ve seen hundreds, maybe thousands, of weddings in my lifetime, and I’m sure you have, too. Any self-respecting romantic comedy marches two young fools down the aisle before the credits roll. Ah-hem. Excuse me. That was bitter-dissolution-voice rearing its cynical but somewhat accurate head. The point is, between the media and real life, you and I have seen enough weddings to be able mumble at least 90% of the traditional ceremony. Extra points for channeling the priest from The Princess Bride.

But, have you ever seen a divorce proceeding? Prior to this fateful day, I had not. And I can tell you that it’s decidedly different than a wedding. There was no processional, no lovely shoes, no tightly wound bouquets. In fact, there wasn’t a groom. Since our divorce was “uncontested,” John wasn’t required to appear in court, so I was on my own, but certainly in good company with the army of strangers getting unhitched.

Within an hour of walking into the courtroom, I had witnessed at least ten divorces, including my own. I gave my testimony, a gavel proclaimed it so, and I walked out with signed papers. I was entirely disillusioned with the process, but I had the two things I had come back to reclaim (besides my favorite jeans): My last name and my life. Reason enough, in my opinion, to eat cake.

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.

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.

Don’t get me wrong. I am incredibly grateful for the love sent my way. I am a lucky, lucky woman. And how the hell were people supposed to know what to say? But. Intent aside, some conversations left me feeling insecure, deflated, and just plain sad.

People were curious—hadn’t I seen any red flags before the wedding? Well, yes, but they were more pink than red, and when I thought about calling it all off, I couldn’t pick up any clear signals from heart nor brain. So I chose the path of least resistance. Throw in the fact that I’m a well-educated, feminist woman, and I don’t think I need to explain why the “red flag” question made me want to smack myself and the dear question-poser upside the head. Simultaneously.

Another comment that frequently accompanied a pat on the back was, “Thank God you didn’t have kids with him.” Very true. But the words made me wince. I longed to have kids. The feelings were real; the feelings ran deep. John and I had started “trying” (not to be confused with the more regimented “TRYING”) shortly after the wedding, but things weren’t quite right with me, and I was eventually diagnosed with a potential fertility challenge.

So, as a 29-year-old on the brink of divorce, I wondered: Would the pieces of the family puzzle ever fall into place for me? Feeling something shy of optimistic about love, I half-joked with my parents that I might go the sperm bank route someday. Mom just shook her head, and Dad balked at the idea of me paying for such a “procedure.” Trying to keep a straight face, he oh-so-generously offered to drop me off at the corner bar instead.