Divorce doesn’t have to break you.
The joyful, vibrant person you see before you wasn’t always this way. For twelve long years,
I lived in what felt like a never-ending nightmare. My mental health was shattered, broken
into pieces I thought would never be put back together. I cried every single day. Even now,
as I recount my story, tears fill my eyes—a testament to the depth of that pain and the
rawness of those wounds. Though I’ve finally emerged from the darkness, I still struggle to
comprehend how I managed to survive it.
The early years of my marriage were filled with hopes and dreams, but they gradually gave
way to a reality I could not have anticipated. My mental health declined, leaving me feeling
trapped and suffocated. Each day felt heavier than the last, a burden I bore silently. The
joyful moments were overshadowed by an overwhelming sense of despair. I often asked
myself, “How did I end up here?” The reality of my situation became an unbearable weight,
one that left me feeling isolated and alone.
For years, I navigated this turbulent journey alone. No one truly understood the storm raging
inside me. My family couldn’t grasp what I was experiencing, which left me feeling
abandoned and crushed. Despite my outward appearances—going to family gatherings,
smiling during the holidays—I felt like I was living a lie. My heart ached, but I felt powerless
to express that pain. Over time, I came to accept that it wasn’t their fault—there was no
malice or neglect, just a cultural upbringing that left them unequipped to help. They were
bound by their own experiences and limited understanding of mental health. This realization
took years of sleepless nights, countless breakdowns, and oceans of tears before I found
peace in understanding their limitations.
Each morning began with a daunting question: “How am I going to get through today?” The
answer, almost always, was my work. My job became my lifeline, the one thing that kept me
anchored amid the chaos. It served as an escape, a distraction, and a mask behind which I
could hide. But don’t be mistaken—this wasn’t easy. I vividly remember walking into the
office on many mornings, barely able to breathe, tears choking me, my chest heavy with the
weight of everything. I would break down, confide in my work family, let the emotions spill
out, and then—somehow—pull myself back together. I’d wipe the tears, put on a smile, and
carry on as if nothing had happened.
Work became my refuge, a place where I could channel my energy into tasks rather than
facing the turmoil within. I convinced myself that as long as I was productive, I could avoid
confronting my feelings. This approach provided temporary relief but ultimately deepened my sense of isolation. I didn’t allow myself to stop, not even for lunch breaks. Stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant confronting the unbearable weight of it all. Once the workday ended, the school run began, and so did the tears—silent tears, suffocating tears. A pain so deep that no one could see it, let alone ease it.
I vividly recall one evening when I picked up my children from school. As I watched their
laughter and innocence, I felt a pang of guilt. I couldn’t fully engage with them; I was
physically present but emotionally absent. The stark contrast between their happiness and
my inner turmoil was heartbreaking. I knew I was missing precious moments, but I felt
trapped in a cycle I couldn’t escape. It was a painful reminder that I was living for everyone
else while neglecting my own needs.
A pivotal moment came a few years ago when a close friend shared something that hit me
like a ton of bricks. She had gotten married during those lost years, and although I had been
present at her wedding, I wasn’t really there. I was a ghost—my body was present, but my
mind and soul were elsewhere, drowning in their own misery. Hearing that revelation
shattered me, forcing me to confront a painful truth I had been avoiding: for over a decade, I
had been merely surviving. I was going through the motions, ticking boxes and fulfilling
duties but not truly living or feeling.
The memories of those years are hazy, clouded in a fog that my mind struggles to penetrate.
So many moments are just... missing, as if my brain refused to store them because it was
too overloaded with pain. I lived in survival mode, barely holding on, just trying to make it
through the next day, the next hour, the next minute without falling apart completely. The
exhaustion was profound. I remember lying awake at night, my mind racing with thoughts I
couldn’t silence. I felt like a spectator in my own life, watching the days pass without truly
engaging in them.
Then came my rebirth. My divorce, though painful, didn’t break me—it freed me. I remember
the day the final papers arrived; a mix of grief and relief washed over me. It was as if a
weight had been lifted, but I was also terrified of what lay ahead. I knew that this was a
significant turning point in my life, and I wanted to embrace it fully. It was then that I made a
decision: I would celebrate not just the end of a chapter but the beginning of a new one. So,
I threw a divorce party.
This wasn’t about celebrating the end of a marriage, but rather the reclamation of me. It was
about stepping into a new light, embracing my freedom, and rediscovering the strong,
independent woman I had buried for so long. Inviting friends and family to share this moment with me was transformative. I felt supported and understood, surrounded by people who believed in my strength. The party became a declaration: I was choosing to reclaim my narrative.
That party marked a turning point. It became a powerful statement to myself and the world
that divorce doesn’t have to break you; it can be a moment of empowerment, of rebirth, of
putting yourself first. The Sonia I am today is a completely different person from the woman
who survived in the shadows for so many years. I am lighter, freer, and more connected to
who I truly am. I discovered hobbies I had long abandoned, spent more time with friends,
and began to explore the parts of myself that had been suppressed for far too long.
I share my journey not out of a desire for sympathy, but to remind others that they are not
alone. Mental health is a silent battle, often fought in darkness behind closed doors. But
there is hope. There is light, even if you can’t see it right now. I am living proof of that.
Somehow, despite everything, I survived. And not only did I survive—I thrived. I found the
strength to not only get through it but to rise from it, stronger than ever.
If you’re reading this, feeling like you’re in the depths of your own darkness, know this: you
can survive this too. Divorce, heartbreak, or any life-altering moment doesn’t define you.
What defines you is how you rise from it. You can find your light, just like I did.
In the end, it’s about reclaiming your narrative, recognizing your strength, and knowing that
the journey, no matter how challenging, can lead to a profound transformation. The path may be fraught with pain and struggle, but it can also be a road to empowerment and self-
discovery. Your story is still being written, and the best chapters are yet to come. Embrace
the journey, lean into the discomfort, and know that the light you seek is not just at the end of the tunnel—it’s also within you, waiting to be unleashed.