As my marriage fell apart, so did I.
There was evening wine, of course—the premier accessory of the bored housewife—and a circadian rhythm in shambles. I’d lie in bed for hours, trying not to transfer my restlessness onto the sleeping toddlers I was wedged between. Sometimes, in desperation, I’d inch to the foot of the bed and slither downstairs into the kitchen to search for a half joint in our junk drawer. I’d take a puff, hoping it’d relax me enough to rest, even though all it ever gave me was anxiety. I lived entirely for the rare girls’ nights out, desperate for a three-hour break from my existence. And I always, just really, really needed to lie down.
Present in body only, I missed more moments with my children than I can yet reckon with. I spent all my days with my kids, but by the end, I’d remember almost nothing. I was always lost in my mind, playing out a fantasy where I was brave enough to leave. What was the point in “staying for the kids” if I wasn’t even really there?
It felt like my ex-husband saw the best approach to parenting as being akin to shift work; he’d take them, then I would. Back and forth. Why not just make official the split custody we were already appropriating? When I requested time as a family of five, I’d hear that it “wasn’t worth it,” because then we’d both be tired.
I scrolled mindlessly on my phone, consumed celebrity gossip like I was Deux Moi herself. I sat in my car at every opportunity and sought quick hits of dopamine through spending. Nothing took the edge off reality like a $7 latte or an Amazon purchase.
“In therapy, I waded through the wreckage of my life, but no matter how many sessions I attended, I never felt relief. ”
The habits born during the darkest period of my life weren’t all so obviously unhealthy; some masqueraded as self-care. I’d walk for hours, without a destination and devoid of any joy, in a weighted vest. I ate less junk, sure—because I barely ate at all. My anxiety was suppressing my appetite, and I would find myself shaking and faint, at which point I’d force myself to chew through a chunk of apple around 4 p.m. People often asked about my “workout routine and diet”; I couldn’t tell them that the anxiety and stress of ruminating on blowing up my marriage were cheaper than Ozempic or an Equinox membership.
Therapy was weekly, and I never missed an appointment. I had to wade through the wreckage of my life. But no matter how many sessions I attended, I never felt relief. The traditional methods of “seeking wellness” fell consistently short.
My therapist would remind me that it is unfair to expect one person to meet my every need. While I appreciated her due diligence and even agreed with her position, a varied contentment portfolio was not my problem. I was pursuing a master’s degree, spoke daily to my best friend of 20 years, and had built an online community of like-minded women centered on sharing authentically about motherhood, and ironically, marriage.
Women are socialized to prioritize romantic partnership from birth—patriarchy, our presiding system of domination, demands it. And I overrode every gut feeling to do just that, ignoring the critical questions that related more deeply to my identity: Who do I want to be? Where do I want to go in life? What do I want to do? I put my head down and pursued being a wife and mother until the dissolution of my marriage forced me to revisit those questions.
For years, I tried to outsource the decision to leave. I sought permission from my therapist, mother, and my poor best friend, who had heard my case so frequently she grew increasingly exhausted by my inaction. After an appetizer and three sips of wine, I’d test my material on any woman who had kind eyes and a few minutes to spare.
I became an amateur relationship anthropologist, utterly fascinated by other people’s partnerships. I always wondered how people made things work, what made things fail, and whether my circumstances were bad enough to exit. When abuse and philandering are absent, the line between “stay” and “leave” can feel blurry; we wonder whether we’re allowed to be unhappy, and if the desire to become happier is OK. And was having a by the end, I’d who liked me even a reasonable expectation? Everybody liked him, though, and for a long time that seemed like the only thing that mattered. But once I could no longer be the mother I needed to be in that environment, staying seemed senseless.
“Wellness means building a life you don’t need to escape.”
In her book, The Way of Integrity, Martha Beck says that integrity, as she defines it, is not moral righteousness. Integrity is truth and wholeness, and she asserts that your body and emotions will guide you toward it. It means closing the gap between what you feel and what you do. Moving towards integrity, even if it means your circumstances are still challenging, will result in relief, lightness, or energy.
After I asked for a separation, my life became more challenging. As a stay-at-home mother for nearly a decade, I was forfeiting financial security. I was collapsing our traditional family unit. I was misunderstood by friends and family. But I was exchanging all of it for wholeness. The moment the words left my mouth, I felt terrified, but relieved. Sad, but buoyant. Guilty, but free.
We spent the next 14 months cohabitating together through our separation and divorce, and while it was the most traumatic and disruptive period of my life, it was the cost of liberation.
According to longitudinal data from the MIDUS study, women in very low‑quality marriages who divorced reported significantly higher life satisfaction at follow-up compared to those who stayed married in similar circumstances—evidence that sometimes wellness starts with walking away.
Wellness is not mouth-taping and Spirulina-laced smoothies—though, if either is your thing, I don’t begrudge you. Wellness is building a life you don’t need to escape. Sometimes, that means leaving one behind to create another you can truly be still in.
I love a holistic ritual as much as the next girl. They can be helpful, but they’re not why I’m OK. To live and be truly well, I had to extract myself from a life that was killing me. Without even noticing, I stopped drinking almost entirely. Our custody schedule has led to a more equitable split of parenting labor. I’m not exhausted anymore, and I hardly feel the need to nap. I even put a pause on therapy for the summer—not because I don’t believe in it, but because I’m no longer in a constant state of crisis. I still go on walks, but not to microdose freedom—now, I walk simply because I want to.
You cannot be healthy if your environment is making you sick. You can’t biohack your way out of a life that’s making you miserable. It doesn’t matter how much Pilates you do if you’re going home to a place that feels like hell.
“You cannot be healthy if your environment is making you sick. You can’t biohack your way out of a life that’s making you miserable.”
No one markets divorce as a wellness intervention. There aren’t influencers exalting custody schedules or plugging their favorite mediator, but maybe they should be. If you’re tired—emotionally, mentally, and physically—water, yoga, and a prescription retinol can only go so far. Maybe it’s your home dynamic that needs to change, not your skincare regimen.
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