When I got married, more than three decades ago, I did not want to promise to love my husband until death do us part. I did want to try; Dan was my soul mate and sweetheart, and I felt lucky and excited to start a life and family with him. But death — we hoped!— was light years away (we were 29), and a part of me rebelled against vowing my entire life to a monogamous, cohabitating partnership. I’d lived alone in my 20s and loved it; I’d always needed private space to fully unfold. I’d also enjoyed dating and sleeping odd hours; I’m an obsessive thinker and writer. Love or not, I worried marriage might suffocate me.
So I told Dan I couldn’t swear to what I couldn’t predict. He countered: People won’t come to our wedding to hear, “I’ll give it my best shot, but….” He had a point. I said the vows.
We were both right — he in his confidence, me to think twice. Now 33 years later, I’m proud of our long, loving marriage: nurturing children, homes, friendships, pets; collaboratively writing and editing books and articles. We laughed and learned and lived, first struggling financially (but together! as artists!), later finding our footing. We were a connected, compatible team for a charmed, exciting, mostly happy chunk of our lives.
But every marriage has its issues, and the empty nest catapults them to the surface. We had different ways of feeling and expressing intimacy. Dan was working harder than ever, but now with a new team that didn’t include me — and the more he (understandably) devoted himself to that world, the more I both escaped into my own projects and expanded into the sweet peace of autonomy again. When we did hang out, we didn’t want to do or talk about the same things. A couples therapist suggested we might not make it. “No!” we said, stunned.
Still, we drifted further, each feeling less loved and less loving. We had always laughed, and now we didn’t. At least, not enough.
No one was cheating, swearing, slinging plates. We could’ve tried to put Band-Aids on our issues until they healed, or didn’t-heal-but-whatever. Instead, we made an increasingly common choice: We hugged, apologized for our shortcomings and freed each other. To me, it was — and still is — less a failure than the end of a long, productive, good marriage.
But the decision we made inspired pity, judgment and confusion from those around us. Our parents, all forever wedded, bonded in bafflement; when I shared my (vanilla) dating life with one long-married friend, she called my enthusiasm “unhealthy.” Rates of “gray divorce” — couples 50 and older — are surging (numbers for the over 65s have tripled since the 90s) and more than two-thirds of all divorces are initiated by women. Even so, people routinely said, “I’m sorry,” when they heard about us. I get it; change can be scary and sad. I often responded, “Thanks, but it’s OK. We’re good.”
The split itself happened four years ago, just as the world was venturing out again after the pandemic. Since then, both of our lives have broadened. Dan has a girlfriend and a great home upstate, where he now cooks and entertains (and where I’m sometimes welcome). I’ve learned how to change a flat tire, reset my Wi-Fi password and build a metal drawer unit — it’s upside down but works fine! And through the much-maligned dating apps, I’ve met men in Maine, Virginia, Michigan, France: a retired police lieutenant (who taught me how to dodge a speeding ticket), a builder/engineer (who installed my chandelier), an E.R. doctor, and a former TV producer who’s now a treasured friend. I dated a sweet man who’d recently lost a son — reminding me anew to cherish my kids. I’ve talked politics with people far outside my bubble. The highs, lows and breadth of dating keep me visceral and evolving. I’m not young, though, and know that in the great singles game of musical chairs, I may not end up seated again — especially since I won’t marry or cohabitate.
I’ve relished seeing who I am outside of decades-long wife and mother: how much income I need (and how I endeavor to earn it), where I travel, what social life and schedule I prefer. My friend group has changed — more singles, male and female. And I enjoy the romance and sex I’ve found — yes, even into my 60s — which of course many people turn off to in marriage: what the writer D.H. Lawrence called “the great cage of our domesticity.”
I love living alone again, now in a modest city apartment: choosing my surroundings, knowing the fridge contents, sleeping uninterrupted. Feeling pared down but efficient. Coming home to solitude and, yes, unfolding.
I’m certainly not pro-divorce, nor do I think everyone should go our route. (Note: We haven’t legally divorced, for health insurance and tax reasons, but are otherwise fully separated.) A lifelong good marriage is beautiful, admirable, beneficial in many ways. And parting in midlife can devastate the unhealthy — or alone-averse. I’m neither, but tromping single around Paris or Maine, I’ve sometimes wished for someone to dine or hike with. I’ve spent hot Augusts and holiday weekends solo in Manhattan, watched divorced friends endure Christmas isolated and missing their kids. I needed my daughter to retrieve me post-colonoscopy, and I worry about injury or aging alone — though ultimately most women age alone anyway, since we live an average five years longer than men.
And I fret much more about money than I did during our marriage. (After divorce, women tend to suffer financially, men socially.) That said, Dan and I settled — without feuding lawyers — on an agreement that feels fair to us both. I’m still a writer; he still pays for my health insurance, plus a monthly stipend. After all, the writing we did together fueled his career, too.
I feel guilt about the children, who of course initially hated our separation. But kids are happier when their parents are happy — and they’ve seen that we still help each other and remain a family in many ways. We share a dog, and spend major holidays and occasional weekends together, often with Dan’s mother, whom I adore. (Dan’s girlfriend understands — after all, she has kids and an ex, too). My parents and sisters still consider him family. We text often in several family chats.
So overall, my experience has cemented my view that when wedlock no longer feels right or healthy later in life — and if, like us, you’re fortunate enough to have careers, adult kids and a willingness to do the work of a good split (not unlike being in a good marriage!) — then unlocking, becoming separate again, can be a fine option.
Maybe some of our luck came because we faced the truth before it wrecked us. Our marriage no longer felt right, and we lacked the optimism to fix it. So rather than endure or ignore, we parted mutually and amicably — and work to stay that way. If anything, we appreciate each other more now; we’re no longer depriving each other, and we can laugh together again. Also, though, Dan’s an excellent guy. That’s why I married him!
So I think I was right not to embrace those “for life” wedding vows, relics from times when women often bred at 15 and dropped dead by 40. Either way, I loved most of Chapter Two and I’m mostly loving Chapter Three. How’s that for a happy ending?
Cathi Hanauer is the author of three novels and two essay anthologies. She is working on a novel about single women and love.
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