Separating the Trees

How my people held me up through the grief of my divorce

Two years ago today, on July 18, 2019, I woke up in my best friend’s guest bedroom. The day before, I had told my wife that I was moving out for good.

Nothing prepares you for that decision. No matter how much you have been debating, no matter how long you’ve been in limbo, nothing truly readies you for the moment it becomes real. I moved into my best friend’s house in a haze of shock and grief, the pain at times feeling unbearable. I lay awake at night, unable to sleep, tears soaking the pillows over and over again as the devastation hit me in the darkness. I juggled looking for places to live and calling potential mediators in between meetings at work, my days blurring as I desperately tried to hold the pieces of my heart together for long enough to get something done.

One night, amidst the copious tears and equally as copious glasses of wine, my friend Karen said that I should imagine my ex-wife and me as trees. We each started out as separate saplings, she said, planted side by side in the soil beneath us. But over time, our branches and roots became intertwined, growing together as the days and years passed by.

Divorce is separating the trees. Their gnarled branches and bright leaves wrap around one another with abandon, some loosely draped, others twisted so tightly it’s almost as if they are one. Cutting through the entangled branches and roots to pull away from the other inevitably means losing some of your own.

Losing her made me lose pieces of me. My arms, my legs, my humor, my stories, my memories. Every step away was a cut down of the ax onto me, into my skin. And each cut was another question, another piece of uncertainty. How much will be left? And will I have the strength to stand on my own?

On this day two years ago, I woke up in that guest bedroom raw and swaying, a shaky tree with fresh wounds from sawed off branches and tangled roots in disarray underneath the ground. But little by little, those branches began to grow back. And I now can see that they grew back because of my people:

• Josh letting me sleep on his couch over and over again when I couldn’t go home.
• Meredith and Dave letting me live with them for a month when I didn’t have a place to go.
• Karen eating pizza with me on one of the most painful nights, reminding me that glimmers of happiness can be found even in the toughest of times.
• Carolyn and Megan and the Emilys taking me on a girls trip to the woods two days after leaving, alternating between dancing with me to Rather Be and holding me while I cried in bed.
• Kate helping me navigate the financial implications facing me and making sure I was taking care of myself no matter what.
• Heather and Sarah spending hours on FaceTime with me rebuilding my sense of strength and worth.
• Emily holding my hand through mediation in the law firm’s office and asking the questions I couldn’t get out through my tears.
• Lena and Dave and Betsy and Billy and Eugene and Zaneta and CJ moving me out of my house so I didn’t have to do it alone.
• Megan and Brad driving down from New Jersey to help me set up my new apartment.
• Alex sleeping next to me so I could finally sleep through the night.
• Marianne and Amanda wrapping their arms around me in LA when I needed it most.
• Courtney planning a girls trip to Austin to bring me joy and to sit with me in the grief.
• Mary Mason and Raven giving me endless grace at work.
• Ashleigh going with me to court to sign the divorce papers so I wouldn’t have to be alone.

They don’t tell you that your people are both light and shade, that they are both marriage officiant and eyewitness to its demise. They don’t tell you that in the span of one breath they will hold your shaking body and tell you they’re worried and in the next nod when you say that you have to give it your all, or you might regret it later.

The people closest are the ones who see the grey, because they too have seen the light. They too were part of hours of laughter and dancing, they saw the kisses in the car, the hands held through the paths of the Arboretum, the salmon BLTs and bowls of pasta at Union Market. They understand your anguish, because they too feel devastated. They empathize with your uncertainty because they too feel unsure. They get your fear, because they too are scared.

We walked this path together, all of us, hand in hand, side by side, slowly picking apart the knots in the string until it was free. Push and pull, waver and step, question and decide.

They don’t tell you that best friends are also trees planted in the ground next to you. That when you are cutting through the branches to pull yourself away from your wife, some of their branches will come too. They too feel the pain.

But they are planted further away, less pieces needing to be pulled off in the mayhem. They stay more whole, more sturdy. And ultimately their intact vines wrap tightly around you to offer stability while you grow back.

Two years ago today, I woke up in that guest bedroom unsure of what the future would bring. And as the sun streamed in through the windows, I sat in bed and wrote the message I wanted myself to remember in the months to come:

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. I’m scared, excited, sad, relieved, angry, calm, nervous, happy…all at the same time. I just know it’s the right decision for right now. I don’t know any more than that, and I don’t have to.

I’m proud of myself. I’m really, really proud of myself. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’m ready to take the step forward and the leap of faith because I know the status quo isn’t working.

I want to remember this moment because in the times of doubt, I want to be able to remind myself that at the very core, I deserve to be happy and I deserve to be in a relationship that is safe and trusting, where I am treated with respect. I have so many people standing behind me and beside me supporting me through this, but I also know that I am capable of doing it on my own. I’m strong and have the ability to make decisions for my life that are in my best interest, because no one else can and no one else will.

It’s time, and even though I’m going to have moments of heartbreak and grief, and probably many more of doubt, I have to remember that the alternative is worse than this decision. And that ultimately, this decision is going to lead to a whole new world of possibilities for me.

This morning — two years later — I woke up in my own bed, in my own house that I bought for myself, surrounded by my cats and peace and the joy of a city I love. My roots are firmly planted, my new branches are strong and growing, and the scars are fading slowly over time. I am safe, and happy, and whole. And I am surrounded by more love, laughter, and support than I ever could imagine.

Karen was right. Separating the trees that were my wife and me after so many years of growing together was absolutely excruciating. And I happened to read somewhere recently that when you love deeply, you heal slowly. I wonder sometimes if it will be a forever process: just simply a remaking of the forever I had once committed to on that wedding day.

Either way, sitting here two years later, I at least can say that I finally see the beauty: I might not have gotten the forever love I so desperately wanted in my wife, but in my people, I found the forever love I most need.