Yesterday would have been our anniversary
A love letter to the life we shared.
I wrote this last year and was so overcome with grief that it was clear I wasn’t ready to share.
Yesterday would have been our 18th wedding anniversary and a 22-year-long romantic relationship. The longest romance I’ve ever had — besides the one with myself.
This marriage is officially old enough to move out and go away to college.
Instead, we are finalizing the divorce papers.
It’s a hard pill to swallow.
In this relationship I became the woman I am.
This marriage was a vehicle. It took us places faster than we’d have gone on our own.
It was a laboratory of becoming.
In it, I found my footing. I learned to surrender into love, into the care and stability of the masculine. I waded deep into pleasure. I had spaciousness enough to form my own opinions and make decisions — even when they hurt.
Despite the decrescendo of love and the dissolution of the marriage, I retain the love.
Love and safety were gently hardwired into my nervous system. My perpetual anxious attachment style was soothed in secure love.
I feel blessed to have been loved by this man for as long as I was.
On the other side I know that longevity isn’t the only marker that matters in love.
Look where I landed. Look where he sweetly deposited me for my second act.
Divorce is like someone died, except no one brings you food or flowers.
Without a ritual that exists for divorcees to mourn with loved ones, the heavy grief is carried mostly alone, behind closed doors.
The hard nights feel like being broken anew.
Years ago I broke my nose. It was as crooked as a hockey player’s, complete with the black eyes.
I took a photo of my face after it happened (as evidence for insurance, I suppose) — my face, tear-stained with smudged mascara and disfigured nose. Long after the wound healed, occasionally this raw, broken photo of me would flash across our computer screensaver, and we would wince at the sight.
Right around the time the swelling went down, I went into surgery to have it reset—broken back into place by a professional—so it would heal properly.
The second break was worse than the first. When the good drugs ran out, even the maximum dose of ibuprofen barely made a dent in the pain. I called in favors to get stronger drugs to manage the pain. I remember sitting with my back against the wall in my Utah bedroom, weeping on the phone with my mom, who was a thousand miles away.
Later during Covid, I packed my belongings from the Seattle house we had previously shared —
him: throwing away photos of us, discarding heart-felt birthday cards
me: rescuing things from the discard pile to preserve our history
It was brutal. At this early stage of the pandemic, the borders were closed to Canada, my first home. Travel restrictions and lengthy quarantines separated me from my family and their physical presence as I underwent the biggest grief of my life. I packed alone and was leveled by the experience. Even thinking about it now still brings up tears.
I remember lying in the backyard, underneath the pine canopy, sobbing, counting down the hours until I could board a plane for home and the desert.
This is something that happens at this time of year: a season that used to be celebratory now stings instead.
What do we do with the love that has nowhere to go? This becomes the origin of our grief. There are no shortcuts, friends. You can’t self-medicate it away. You can’t shop away the grief. The bill is due for each of us when we experience this type of intense grief. The invitation is to feel it all.
Recently I sat down with someone who was experiencing her own complex grief after the unexpected loss of a friend. “I’m not used to feeling like this,” she confided. “When will it end?” My answer to her was that it simply takes what it takes.
Grief follows its own unexpected path. Some days you can be totally fine. And then out of nowhere, something unexpected will trigger a fresh wave of grief.
I like to think of grief as a coil: when the next wave of grief comes, it can feel like you’ve already been through this part of the healing process — it can be infuriating. You’ve already felt the ache over these memories! What gives! But the good news is every cycle of the coil is slightly shorter than the last. You’ll find yourself recovering to baseline faster. You might be able to have a conversation with — or about — your former love without crying. These baby steps are all worth celebrating.
When the hurt runs deep, the healing process often requires a second breaking. Unless you are willing to let the break never heal quite right. And sadly, many do.
Sometimes healing means breaking your own heart.
If you are going through your own heartbreak, please know that you’re not alone. If you could benefit from space holding and healing to process your experience, I offer single session 1:1 coaching. It would be an honor to hold space for and support you in your sacred grief.
Sex and Style is written by Certified Sex, Love and Relationship Coach and Wardrobe Stylist, Sarah Ward. She has spent the last 20 years studying human sexuality and minted it in 2021, certifying in the VITA Methodology with Layla Martin. Since 2009, Sarah has styled over 5000 photo shoots and dressed thousands of bodies. Her work has been published in Seattle Met Bride and Groom and Women’s Wear Daily.
If you were moved by this piece, I invite you to press the ♥️ — it feels like a hug. Did these words constellate something in you? A memory? Familiarity? Longing? I would love to hear more about what you felt. Pieces like these are a labor of love, and it warms my heart learning that it makes a difference. If you know someone who may appreciate this, please share. Thank you for being here and the gift of your presence.
This is beautifully written. And I really recognize the grief without a ritual part of divorce. It gives it a layer of shame that shouldn’t be there
Such a beautiful story of honesty Sarah.