Whew. I never thought I’d be here, sitting on my bed, coffee in hand, trying to explain to someone that I’m getting divorced—again. And not just any divorce—this is my third one. And I’m 47, turning 48 this July. Some days I laugh about it, like, “Well damn, third time’s the charm, right?” But other days, it just hits me. Like a brick to the chest.
I didn’t plan this. Nobody plans for this. I bought this house back in 2015 to be close to my parents. It was a home filled with intention, hope, and love. Now? It’s the backdrop of a transition I didn’t see coming. My mom passed away in 2023, and that alone shook me in ways I can’t even explain. Losing her changed everything, including the person I thought I was building this life with.
Then, to add to the grief, my father betrayed us in a way I never saw coming. Just three months after my mother’s funeral, he moved in her sister. That crushed me. It felt like my mom’s memory didn’t even get time to breathe before it was erased. I can’t look at him the same. I can’t even look at him at all—we don’t speak anymore, even though he lives right down the street. That kind of hurt is the kind that lingers.
And maybe that kind of betrayal—the kind that makes you question everything—was what finally made me realize how unhappy I had become in my marriage. Or maybe it just gave me the courage to face what I’d been avoiding. Either way, things had been broken for a long time. We just weren’t saying it out loud.
So now, here I am. My ex moved out, and my son went with him. My son is 21, so he’s grown, but it still stung. We have a great relationship and I still see him often, but the house feels different now. Quieter. Empty in a way that echoes.
Oscar and I now live upstairs. For a while, we were living in the basement apartment while my husband and son were still up here. That setup was… tense, to say the least. But they’re gone now, and Oscar and I are slowly turning this place into a home again. It doesn’t feel settled yet, but it’s getting there.
It’s strange, starting over at this age. You think by now, life should be solid, secure, stable. But here I am, flipping everything upside down again. People look at you like you should have it all figured out. The truth is, sometimes you have to unravel everything before you can really understand who you are.
There’s a kind of grief that comes with divorce that no one really talks about. It’s not just about losing a partner. It’s about letting go of the life you thought you were building. The shared memories, the plans, the comfort of routine—even if it wasn’t working.
Some mornings, I wake up at 3 or 4 a.m., just like always. Oscar brings me a coffee while I’m still in bed, and that simple act feels like love. It’s quiet, but it’s steady. Those little moments matter.
But still—this divorce is exhausting. I’m clearing out the junk left behind in the house, and at the same time, I’m clearing emotional baggage too. Every closet I empty, every drawer I sort through—it feels symbolic. Like I’m pulling apart a version of my life that no longer fits.
The mortgage is another headache. I’ve asked the mortgage company for an extension to submit the divorce decree since the hearing isn’t until May. If they say no, I may have to sell the house. That thought scares me, but I’m also starting to make peace with it. Maybe this house isn’t my forever place after all.
If I do end up selling, I’m thinking about moving near the beach. Somewhere like Ocean City or Rehoboth. I want fresh air, new energy, and a place where I can plant flowers and just breathe. I don’t need a big plan—just something that feels like peace.
Oscar and I are even talking about eventually visiting El Salvador. That’s where his family is from, and they have property there. It’s too soon to say when, though.
I’ve been through a lot these past couple of years. I lost my mom. I lost my marriage. I lost the version of family I thought I had. And I lost Lady, my sweet dog, who had to be put down just weeks ago. The vet suspected cancer. That loss hit me hard. But Jenny and Dolly, my two little dogs, are still here. Jenny’s my cuddler, my service-dog-in-training. Dolly is the playful, bossy one. They keep me going.
There’s a weariness in my bones some days. Like I’ve been carrying too much for too long. But there’s also a spark coming back. Something in me knows this chapter isn’t the end—it’s the rebuild. I’m not trying to go back to anything. I’m trying to go forward.
Even though Oscar and I are happy, I still carry fears. Fear that maybe I’m too old to start over. Fear of making the same mistakes. Fear of opening up and being hurt again. But I also carry hope. I finally have peace in my home. And I’m holding onto that with both hands.
My daughter and I are talking again. We’ve had a rocky relationship, and things got even messier when Oscar moved in. But we’re reconnecting. Slowly. Cautiously. That gives me hope, too. Maybe we’ll find a new way forward together.
And here’s the truth—getting divorced this late in life feels like being thrown into the deep end with no warning. You think it’ll be easier because you’re older, wiser, more experienced. But it still hurts. It still drains you. It still leaves you raw.
But I’m also learning that I’m allowed to want more. More peace. More joy. More laughter. More love. I’m not settling for a life that feels like survival anymore. I want a life that feels like mine.
So if you’re out there starting over in your 40s, 50s, or beyond—I see you. You’re not behind. You’re just beginning again. And there’s something powerful about that.
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