Divorce: The Writing on the Wall

Tuesday Pause ™

When holding on becomes self-abandonment, and letting go becomes an act of faith.

Sometimes, the truth has been staring us in the face for years, revealing itself through repeated disappointments, unmet needs, and circumstances we have become increasingly skilled at explaining away. Yet, acknowledging the writing on the wall often requires confronting realities we are not emotionally, mentally, or spiritually prepared to accept.

For me, one of those realities has been the ending of my marriage.

After more than sixteen years, I am preparing to divorce my husband. I have chosen to share this deeply personal chapter not to criticize him or expose the intimate details of our relationship, but because I believe there is a larger conversation worth having about identity, shame, self-worth, faith, and the sacrifices we sometimes make to remain chosen.

More importantly, I want to explore what happens when the person we are becoming can no longer comfortably exist within circumstances the person we once were learned to accept.

I have never been particularly quiet about my past. In fact, I have openly described myself as a former "hoe" who became a housewife. For more than sixteen years, I remained faithful to my husband, and I celebrated that commitment. However, somewhere along the way, I began presenting marriage almost as evidence of my redemption, as though becoming someone's wife made me more worthy of respect than the woman I had been before.

Looking back, I recognize that marriage may have represented more than love. My husband and I married less than three months after beginning our relationship, and I now question how much of that decision was influenced by fear, religious expectations, and my desire to feel chosen. For much of my life, I struggled with believing I was enough, and becoming a wife may have offered a sense of validation I had spent years seeking.

But when being chosen becomes intertwined with our identity, we can become so invested in remaining chosen that we overlook what it is costing us.

That realization challenged me because my transformation was never dependent upon a marital title. God's grace was not contingent upon a man choosing me, and my growth will not disappear because my marriage is ending.

I do not believe my husband is a bad person, and I genuinely believe he loves me. However, I have learned that someone can love you and still struggle to demonstrate that love in ways that meet your emotional needs.

Throughout much of our marriage, I often felt responsible for making myself feel seen, desired, respected, and emotionally safe. Over time, I became increasingly intentional about loving myself, learning to affirm my worth without depending upon someone else's ability to recognize it.

Yet, I eventually confronted an uncomfortable contradiction: I had become exceptionally good at speaking life over myself while continuing to accept circumstances that left some of my deepest emotional needs unmet.

Perhaps one of my most difficult realizations has been that my husband and I may have been more compatible before I learned to truly love myself. Not because self-love made me superior to him, but because the woman I was when we married accepted circumstances the woman I am becoming can no longer accept.

I spent years hoping that more patience, clearer communication, and greater effort would produce the emotional intimacy I desired. Eventually, I recognized that I had become more committed to preserving the title of wife than acknowledging the condition of the marriage itself.

And while marriage requires sacrifice, forgiveness, and commitment, there is a significant difference between sacrificing for the health of a relationship and sacrificing yourself to preserve its existence.

Within some Christian communities, the pressure to preserve marriage can make acknowledging its difficulties particularly uncomfortable. I believe in the sanctity of marriage, forgiveness, and reconciliation, but I also believe those conversations must include emotional health, accountability, and mutual responsibility.

Too often, people remain silent because they fear disappointing their families, facing judgment, or explaining why a marriage that appeared beautiful publicly was painful privately.

I understand that fear because marriage became part of the story I told about my transformation. But I refuse to interpret its ending as evidence that my personal growth has failed.

I can appreciate the beautiful moments within my marriage without denying the pain, and I can take responsibility for my shortcomings without accepting responsibility for everything that went wrong.

I am not ashamed of my marriage, and I am not ashamed that it is ending.

One of the most difficult considerations surrounding my divorce has been its impact on my children. As a mother, I understand the desire to remain married for their sake, but I also have three daughters learning about love, commitment, and womanhood through the example I provide.

I began questioning what remaining married solely for their benefit might teach them. Would they learn that commitment requires overlooking their emotional needs, or could they understand that healthy relationships require mutual respect, communication, and accountability?

I want my daughters to believe in marriage and appreciate the sacrifices healthy commitment requires. But I also want them to recognize that their worth will never depend upon whether a man chooses them.

The possibility of hurting them weighs heavily on me, as does knowing my husband may experience pain. I genuinely love him and desire happiness for him, and I want us to navigate this transition without bitterness.

Nevertheless, I have accepted that protecting everyone I love from disappointment cannot require continually neglecting myself. I can approach this transition with compassion while recognizing that my emotional well-being matters, too.

I did not begin 2026 expecting my marriage to end before the year was over. Yet, as I began accepting our reality, I experience a sense of freedom I had not felt in years. That freedom does not mean I will never grieve. Rather, I believe much of my grieving occurred long before I decided to divorce. I had already mourned the conversations that produced little change, the emotional intimacy I longed for, and the future I imagined we would share.

Sometimes, grief does not begin when a relationship officially ends. It begins while we are still desperately trying to save it.

And sometimes, the peace someone experiences after making a difficult decision is not evidence that they loved less, but that they have finally accepted something they spent years struggling to change.

During this transition, someone entered my life whose presence awakened feelings I had not experienced in quite some time. Being desired, considered, and pursued reminded me of emotional needs I had become accustomed to living without.

This individual was not the reason my marriage ended. The writing had been on the wall long before he entered my life. However, his presence made it more difficult to ignore what I had been missing.

As I reflected on the connection, I recognized that sometimes our attachment to another person involves more than who they are. We can become attached to the version of ourselves we experience in their presence.

For years, through Unapologetic Transitions, I have encouraged women to embrace change, confront uncomfortable truths, and refuse to allow difficult experiences to define their futures. My message has consistently been to get up, get dressed up, and live.

Yet, this season has challenged me to practice those very principles.

It is one thing to teach boundaries and another to establish them when doing so disappoints people we love. It is one thing to encourage women to recognize their worth and another to make decisions that reflect our own, particularly when those decisions challenge family expectations or religious traditions.

I am learning that unapologetically transitioning does not require universal approval. I can remain accountable and open to wise counsel without abandoning my understanding of my own experiences.

Perhaps most importantly, I am discovering that surrender does not always mean holding on longer. Sometimes, it means releasing our expectations of how a chapter was supposed to unfold and trusting God with what comes next.

As I reflect on this season, I wonder how many people are quietly wrestling with truths they have recognized but have not yet been willing to acknowledge. And I am not speaking exclusively about marriage.

Sometimes, the writing on the wall appears within friendships, careers, family dynamics, or beliefs we have carried for so long that we have stopped questioning whether they still reflect who we are becoming.

I am not encouraging anyone to leave their marriage simply because difficulties arise. Healthy relationships require patience, grace, forgiveness, accountability, and mutual effort.

But I am encouraging honesty.

For years, I hoped that if I continued loving, praying, communicating, and waiting, my marriage would eventually become what I envisioned. Eventually, I recognized that I was no longer holding on to the relationship as it existed, but to the relationship I hoped it would become.

That realization was painful, but it also brought clarity. I am not choosing divorce because I believe another man will make me whole. I am moving forward because I recognize that I was never incomplete.

I no longer want to mistake endurance for intimacy, sacrifice myself to preserve a title, or make decisions rooted in fear while convincing myself they are expressions of faith.

My desire is to pursue what I believe is God's best for my life, even when that requires surrender, solitude, or beginning again.

And as I enter this next chapter, I am reminded of something I have spent years encouraging other women to embrace:

You do not have to erase the woman you were to embrace the woman you are becoming.

You can honor her, appreciate everything she endured, and recognize that she made decisions with the understanding she possessed at the time. You can acknowledge her growth without requiring yourself to remain where she once stood.

Because sometimes, the writing on the wall is not simply revealing what needs to end. Sometimes, it is inviting us to recognize what is ready to begin.

Call to Action

What truth have you been repeatedly explaining away because acknowledging it would require change? Are you holding on because something continues to nurture your growth, or because releasing it would challenge the identity you have built around it? Either way, I dare you to get honest with yourself.

Your story is not over simply because a chapter is ending. Sometimes, becoming requires us to release the expectation that our lives must unfold exactly as we once imagined.