A letter to the version of me on the first wedding anniversary since divorce

You wore white. Your sister-in-law made your bouquet out of magnolias from her neighbor's yard. You had brunch at the nice place down the street and got ice cream after. It was supposed to be the beginning of forever. Not two years.

It was supposed to be a vow of love, loyalty, and dedication. And it wasn't upheld. There were years of asking for changes that never took root. And eventually, you couldn't stay.

Not when you didn't recognize your own reflection in the mirror. Not when you were on pills and in therapy and still felt out of your mind. Not when everyone in your life could see what you refused to. You shrunk yourself smaller and smaller, and made excuse after excuse, always landing on the same line: "you just don't understand him the way I do." You sacrificed friendships, family closeness, your own gut feeling, all in the name of protecting him from anyone who tried to point out what was happening.

You loved him more than you loved yourself. You sold pieces of yourself for that marriage and called it devotion. You fought tooth and nail for a life you couldn't picture anymore but still wanted, just because you'd already given so much to it.

You can't make anyone change when they don't want to. Change hurts. But leaving was the only thing left for you to do.

Maybe your mind lives in the day you left so you don't have to think about the best days. The day you met. The first kiss. Saying "I love you." Getting engaged. Getting married. Anniversaries. Tuesdays. Sunday mornings. Every quiet good moment in between that felt like falling in love all over again.

On your wedding anniversary, all of that comes back at once. The wall of fire that fueled you the day you filed falls to a sea of sadness, and there's no use in fighting it.

Swim in it. Let the waves crash, because they will. But they will also recede. They will not last forever.

Remember the happy days. Just because it didn't last doesn't mean it didn't happen. It was amazing in the moment. It meant everything to you at one point. The sadness today means it was real.

You can appreciate everything you learned in your marriage and the way it shaped you into the person you are right now.

So cry it all out. Eat ice cream and drink wine in the bath tub. Lay in bed all morning. Watch your favorite movie. Spend time with someone who will make you laugh. Let the day be hard and fun and sad and happy, and make new memories on top of the old ones.

Make plans, though. The anxiety leading up will be worse than the day itself. If you have plans, it will be easier to calm your mind at 11 pm the night before.

Write yourself a letter. Journal. Spend time in a place that feels good. Feel the emotions instead of running from them.

And then, go forward, grateful for the person you're becoming. It's all part of the journey.

Your marriage never defined you when you were in it, and your divorce doesn't either. You're more than the grief. You're more than the anger. You're growing. You're learning. And I hope you love the person you're becoming.

Did you ever think you could be really, truly happy without a partner? Because you are doing it. Not only are you doing something you never thought you would, you're also doing something you at one point never thought you could.

Some day, ten years from now, you'll wake up and go through the day like normal, until half way through the pasta aisle you'll remember what day it is. And it won't hurt so bad. You might smile a little to yourself, proud of how far you've come.

That day isn't as far away as it feels. You'll be okay, I promise.