The First Night After Separation

What I Wish Someone Had Told Me About the First Days After Separation

People often ask me what the hardest part of my divorce was.

They assume it was the fighting.

The legal process.

The finances.

Starting over.

Those things were hard.

But they weren't the hardest part.

The hardest part was the first night I slept away from my children.

For six months after my ex-husband and I separated, we decided to "nest." If you're unfamiliar with the term, nesting is an arrangement where the children stay in the family home while the parents rotate in and out. In our very Pacific Northwest version of nesting, one of us stayed with our boys—who were five and eight years old at the time—while the other lived on our little 22-foot Catalina sailboat moored a few miles away in a Seattle marina.

At the time, it felt like the least disruptive option for the kids.

For me, it felt like grief with a mailing address.

They say there's something healing about water. That it holds emotion. Carries it. Draws it out of us.

If that's true, the Puget Sound witnessed the deepest grief I've ever known.

That first night on the boat, I cried so hard I genuinely thought I might die.

I was still drinking then.

Between sips of wine and sobs, I opened Google and searched:

"Can you suffocate from crying so hard that you can't breathe?"

I'm laughing as I write that now, but I wasn't laughing then.

My heart wasn't breaking because my marriage was ending.

Truthfully, like so many divorces, the relationship itself had been over long before we admitted it out loud.

My heart broke because I believed I had just lost half of my children's childhood.

I couldn't understand how something so instinctual—being with my children every day—could simply...end.

It felt cruel.

Unnatural.

Like someone had reached into my life and torn away the most precious thing I had.

If you're standing in that place right now, I want you to know something.

I know exactly how impossible it feels.

And I also know something you don't know yet.

The Spoiler

Nothing was taken from me.

At least, not in the way I believed that night.

In fact, I was unknowingly standing at the doorway to the most vibrant season of my life.

I didn't know that I was about to discover what peace actually felt like.

I didn't know I would parent without constantly walking on eggshells.

I didn't know I would go to bed without wondering if I'd be shaken awake at two in the morning to finish an argument that should have ended hours earlier.

I didn't know what it felt like to have complete autonomy over my own body.

To say "no" without fear.

To wake up without dread.

I didn't know that I would eventually become someone I genuinely admired.

But before any of that happened...

I had to survive the leaving.

And if you're reading this while contemplating separation—or if you've just begun walking through it—I know that might feel like the impossible part.

You might be wondering whether you have enough strength.

Enough energy.

Enough courage.

Here's what I want you to hear.

If leaving is the right and necessary decision, you will be given the strength to walk through it.

Not all at once.

Not with confidence.

But one step at a time.

It will probably be the hardest thing you've ever done.

But when you come out the other side, you'll discover something extraordinary.

Hard things don't just reveal strength.

They build it.

Like an athlete training for an Ironman, you'll become capable of carrying things that once seemed impossible.

Not because life becomes easy.

Because you've become stronger.

So how did I eventually stand back up after that night on the sailboat?

There wasn't one answer.

There were hundreds of tiny ones.

Here are the four that changed everything.

1. I Knew I Was Doing the Right Thing

This became my anchor.

When the grief came.

When the money disappeared.

When I questioned myself.

When everything felt uncertain.

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that leaving was the right decision.

That certainty carried me farther than confidence ever could.

Financially, I was starting from scratch.

Every credit card we shared was closed.

Every joint account disappeared overnight.

I had one checking account in my own name with a few thousand dollars.

I scraped by.

I painted houses.

Started a decluttering business.

Pulled weeds.

Cut down trees with a chainsaw.

Rode my bike because gas wasn't always an option.

Some days I'd buy one large order of Pad Thai and make it last all day.

Looking back, it almost sounds unbelievable.

Living it simply felt like survival.

But every difficult day reinforced the same truth:

I wasn't moving away from something.

I was moving toward the life my children and I deserved.

2. I Focused on the Next Right Thing

One of the greatest gifts I ever gave myself was refusing to live six months ahead.

When we're overwhelmed, our brains desperately want certainty.

So they start asking impossible questions.

Where will I live?

Will I ever be okay?

How will I support myself?

What if I make the wrong decision?

Will my children resent me?

Our brains believe worrying is preparing.

Most of the time, it's just drowning.

If I had tried to solve my entire future while sitting on that sailboat, I would have stayed frozen.

Instead, I asked a much smaller question.

What's the next right thing?

Ride my bike to work.

Show up for my boys.

Return the phone call.

Fill out the paperwork.

Go for a walk.

Eat something.

Sleep.

Repeat.

Tiny decisions build extraordinary lives.

One next right thing eventually becomes a hundred.

And then one day, without realizing it, you've crossed an ocean.

3. I Learned to Micro-Grieve

This might be the most important thing I learned.

Grief doesn't disappear because we ignore it.

It waits.

It builds.

It asks to be felt.

Eventually, I stopped trying to outrun it.

Instead, I let it wash over me.

If grief hit while I was folding laundry...

I cried.

If I suddenly thought about leaving the home where I brought both of my boys home from the hospital...

I cried.

Sometimes I collapsed onto the kitchen floor.

Sometimes I sobbed in my car.

Sometimes I cried for thirty seconds.

Sometimes two minutes.

And then I'd stand back up.

Here's the thing no one told me.

Those moments weren't setbacks.

They were healing.

Imagine grief weighing one hundred pounds.

Every time you fully allow yourself to feel it, you remove one brick.

One pound.

One small piece of the burden.

You don't have to carry all one hundred pounds forever.

Brick by brick, your body knows how to let it go.

Not because you forced it to.

Because you finally allowed it.

4. I Got Strategic

Emotion without strategy creates overwhelm.

Strategy without emotion creates burnout.

You need both.

During divorce there are hundreds of decisions competing for your attention.

Without a clear hierarchy, every decision feels equally urgent.

Mine wasn't.

My number one priority was housing.

Everything else became secondary.

That meant every negotiation centered around one question:

Does this move me closer to stable housing for my boys and me?

For someone else, the priority might be:

• Equal parenting time.

• Financial security.

• Keeping a family business.

• Preserving retirement.

• Staying in the same school district.

• Protecting a child's special needs routine.

• Getting out as quickly and safely as possible.

There isn't one right priority.

There is only your priority.

My second priority was peace.

That became my compass.

Every decision passed through one filter:

Will this move me closer to peace?

If the answer was no, I paused.

That single question simplified countless decisions.

If I Could Go Back to That Sailboat...

Sometimes I think about that woman sitting on the floor of a tiny Catalina with mascara running down her face, clutching a glass of wine, convinced her life was over.

I wish I could sit beside her.

I wouldn't tell her to stop crying.

I wouldn't tell her everything happens for a reason.

I certainly wouldn't tell her to "stay positive."

I'd simply put my arm around her and say:

"You're going to stop drinking one day, and you're going to discover that life feels even more vivid than you thought possible."

"You're going to experience joy in technicolor."

"You're going to discover passion in ways you thought only happened to other people."

"Your boys are going to be okay."

"One day you'll love the rhythm of your new family."

"You're going to let beautiful people into your life—the kind of people who make you wonder how you ever settled for less."

"You'll laugh again."

"You'll sleep peacefully again."

"You'll trust yourself again."

And finally, I'd tell her this:

You are so much braver than you realize.

Because one day you'll look back on this season and recognize it for what it really was.

Not the ending of your life.

The beginning of it.

You Don't Have to Walk Through This Alone

If you're standing where I once stood—trying to decide whether to leave, navigating the early days of separation, or wondering how you'll ever rebuild your life—I want you to know that there is a path forward.

I've walked it.

I've lived the fear, the grief, the financial uncertainty, the parenting challenges, and the thousand decisions that come with starting over.

Today, I help others navigate that same journey with clarity, strategy, and compassion.

Together, we'll quiet the overwhelm, create a plan that reflects your priorities, and help you move forward one intentional step at a time.

You don't have to have all the answers before you reach out.

You just have to take the next right step.

If you're ready for support from someone who's been there, I'd be honored to walk alongside you.

Schedule a free consultation, and let's start building the next chapter of your life—together.