First, let me start by saying that this is my own experience. I have been married for almost 14 years. I met my husband 14 years ago in July 2010, and by November 2010, we were married—yes, Married! I went from being single for almost 5 years to meeting someone and getting married in four months. If that wasn’t a challenge, I had two beautiful children from a previous relationship, but somehow, we managed to make it all work. At first, it was a struggle for my kids to bring someone new in, but they eventually asked him to adopt them. So, he did.
During a hectic period of my life, I was a full-time student while also working full-time, and my partner was juggling two jobs. We maximized our time together, focusing on work and saving as much as we could. Then, in October 2014, we received the surprise of a lifetime: I was pregnant!
To navigate this new chapter, we decided to move back in with my parents to save money. In a Mexican family, this means more than just relocating to my parents’ house; it’s about integrating into a bustling network of siblings, cousins, aunts, and more. Although not everyone lived there, my parents’ home became the hub of our family.
Coming home to a calm house after work was never an option, but I cherished the energy and love that surrounded us. The chaos began to tear us apart.
After our baby was born, we took a significant step and bought our first house almost a year later. At the time, I wasn’t working, so I became “Mrs. Handyman,” tackling projects around the house. However, living on one income added strain to our relationship, and our disagreements became more frequent.
In February 2017, I received a secure job offer starting in March. Just one week before I was set to begin, I discovered I was pregnant again. Trying to hide my growing belly from a new employer was quite the challenge! I finally shared the news with them once I reached four months.
During this time, I began to feel resentful towards my husband. It could have been the hormones, but I hadn’t planned on having another child, and yet here I was, very pregnant. He was dedicating significant time to his career and investing in stocks, which left our conversations revolving around bills, kids, and work. It was a tough period, but I knew we needed to navigate it together.
The year 2019 had a profound impact on us. As our circumstances shifted, we found ourselves drinking more often to cope. The struggle of not being able to find basic necessities, like toilet paper, while managing a household of six was overwhelming.
We transitioned from daily office life to being confined at home, navigating the challenges of a hormonal teenager while trying to keep our 5-year-old engaged in remote Kindergarten on an iPad. This was a challenging period, and it’s when we started sleeping in separate bedrooms. Our conversations grew increasingly hostile. While I worked remotely, he continued going into the office, and my role evolved from employee to Mom, Chef, Housekeeper, Teacher’s Assistant, and even High School Helper. The constant exhaustion deepened my resentment toward him.
In 2022, shit hit the fan. We started couples therapy, which seemed to benefit him, yet I felt isolated. It was also when I began my own therapy journey. Growing up, therapy was taboo in my family—my mother often labeled people who sought it as “crazy,” including me. My parents, both boomers, hold traditional, old-school Mexican beliefs that see mental health care as an admission of weakness or worse. Despite this, we somehow survived our first round of therapy. Once it ended, my parents were thrilled because, on the outside, everything seemed “perfect”—but that was far from reality.
We tried to rekindle things with date nights and an annual weekend getaway, but I still felt a void. Our date nights became just another reason to have a drink and scroll on our phones. I had a spouse but felt alone. Therapy began to show me my own strength and helped me understand that I wasn’t “crazy,” nor was I haunted by outdated superstitions.
This year, I finally started listening to myself. My feelings for my husband shifted—I love him, but I’m not in love with him. He’s a great dad, and I know he’ll always be there for me, but the emotional distance remains. When I told him I wanted a divorce, our families were shocked. My dad, clinging to his beliefs about family unity, told me my decision was selfish and wrong and that no one would ever want me again if I went through with it. Those words had their intended effect: my husband moved back in, and once again, I feel that same void in my heart.
Every day brings new challenges as I navigate the unfamiliar terrain of a fractured family. Each of us experiences love, sadness, grief, and happiness in our own unique way. Embracing our individuality, even in difficult times, is part of what makes us human. Seek the mental health support you need, even if others label it as “crazy.”
I know staying with my husband isn’t right for me; I need time and space to heal. I can only learn from yesterday, and I trust that tomorrow will bring its own joy.