Today marks one year since my wife decided she was done with our marriage. The beginning of the end happened at a local cidery, where, over dinner, I was honest about my hesitations and worries leading up to our wedding in 2020. I was dealing with a lot of anxiety, and my worries about our compatibility were exacerbated by the trauma of the global pandemic. We were experiencing quite a bit of conflict, not atypical of the first year of marriage, but definitely worth working on. She asked me always to be honest, and that lying or faking would be infinitely worse than the truth. I took that to heart, and well, turns out “infinitely worse” can mean many different things. We were in the process of fining a marriage therapist when she decided counseling couldn’t help, and our marriage was over, mere hours before our first anniversary.

The last year has been traumatic, filled with grief, days of tears, and not a little wailing, remembering how the woman to whom I’d committed my life gave up, taking her daughter (who I raised and still love as my own) with her. A year ago tonight I slept in the guest bedroom, which was also my office. As she ensured she and my daughter were away from the house, and thus, me, as much as possible, I scoured the area for apartments with immediate availability.

The day I moved out, I said goodbye to my daughter for the last time. I haven’t been allowed by her mother to see her since. That morning I wept uncontrollably, wailing until I had no strength left to use. While my best friend helped my move out I had a nervous breakdown. Late into the night, when he left, I held an open bottle of Tylenol PM in my hand, considering ending my life. That wouldn’t be the last time I found myself in that situation.

The rest of 2021 is a blur. I know I saw my therapist weekly, and close friends flew in to sit with and distract me. I went to Minnesota for Thanksgiving and California for Christmas, trying to forget reality for a bit. It was successful on occasion, but I mainly just survived those months, along with the first few of 2022.

I emerged from the fog sometime this Spring, and the work began. Weekly therapy sessions got a bit easier, because I wasn’t just crying the whole time. In other ways they became more difficult, because I was forced to look not only at what happened, but what I did that contributed. I couldn’t just say “look what she did!” I had to discover parts of me I didn’t know were buried so deep I had no idea they were influencing my behavior.

Grief is a great vehicle for growth. I really wish character building and healing didn’t require difficulty. I wish I could take a class on self-esteem, or loving myself not just in spite of my faults, but regardless of them. Grief is productive. Of course, that productivity is a choice. We can choose to wallow, or we can choose to explore the depths of our being.

Of course, there is a time for just letting the grief sit for a while. No one expects us to immediately seize on a “great opportunity to grow.” But once that season subsides, we have the strength to begin that work. Start slowly, ask friends for support, and find a fantastic therapist.

I’ve been preparing for this day for a few weeks now, and I have to say, with the help of my best friend, and a few hours with my therapist, I can honestly say this day hasn’t been bad. In fact, it’s been a pretty good one. Today I celebrate walking through rock bottom and emerging a healthy, emotionally anchored, creative man. I wouldn’t choose to go through this again, but I am truly grateful for the intense season of growth it enabled.