I never thought I’d be here—writing these words, carrying this title. “Divorcee.” The first in my family.
My parents, of blessed memory, lived out what many call a rare kind of commitment. They weren’t perfect, but they were unbreakable. My father used to tell us, “I was your mother’s first.” And I believed him—not just in word, but in the way he walked toward her, again and again, through life’s challenges. They showed me what unity looked like. What staying looked like.
So, when my marriage went south, there wasn’t just personal heartbreak—it was a “gen-rupture.” A new word stamped onto my name that had never touched our family line. It shook me. It disappointed my siblings before it was understood.
The truth is, I’ve always been a lovebird. From the days when I had nothing to offer but my heart, I’ve known how to love deeply—even if it was one-sided. I crushed hard, I gave hard, I believed in love like it was gospel. To say I enjoyed it is an understatement. Loving someone deeply? That was my heartbeat.
But life—life has consequences. Choices have consequences. Marriage has consequences. And so does divorce.
The opposite direction of my parents’ story was mine. Where they walked toward each other, I watched my marriage drift apart. Where they leaned in, we leaned out. Where they kept outsiders out, mine invited them in—for help, or for ruin. And nothing good comes from that.
This curve in my life was never wished for, never prayed for, never anticipated. Yet here it is. My reality.
As a mother, what aches deepest is not just my own story but the ripple effect into my children’s. I pray daily that they never inherit chaos, that they understand what it means to walk in unity, to live in peace, to hold humility—not as weakness, but as strength. And because my children are all of one gender, I pray even harder—that they embody manhood rooted in peace, in patience, in love.
I am the first divorcee in my family. It is a heavy name, but it is not my only name. This is where my story begins, not where it ends.
