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‘I was heartbroken when my husband asked me for a divorce, but he was right'

‘I was heartbroken when my husband asked me for a divorce, but he was right'

Telegraph3 days ago

Divorce as a turning point
My experience led me to realise that I had avoided difficult conversations throughout our relationship. It inspired me to train as a break-up and divorce coach to help other people navigate this difficult time of life. I realised that children do not need us to pretend everything is perfect. They need us to be steady, truthful and present. They need us to guide them through change with love and clarity.
When I look back on those years, and at the strong, kind young people my children have become, I no longer see my divorce as a failure. I see it as a turning point. I see it as the beginning of a new kind of courage. I admire the bravery my husband showed that day when he told me the truth. He was not happy. He wanted to leave. At the time, I could not hear him. It took seven years for his words to settle and find their place in me. Now I recognise their truth. I am grateful to him for speaking them, and I realise he was right.
Eve's tips for navigating a healthy divorce
Tune out the noise of other people
When I used to try to speak to friends about the problems in my relationship, they'd respond with platitudes like: 'Oh, but he loves you', rather than asking how I was feeling. In society, we're taught to applaud people who have been married for a long time. Remember that a long relationship is not always a good relationship. Society often celebrates longevity over quality. Just because a relationship has lasted a long time does not mean it has been healthy or fulfilling. Sometimes, it has lasted because problems were avoided, not solved. Try to tune out the noise of other people telling you that everything is fine and trust your own gut.
Allow yourself to grieve
A separation is an emotional earthquake for everyone involved. Allow yourself to feel the grief cycle, which is anger, denial, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The grief process is a very big part of divorce and breakup. There's a loss of the future that you thought you were going to have together, a loss of the past that you've had together because all of a sudden, it looks like it wasn't any good, a loss of your partner's family. It's normal and healthy to grieve what you've lost in the process. Whether you're the one initiating the separation or the one who is being left, there is loss, grief, and uncertainty. Being open about this and getting good emotional support, especially in the early stages, can stop those feelings turning into conflict.
Separate the problem from the person
Avoid framing the other person as the problem. Instead, talk about the challenges as shared issues that both partners are responsible for addressing. If someone refuses to engage in problem-solving, it remains their responsibility. You can name this clearly without blame. Try not to blame, shame or seek a villain: empathy will help to de-escalate the situation.
Try to listen without judging
You don't have to agree with the other person, but if you can really listen to what they are saying, it can take the heat out of the conflict. Active listening is one of the most effective de-escalation tools available. Remember that there are few relationships where one party is faultless: like a driving safety course, where people think everyone else is the dangerous driver and they are the only safe driver in the room. This is rarely the case.
Talk about practicalities before telling the kids
Before any changes are made that might impact children's lives, such as moving house or changing schools, discuss the financial and living arrangements calmly and constructively. Doing this early can help create a smoother path for all involved. Work out your arrangements before you break the news to your kids. A clear plan will help them to feel calmer. Remember that children are navigating their own world, with friendships, school and exams, so the more consistency you can offer during family transitions, the more secure they will feel. Speak to them openly, age-appropriately, and with care for their emotional experience.
Speak to a divorce coach, not a lawyer
Lawyers are there to give (expensive!) legal advice, not to give life advice. The legal process leads to an escalation of conflict. Lawyers cannot help you process the emotions of your divorce: that's what a coach is for. Good coaching helps regulate emotional overwhelm, supports ethical and clear communication, and helps you act with integrity, clarity and compassion, even when things feel chaotic. Speak to someone who understands separation and divorce well. Get clear on what really matters to you. Grief can cloud your judgement. Objects, homes and habits carry emotional weight. You do not have to let go of everything, but clarity helps you choose what to hold on to.

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A cookbook taught me everything I know about home - and sobriety
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A cookbook taught me everything I know about home - and sobriety

If there was a single feeling that defined my 20s, it was a generalised allergy to the very concept of home: I learned it's a myth that you only run away from it once. If you have the skills, you can spend a lot of your life dodging comfort, security and a place to return to. Which I did because I was an alcoholic, and alcoholics are always suspicious of safety. The only true way to be safe is to not drink, after all, and you do not want to stop drinking above all else. This in turn informed my relationship to food. It goes that way for all of us: food is home. You're not really staying in a place unless you've cooked in it. Otherwise you're just a visitor. And because I had always wanted to be a visitor, I'd long been almost deliberately malnourished. I often boasted about my profoundly undistinguished palate, because everybody wants to ensure the worst decisions they make sound like some sort of quirky character trait. But then an odd thing happened: I quit drinking. I tried a few times, sometimes making it stick for a few months, once for over a year. And then finally, definitively, I just … stopped. I don't want to make it sound easy. I mean more that after years of trying to find sobriety, it seemed like suddenly sobriety found me. After that, on the odd day when I caught a glance of myself in the mirror, it seemed like the person there might be someone I might quite like, someday. It was around this time that I purchased an unusual gift for myself: a cookbook. The author was Nigel Slater, whose name rang a bell. Picking it up satisfied one of those odd urges that I had in the early days of a true commitment to sobriety. I later came to understand these urges were newfound pangs of self-preservation. I was immediately taken by the way Slater wrote about food. These were not just recipes. They were short poems, filled with astonishingly beautiful, compact phrases: at one point in Notes from the Larder, he describes garlic being as 'fresh and sweet as a baby's breath'. This poetry was what kept me going through a number of culinary disasters – I learned that before one makes something as wholly nourishing as Slater's macaroni and tomato pasta, they have to actually learn to cook pasta. But I got better – better in regards to cooking, and to all the other stuff too. I started to cook almost every meal, a profound change to a lifetime of takeaway. I made sweet teas and fish cakes; ricotta pancakes and pink lemonades. All of a sudden, I found I had a new sentence to describe myself. I'd had a few in my back pocket for a long time, all of them either tied to my profession or my addictions: I am an alcoholic, I am a writer, I am a painter, I am a chain smoker. But now I had one which was tied to neither self-destruction nor my career: I like to cook. And then something else miraculous happened: I met my partner, Rosie. I sometimes say that she taught me everything I know to be good in this world, and I mean it. The world makes sense to me now, because she is in it. Rosie likes to cook too. For many of our early days together, I was her sous-chef, chopping beside her in the kitchen, with a record on, astonished by this feeling that had come over me, which was the feeling of happiness. These days, I do as much of the cooking in our home as I can without denying Rosie her own culinary joy. I cook for Rosie; I cook for our housemate; I cook for my friends. Because I'm a writer, I often work from home, and one of my favourite things is making something that will be ready shortly after Rosie returns from work. It feels like a little gateway into the rest of the evening; a little marker that says, we are here together again and I have something for us to eat. Destruction is sudden. Healing is slow. You don't actually need to make that many decisions to ruin your life, but you have to make a great deal of decisions to improve it. If you're an addict, you need to stay sober every single day. It is work that never ends. What also never ends, but is only ever briefly satisfied: the desire to eat. When I return, almost daily, to Slater's cookbook, I am re-pledging the desire to not die; to simply, uncomplicatedly sustain myself. The other day I cooked a pasta bake. It was mostly done by the time I heard Rosie's key in the door, the smells of cheese, salt and herbs wafting through the kitchen. And when I heard it, I thought, with a thrill: oh, she's home. And I remembered again, properly, that I was too. Joseph Earp is a critic, painter and novelist. His latest book is Painting Portraits of Everyone I've Ever Dated (A$34.99, Hardie Grant)

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