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Hello,
This past week, I shared the news of my marriage ending. This has been the hardest decision I have ever made, and how people responded more than surprised me.
Here’s what I wrote:
“Our family is not ending, it’s changing,” I said to my kids in the hardest conversation I have ever had with them. Ashley and I are getting a divorce, and I feel conflicted in sharing this with you.
I don’t believe I owe the world my vulnerability; but the work of a writer, for me, has always been about being fully awake and engaged in life, even the difficult parts. This is one of those. When we share hard things, something inside of us seems to soften, and this, I think, is good.
I am grateful for Ashley and sad this chapter of our story is ending. We will, of course, continue to partner in raising our children, and I request the typical respect and privacy people ask for during such times. I promise you no one has been more unkind to me throughout this process than I have been to myself.
Yes, this is a death of sorts, and the grief at times has been overwhelming; but it also has been a season of personal transformation. In the disappearance of the old, I have seen the emergence of something new. And as the clouds begin to part, I am unsure of what that new thing will be or how it will unfold, but I can tell you this: It will be beautiful.
Thank you for the encouragement, support, and love for our family. The other day, my daughter Amelia drew a picture of all four of us (plus our dog Lyric), and I love what it represents. We are all standing together—in this, together. Something, I maintain, is not breaking; it’s changing—as is always the case with life. We humans do not break; we change, we grow, we become. And if we’re lucky, we bend towards the light.
At least, I hope we do.
When I posted the announcement, I was worried people would judge me for ruining the lives of my children. But this thing called the Internet can sometimes surprise us.
After hitting publish, I took a deep breath and began checking comments, bracing myself for the worst. But what came next was completely unexpected.
No hate. No vitriol. No passive-aggressive “concerns” for me. Nothing but love, encouragement, and support.
Hundreds of comments and messages flooded in from acquaintances, old friends, and even strangers—all saying they were for me, praying for my family, hoping for the best for all of us.
And on and on it went, one loving message after another. It was all so much to take in, too much to consume, that I had to go for a walk.
On my walk, I thought this must be what happens when you share the parts of yourself you are most afraid to reveal. People can show up and surprise you; they can love you not in spite of those things, but /because/ of them.
This, I think, is what we mean when we use that wonderful but oft-misunderstood word “grace.”
When we allow ourselves to be vulnerable, we are, of course, opening ourselves up to be wounded. But we are also allowing ourselves to be healed and made whole. Only in the tenderness of potential pain can we experience deep love.
You taught me that.
I feel very loved and supported right now. I don’t know what else to say. There’s no wise lesson here, no clever tie-in. I am just grateful.
Thank you,
Jeff
P.S. We’ll resume the regularly-scheduled tips on writing and such soon, but for now, I just wanted to say thanks. You can read the original announcement here or read a deeper exploration here.
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