This is my journal entry from October 3, 2025, part of my daily autobiography The Kind Divorce — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I woke up early, restless and thinking about a massage therapist. I’d told myself I’d wait a week before reaching out, but the more I thought about it, the more it felt like something I needed to do today. After dropping the kids off at school, I parked outside my yoga studio and recorded a one-minute audio message to her, saying I’d love to go to the beach together and talk more outside the massage studio. It felt bold and honest—exactly the kind of step I want to be taking in this new chapter of my life.
Then I went inside for a yoga instructor’s power-flow yoga class, which was just what I needed to steady my mind. When I came out and drove home, I saw a message waiting from a massage therapist. She said she was flattered but wanted to keep our relationship strictly professional. The message landed with a mix of rejection and relief. Part of me ached at the no, but another part was grateful—it saved me from getting tangled in something complicated. She lives in Sarasota, and even if she’d said yes, dating someone that far away while raising my kids in St. Petersburg would have been difficult. Still, it was the first time I’d made any kind of romantic gesture since asking my ex-wife to be my girlfriend back in 2011.
When I told my ex-wife about it later, she was kind and understanding. We talked about how it felt to be rejected, and she empathized. Our conversation turned toward the divorce and how we’d tell the kids. We agreed today was the right day. Telling them after school on a Friday would give them the whole weekend to process before going back to their routines. They’d both have their usual outlets afterward to help them adjust.
While my ex-wife took a nap, I caught up on my diaries—dictating the last two entries I’d fallen behind on—and listened to more of The Tennis Partner. My sister was right; it’s an incredible book. The main character, a father going through his own divorce, had just moved into his new apartment and was spending his first night alone. Hearing that mirrored my own life so closely that it almost felt eerie.
By mid-afternoon, my ex-wife woke up, and I made popcorn for the kids as a snack before we left to pick them up. Around 2:00 p.m., we got in the car together. We were both in surprisingly good spirits, feeling ready and at peace with the decision. When the kids came out of school, they were happy, laughing, and full of energy. We loaded them into the back of the RAV4 and started the twenty-minute drive home.
As we pulled away, my ex-wife looked at me with wide eyes—she couldn’t bring herself to start the conversation. The kids could feel the tension right away and began asking what was wrong. I took a breath and said, “Our life is going to have some new adventures. I’m going to be moving out soon and looking for a new woman to have some more kids with. That means your mom and I are getting divorced.”
My daughter burst into tears instantly. My son, always the thinker, went quiet for a moment, then started asking questions. By the time we got home, both were sobbing—my daughter’s tears slowing while my son’s grew louder. Between his crying, he asked things that were heartbreakingly mature: “What if you get divorced and you’re not happy? Why can’t you just be happy here? Why do you need another wife?”
I told him gently, “I don’t know, buddy. This is the best thing both of us can think to do right now. I hope we’ll both be happy, but you’re right—that’s a risk we’re taking.”
On the couch, I held my daughter close while my son curled up next to my ex-wife. I grabbed two T-shirts to cry into—one for me and one for my son—since my handkerchief was far too small for all the tears. As my son cried harder, asking more of those difficult questions, I started crying too. I was grateful my ex-wife and I had already worked through all these thoughts ourselves; it helped us hold space for the kids as they went through their first wave of pain.
After a while, the energy began to shift. My daughter, always quick to lighten the mood, got up and brought my ex-wife her coffee mug—the one that says Mrs. on it. We bought it together at Disney World back in 2012, right before we got married, as part of a husband-and-wife mug set. It was such an innocent, funny gesture at the time, and now, seeing that same mug during our divorce talk, it made us all laugh through the tears.
My daughter said she didn’t want any new brothers or sisters. When we asked why, she said she was afraid we wouldn’t love her as much—especially me. She knows she’ll be with my ex-wife most of the time, and she worries that if I remarry and have more kids, they’ll get all my attention. I told her she’ll always be special to me, my first daughter, my first child, and that nothing could change that. But deep down, I also understood what she meant—love may be infinite, but attention isn’t. I’ll be living separately, and there’s no way around the fact that they’ll see me less.
My ex-wife and I explained that our hope is for them to grow up in happier homes rather than one where their parents stay together just to avoid the pain of splitting up. My son, who’s always been nostalgic, cried the hardest. He cried when we replaced the washer once, so this was monumental for him. But after about twenty minutes of heavy sobbing, he started to settle down.
We didn’t try to stop the tears. We told them to let it out, to ask anything they needed, and to know that more feelings would come up over time. It was one of the hardest, most emotional conversations of my life, but also one of the most honest. We were all facing reality together—with tears, questions, and love all mixed into one.
After the emotional afternoon telling the kids about the divorce, I went to my 4 p.m. AA meeting, hoping someone would show up—but no one did. The empty room felt heavier than usual. I sat there alone, still feeling raw from crying earlier, and opened the AA literature I’d brought. The book I’m working through right now is Dr. Bob and the Good Oldtimers.
Dr. Bob, one of the co-founders of Alcoholics Anonymous, was a doctor. One story in the book had a punchline so absurd that I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing, alone in the meeting room, the sound echoing off the walls. That single funny line broke the heaviness of the day and reminded me how good it feels to laugh, even in the middle of sadness.
I read for another forty-five minutes before heading back to my car. On the way, I called my sponsor, who listened patiently as I told him about how the day had gone—telling the kids, the rejection from a massage therapist, and the strange mix of grief and relief I felt. He was kind and steady, reminding me that even though it’s painful, I’m doing exactly what I need to do.
By the time I reached my son’s practice, my ex-wife and my son had just arrived. I trailed behind them as we walked in together. When I went to use the bathroom, I noticed a wasp nest attached to the doorframe and instantly worried about getting stung in the most sensitive possible place. Thankfully, I made it out unscathed and found my ex-wife sitting in a chair nearby.
We sat together watching my son play, both of us processing everything from the day. We agreed that, all things considered, telling the kids had gone as well as we could have hoped. My son already seemed more at ease, chasing the ball up and down the field with his usual determination. My daughter was spending time with my mom, which gave her space too.
As we talked, my ex-wife pulled up Zillow on her phone and showed me a rental listing nearby—a two-bedroom, two-bath house. I knew exactly which house it was; I’ve walked by it hundreds of times. It looked nice enough, but I asked her to see what else was available nearby. She found another listing—this one close to my mom—a four-bedroom house renting for quite a bit more, which felt excessive.
Then I took her phone and searched myself, finding a small two-bedroom, one-bathroom house a short walk away—around 720 square feet, an affordable rent, and available on a month-to-month lease. The short-term lease immediately caught my attention. It’d give me flexibility to move again once something closer opens up, ideally right across the street from the kids. The first house my ex-wife showed me required a one-year lease, and I don’t want that kind of commitment right now.
I texted the owner of the house and said I was interested. She replied quickly and told me I could come by at 1 p.m. tomorrow to see it. I agreed. On the drive home, I took my son with me to look at it from the outside. My first impression wasn’t great—the place looked rough, maybe even condemned soon—but I figured it was worth checking out. It looked like the kind of property a landlord might try to squeeze a few more months of rent out of before tearing it down.
Later, we went to my mom’s house, where my daughter was. My mom seemed emotional too—everyone’s feeling the ripple effects of today. I’d brought over a can of vegan chili from my ex-wife’s house, a low-sodium, whole-plant-based one from Whole Foods. I didn’t even bother heating it up—I just opened it and ate it cold straight from the can. It made me laugh to myself. Clearly, I’m already slipping into bachelor life.
When we finished dinner, I walked the kids back across the street to my ex-wife’s. She stayed with my mom for her Al-Anon meeting while I tucked the kids in and sat for a bit in the quiet house, thinking about how much had changed in a single day. It’s strange, the calm that follows chaos—the way laughter, chili from a can, and the sound of kids breathing in their sleep can all coexist with heartbreak.
The sadness hit me hard tonight—like a wave that came out of nowhere and swallowed everything. I kept wondering how the hell my life got to this point so quickly. Two weeks ago, I thought I had one of the happiest marriages I’d ever seen. Now I’m seriously looking for a new place to live, preparing to move out of the house where I thought we’d raise our kids together for decades.
For a while, I imagined I’d be here for months before moving out, but the more I think about it, the clearer it becomes that staying is actually what’s keeping everything stuck. If my ex-wife and I truly want to move forward with the divorce, me living here is the biggest barrier. The first step toward actually getting divorced isn’t signing papers—it’s me getting my own place. Once I have my own home, I’ll have much more freedom. Freedom to date, to have people over, to live without constantly being inside my ex-wife’s space. As long as I’m here, we’re still intertwined, no matter how amicable it all feels.
I helped the kids get ready for bed, and they seemed especially attached to me tonight—clinging to every moment. It’s like they sensed the finality creeping in, even if they couldn’t put words to it. We played a few rounds of Uno No Mercy together, laughing between the waves of emotion. My son got down to one card, and I could’ve dragged the game out, but when he told me his color after I played a wild card, I just let him win. He was so happy. I won the next game, and soon after, my ex-wife came home to tuck them in.
I sat alone afterward, listening to The Tennis Partner. It’s comforting to hear another man narrate the same kind of heartbreak in his marriage. Then I spent some quiet time alone, channeling my energy into something intentional. I imagined manifesting the kind of woman I truly want in my next chapter: someone I’m deeply excited about, someone I can share a home and another real connection with.
When my ex-wife came out after putting the kids to sleep, I’d already showered. We talked quietly in the kitchen, both of us recognizing the same truth: it’s time for me to move out. We agreed that while we’re handling this transition beautifully now, the longer I stay, the more we risk slipping backward—falling into old romantic patterns, reigniting feelings, or starting fights. I admitted to her that I still feel attraction and affection for her. It wouldn’t take much for us to slip back into old intimacy, and that would only make everything harder.
We both understand that slipping back into intimacy would confuse everything. We’re trying to create something peaceful, and that means mutual restraint. I told her how important it feels to have my own place—not just as a logistical step but as an energetic one. I want to build a space where I can invite someone over, where the potential for a new relationship feels real, even if it takes months or years for that to happen.
My ex-wife agreed. She said she’s surprised by how quickly it’s all unfolding but that she’s ready too. She told me I could take whatever I need from the house and that she’ll come with me tomorrow to see the new place. We even talked about going together as a family.
After she went to bed, I lay down, and that’s when the sadness really set in. It felt like grief and disbelief rolled into one—how could everything have changed this much, this fast? I kept thinking maybe I could still take it all back. Maybe I could tell my ex-wife tomorrow that I’d do whatever it takes to make this marriage work—compromise on intimacy, stop dreaming about more kids, even take a job I don’t want—if it meant keeping things the way they are. But I know that’s a lie. I wouldn’t be happy that way, and neither would she.
We both acknowledged earlier that one reason our communication has been so good lately is because of the momentum of change. This energy—of forward movement, of separation—has temporarily relieved the tension that used to live between us. But that grace period won’t last. If I stay too long, the arguments and frustrations will return. The peace we’re feeling now depends on us actually following through.
When my daughter got up to go to the bathroom later, I woke up too. I assumed it must be the middle of the night, maybe 3 or 4 a.m. I checked the clock—it was only 11:41. I’d been in bed just forty-one minutes. It felt like I’d lived a whole night inside my head. The sadness was crushing. I could feel it pressing on my chest, like it wanted to keep me awake. I whispered a thank-you to whatever power keeps me going and prayed for sleep to finally take me.
Sad
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