This is my journal entry from September 27, 2025, part of my daily autobiography The Kind Divorce — my real, unedited days, published in order.
I feel like I’ve been reborn today. I woke up in the middle of the night after struggling to fall asleep, wrecked with grief and tears over the end of my marriage. It all feels so unreal. Last night, my ex-wife described it as feeling like she was falling, and I could relate completely. I don’t know what’s real or what’s true anymore. But then, as I sat in the dark room where the kids were sleeping, I thought of the phrase the lovies—what I call them—and I just broke down. I do know what’s real. I love my kids, and that love is as real as it gets.
A few days ago, when my ex-wife and I were arguing, I told her I could theoretically just move to the other side of the country and leave everyone behind, but I know now that’s impossible. I’ll never abandon my kids. I want to be there for them as much as I can, every day. Ironically, I might end up spending even more time with them once my ex-wife and I are divorced. Being around her tension lately has made me keep my distance, which has sometimes meant missing out on time with the kids.
After a couple of hours awake, I finally drifted back to sleep, only to wake again before the green light came on in the kids’ room. The wave of grief hit me hard. I had brought a full T-shirt to use as a tissue, and I needed it—I was sobbing nonstop, letting go of the life I thought I’d have. It’s the grief of releasing a dream. When the green light came on at 7:00 a.m., I felt a strange relief. I could finally get up and stop trying to cry quietly. I let it out loudly.
In those moments, I could hear my grand sponsor, my grand-sponsor, in my head—the loudest I’ve heard his voice since he passed away nine years ago. My grand-sponsor was like a second father to me in Alcoholics Anonymous. He helped raise me from a 29-year-old man-child into someone who finally grew up. He used to love quoting a line from the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous about how selfishness and self-centeredness are the root of our troubles, and how, in letting them go, we are reborn.
This morning, I heard his voice—his warm, slightly croaky but strong voice—echoing those words: We were reborn. Hearing it made me sob even harder. I felt like I was literally being reborn. My whole body tingled with an energy that felt almost physical, as if I were being squeezed through the womb again. I even had a visceral memory of birth, of coming through into the light.
When I finally opened my eyes, I knew something profound had happened. The man who was married—the man who’d been with my ex-wife for fourteen years, married for twelve and a half—had died in the night. That version of me was gone. What’s left now is someone new, stepping into the next chapter of life.
Later in the morning, when my ex-wife and I both felt calmer, we sat down to talk while the kids were with her parents. It was a peaceful, sacred conversation. We reflected on what had happened the night before, and we reaffirmed our decisions—that we’re no longer going to have sex with each other, that we’re truly separating, and that everything we said last night still stands.
I asked her if there was anything we were missing or overlooking, any part of this transition we hadn’t addressed. She said no. She felt confident we were being thorough, that we simply needed to stay strong and keep walking through this together. As painful as it is, I feel clarity settling in. It’s the kind of clarity that only comes after you’ve surrendered completely—when you stop fighting what is, and finally accept the truth.
I went to my Alcoholics Anonymous meeting this morning at 8:30, held in the park outside. The air was cool and still, and I felt cracked open in a way I haven’t in years. When it was my turn to share, I poured my heart out—everything I’ve been feeling these past few days, though in a little less detail than I’ve written here. I tied it all back to sobriety, because that’s what anchors me through every storm.
I told them how, when I first got sober, my ex-wife was my main motivation. The thought of her leaving me terrified me. Back then, she had every reason to leave. She stayed through the last couple of years of my drinking and through the brutal early years of my sobriety. It wasn’t easy for either of us. I knew I had to get sober or I’d lose her. That’s how broken I was at the time. So I got sober on April 22, 2014—eleven years ago—and my ex-wife was the reason I did it.
But over these eleven years, I’ve reprogrammed my mind completely. I stay sober no matter what. Whether I have a wife or no wife, a job or no job, kids or no kids—none of it changes that fact. Sobriety comes first, and it always will. I told the group that I’m grateful to be practicing that today.
I also shared something powerful: that I went to bed last night saying thank you. Not out of resentment or self-pity, but genuine gratitude. I said, Thank you for a wife who’s willing to have a peaceful divorce. Thank you for a woman who cares more about my happiness than about appearances. Just two nights ago, I’d gone to bed full of anger, fear, and bitterness. But last night, I felt peace. I could actually say thank you while facing the end of my marriage.
That, to me, is the miracle of sobriety. The fact that I can go through a divorce without wanting to drink is incredible. When my college girlfriend broke up with me, my mind spun into chaos. This separation with my ex-wife has been so much easier. Not painless, but clear. It’s actually been gentler on my spirit than that breakup years ago.
I’m also deeply grateful for my ex-wife’s kindness. She told me I could stay in the house until I find somewhere else to live, and that simple act of compassion means so much.
After the meeting, several people came up to hug me. I noticed that everything looked different, as if I were seeing through a new pair of glasses. For years, while hiding from myself how unhappy I was in my marriage, I’ve looked at others with judgment. I’d silently think, They should get their act together—with their health, their finances, their relationships. But today, after all the crying and surrender, I saw everyone with more compassion. My heart felt wide open.
I had a wonderful conversation with one of the women afterward. She’s been sober over forty years, survived two divorces and cancer, and she still radiates love. I realized she was one of the people I used to judge without realizing it. Yesterday, I saw her differently—with pure love and respect.
There were plenty of hugs going around, and they all felt genuine. I even exchanged numbers with a man who’s going through an amicable divorce himself. He told me he’s here for me anytime I need to talk. Walking back to my car afterward, I felt a deep sense of connection—to him, to the group, to God, to life. It truly feels like I’ve been given new eyes to see the world with.
After the meeting, I drove to a nearby town to meet a friend for tea. I’m so grateful I scheduled this a few days ago, before any of this with my ex-wife fully unfolded. I didn’t even know why I felt compelled to meet her or what the point of it was—I just had a sense it would be good. It turned out to be exactly what I needed.
A friend and I met at a café, right near the the Toyota dealership where I take my car. It was raining when I arrived, so the outdoor seating was empty. We sat outside together under the awning for two hours, surrounded by clouds, rain, and distant thunder. The whole atmosphere felt raw and alive. I’d done a free life coaching session with her a month or two ago, and at the time we’d talked about her life—her goals, relationships, dreams, business ideas. She’d mentioned wanting to do a paid session later, but after I told her my rate, she hadn’t followed up. Then, for a few weeks, we didn’t connect. The timing of today’s meetup felt perfect.
She’s twenty-eight, full of bright, youthful energy, and she told me she wants to have five kids. Listening to her talk about her vision for life—her relationships, her creative ideas, her desire to build something meaningful—was inspiring. Sitting across from her, I couldn’t help thinking, I would love to be with a woman like this. The way she talks about life, her optimism, her spark—it’s the kind of energy I crave.
Thankfully, she’s dating someone right now, which actually made it easier for me to just be present without projecting too much onto her. I could look at her objectively, almost like a mirror reflecting back the kind of energy and compatibility I want in my next relationship. I realized how much I want to go on more of these kinds of tea dates—with open, interesting women—until I find someone who truly matches me on that high level of chemistry, vision, and emotional connection.
What amazed me most was how quickly we dropped into deep, honest conversation. I’ve only spoken with a friend for about an hour before this, but today I shared some of the most intimate details of my life—everything that’s been happening with my ex-wife, the emotional and spiritual shifts I’ve been going through. She listened with such presence and curiosity. It felt incredible to be seen and understood.
When we finally stood up to leave, I felt clear—peacefully certain that I do want to move forward with this divorce. I want to be with a woman who makes me feel alive the way a friend did. She doesn’t have to be twenty-eight, but I want to feel that kind of energy when I’m with someone.
My ex-wife—well, my ex, I should say—feels more like family now than a romantic partner. We’re co-parents, not lovers. I’m craving the feeling of having a girlfriend again, of being with someone new—someone I can be fully attracted to, excited about, connected with physically and emotionally. I want that spark again.
I’ve realized part of what’s happened with my ex-wife and me is that we’ve become too similar. The sameness that used to feel comfortable now dulls the attraction. I think real chemistry comes from polarity—from the differences that create that push and pull, that magnetism. When my ex-wife and I first met, we were opposites in so many ways, and that made our connection electric. Over time, we’ve grown too alike in how we think and see the world. That’s beautiful in friendship, but it doesn’t sustain desire.
After our long talk, I suddenly realized I had to go to the bathroom badly. There’d been no restroom at the outdoor AA meeting earlier and none at a café either. I laughed to myself on the way to the car—grateful, relieved, and oddly full of life again, even in the middle of all this change.
When I got home from hanging out with a friend, I called my sponsor right away. I told him that my ex-wife and I were planning to get divorced, and he sounded sad about it. He’s been divorced himself and has seen plenty of divorces while working at the courthouse, so he knows how messy they can get. He warned me that maintaining an amicable divorce might be more difficult than I think.
My ex-wife described what we’re doing as conscious uncoupling. She said that’s the term celebrities have used for separating peacefully and intentionally, with love instead of hostility. Hearing that gave me comfort. It’s reassuring to know there’s a name for it, that other people have done it before and made it work. I don’t personally know anyone who’s gone through a divorce in a kind, collaborative way. I’ve seen fair divorces, sure—but even then, there’s usually infidelity, betrayal, or years of fighting that poison the process. I’m determined not to go down that path. I love my ex-wife. I don’t want to hurt her any more than I already have.
I also recognize that I need a lot of help and support to get through this. As soon as I hung up with my sponsor, I started reaching out to others. I texted a woman I know—a mom who once told me she was separated. I don’t know her that well, but I asked if she’d like to meet up for tea today or tomorrow. Then I realized she probably wouldn’t understand why I was asking her out of the blue, so I sent a one-minute voice memo explaining that I’m newly separated, that it’s hard, and that I’d love to connect with people who can relate. I told her she’d mentioned having the weekend free without her kids, so if she was open to meeting, I’d appreciate it. I felt horribly vulnerable after sending that message. A few hours went by, and she still hadn’t responded.
Later in the day, I talked with another man from AA—a member with over forty years sober. He’s practically a second sponsor to me and happens to share the same first name and last initial as my main sponsor. He used to be a psychologist, and we talked for an hour and twenty-seven minutes. That conversation humbled me deeply.
He helped me see all the ways I’ve been selfish and self-centered in my marriage—the parts I didn’t want to look at. For the last half hour, I cried through most of the call. I realized how demanding I’ve been, especially around sex. I wrote about this in Author in St. Petersburg, but hearing myself admit it out loud hit differently. I’ve spent years expecting my ex-wife to have sex with me every day, getting angry if she was tired or unenthusiastic. I put the entire burden on her instead of romancing her, creating desire, or meeting her where she was.
I saw the same selfishness in how I’ve handled money. I’ve spent freely and impulsively, often on things that made me feel good in the moment—giving twenty dollars to every panhandler I met, spending tens of thousands a year on massages, thousands more on tennis memberships and lessons—all while my income was inconsistent. I did whatever I wanted financially without considering how it affected her. And in recent years, when she’s been giving me money to help out, I’ve kept large portions of my own profits in crypto instead of contributing to our shared needs.
After that call, I knew I needed to make amends. I’ve written a lot of letters to people over the years, but this one had to be to my ex-wife. I opened the voice memo app on my laptop and spent twenty minutes dictating a letter to her, crying the entire time. When I finished, I printed it immediately.
Just as I finished, my ex-wife came home alone while the kids were with her parents. I handed her the letter. She read it right there. When she looked up, her face softened. She said, “Thank you very much. This is exactly what I wanted to hear. I’m surprised you can say this now. I thought it would take you years to get to this point. I’ve wanted a letter like this for a long time.”
But she was also frustrated. In the letter, I said I wanted to keep working on our marriage, that I didn’t think we should get divorced, that I could change. I told her I didn’t care about having more kids anymore, that I’d be happy to do whatever she wanted sexually, and that I’d stop spending money so carelessly. It was everything I meant from the heart, but I could see it irritated her. It must have felt too late, or maybe manipulative, like I was finally saying all the right things only when she’d already decided she was done.
By the end of the night, my eyes hurt from crying so much. I was completely drained—emotionally and physically exhausted—but at least I’d told the truth.
Before my ex-wife and the kids got home that evening, I walked over to see my mom. I told her about the letter I’d written to my ex-wife and what I’d said in it. As always, my mom met me with understanding and wisdom. She shared more stories from her own life—experiences she’d had in marriage and relationships—and they helped me put everything in perspective. Talking to her grounded me again. She’s been through so much, and hearing how she’s come out the other side makes me believe I can, too.
When I came back home, I washed all the dishes and tried to tidy up a bit. It’s one of those small, meditative things that helps me feel stable when life feels chaotic. My ex-wife came home with the kids not long after. She put them to bed a little before nine, and when she asked if I wanted to talk, I told her no. I was just too tired. My mind felt foggy, my emotions worn out. I couldn’t think straight anymore.
I decided to go to bed early. Before I fell asleep, I re-recorded my diary entry for yesterday, as I usually do. I’ve found it helps to wait until the next day to record—it gives me the clarity that only comes after a night’s sleep. Yesterday I’d tried to record the September 26th diary on the same day, but I’d been too distraught to say anything coherent. It had come out as this crying, rambling mess of a recording. That was all I could manage at the time. Tonight, though, I felt calm enough to revisit it, to tell the story properly.
When I finally lay down, I felt enormous relief. For the first time in days, my body relaxed completely. I fell asleep before 9:00 p.m., almost instantly, grateful to rest after such an intense, emotional stretch.
Restructuring
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