On finding a sanctuary, rebuilding slowly, and starting over after 30 years.
There is a particular kind of courage that doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with fanfare or certainty. It arrives quietly, in the stillness of a decision you’ve been circling for a long time – and then, one day, you make it. That’s how it was for me.
After 30 years of marriage, I made the decision to leave. Not out of anger. Not out of failure. But out of a deep, undeniable knowing that I needed to reclaim the woman I had always been. There was a version of me still waiting to be lived and time, as they say, is not something you get back.
Finding My Sanctuary
I realized one thing clearly. I needed to leave the suburbs behind and find the pulse of something alive. Then a downtown loft fell into my lap. It had just been listed by the owners, who were about to hand it over to a rental agency. I wasn’t ready to commit the day I viewed it, even though I knew it would go fast. They promised to keep me at the front of the line, but when a week passed in total silence, my heart fell. I assumed it was gone. When I finally reached out, I learned the agent had been on vacation, and nothing had moved forward. That unexpected, agonizing week of quiet was a gift. It gave me the time to realize this wasn’t just a choice; it was the choice. This loft was destined to be mine. I nicknamed her “my sanctuary.”
That word matters. A sanctuary isn’t just a place to sleep. It’s a place where you are safe enough to fall apart and strong enough to put yourself back together. Mine had high ceilings, city light, and space – beautiful, breathing space – that felt nothing like the life I’d left behind.
I took very little from the house – intentionally. I wanted to build something that was entirely, unequivocally mine. So I chose to leave behind most of the old and I built my new home little by little, choosing each piece with care and keeping it minimal and meaningful. Every item had to earn its place.
There is something quietly radical about a minimalist fresh start. It forces you to ask: what do I actually want? Not what was expected of me, not what I inherited or accumulated – but what do I, at my core, truly want surrounding me? That question alone felt transformative.
Rediscovering the Woman in the Mirror
Inside those walls, something significant began to happen. I started to look like myself again. Not the self of recent years – but the young, vibrant, confident girl I once was and always had been underneath everything life had layered on top of her.
She hadn’t gone anywhere. She’d just been waiting.
I paid attention to how I dressed, how I moved, how I showed up. I invested in myself – not extravagantly, but intentionally. I looked in the mirror with curiosity instead of criticism. And slowly, day by day, I came to like what I saw.
My Daughters – My Worry, My Greatest Surprise
I won’t pretend the worry wasn’t there. I have three adult daughters, and from the beginning, my heart was heavy with a single question: how are they handling this? Divorce reshapes a family even when the children are grown. Maybe especially then, because they’re old enough to understand everything.
What I didn’t realize – what I couldn’t see from inside my personal fear – was that they were watching something considerably more important than the ending. They were watching the beginning. They were seeing their mother become happier, freer, and more alive. And they were seeing their father find peace too.
We made it a point to remain a family – just a reimagined one. The five of us continued to gather, to celebrate, to show up for each other. Our first Christmas after the split could have been devastating. Instead, we rented an Airbnb in Nashville and spent the holiday together – all five of us, in a new city, creating a brand new memory.
The lesson of that Christmas remains close to my heart. Family doesn’t require a specific house or structure. It requires love, intention, and showing up. We had all three.
Therapy, Reflection, and the Long Road to Yourself
I stayed in therapy throughout all of it. I want to say that plainly, without apology, because there is still a generation of women who were taught that seeking help is weakness. It is not. It is one of the most powerful things I have ever done.
Therapy gave me a place to process the grief – yes, grief, because even when a decision is right, there is still loss. It gave me tools to examine my patterns, my fears, my assumptions about who I was supposed to be. And it gave me permission to edit my story.
Each day, I became stronger. Not because the hard things disappeared, but because I stopped being afraid of them. Self-reflection became a daily practice. I asked myself harder and harder questions and sat with the answers. That discipline, more than anything else, built the independent woman I was becoming.
What I Want You to Know
If you are somewhere in the middle of your own becoming – maybe staring at a decision you’re terrified to make, or standing in a new space that still feels unfamiliar – I want you to know this:
The woman you’re becoming has always been inside you. She didn’t disappear. Life just got very loud for a while.
Starting over is not starting from scratch. It’s starting from experience – with wisdom you couldn’t have had any other way, and freedom you finally know how to use.
My sanctuary gave me the space to find her again. And in that space, I found the woman I had always been. Yours is waiting too – and, when you’re ready, she will meet you there. Until then, trust that she is still yours to reclaim.
With warmth,
Janine
