Courtesy of Lisa VanderVeen.
"My soul is deeply unhappy. I want a divorce." He said abruptly, with no softening of the hammer he'd just dropped.
My husband of nearly 20 years dumped me unceremoniously on an otherwise unremarkable Friday evening in January. We'd spent the day together, running errands and sharing fries at lunch. Sitting down to dinner in our dining room, I'd asked if he was okay. He'd been distant lately, but I hadn't seen this coming.
The day after he left, I was on my friend's couch sobbing until I couldn't breathe, while she rubbed my back. "What do you want your next chapter to look like?" She asked.
I didn't know what kind of music I liked, let alone how to rewrite a life whose chapters had long been written. For years, I'd let my daughter or husband choose the soundtrack while I rode along, abandoning myself to the roles of wife and mother. When we divorced, I didn't just lose my marriage, my co-parent, my "person," I lost the roadmap to the future we'd planned so diligently, together.
"I don't know," I told my friend. "I think I want to travel." But I'd never traveled alone, and I didn't know if I was brave enough to do it as a 50 year old single woman.
The divorce came at personal trifecta: I had no job, my daughter's enrollment in boarding school left barren the nest I'd feathered, and I was turning 50. Soon after, I returned to the workforce as a school administrator. My job anchored me.
With Thanksgiving approaching, I faced five and a half days alone, as my soon-to-be ex-husband had our daughter for the holiday. Hands shaking, I booked a plane ticket. My destination criteria: flight time under eight hours and $700 and a country I hadn't visited. I flew to Belgium.
In Brussels, I wandered cobblestone streets bedecked with hanging greens and Christmas lights, watching as workers erected a huge tree at La Grand-Place. I sampled buttery chocolate from artisanal shops and salty frites from stands whose windows opened to the street. I daytripped to Bruges and took a self-guided walking tour along the charming canals. As I wandered, a veil of contentment draped itself over the ache of this lonely holiday.
The following Thanksgiving, alone again and with the same criteria, I traveled to Portugal. On a food tour, I sampled savory salt cod mixed with mashed potatoes; creamy, custardy, pasteis de nada tarts; and ginjinha, a sour cherry liqueur infused with cinnamon. I took trains to the Seussical-like Pena Palace in Sintra, and to Porto, where I learned how port wine was made. Navigating train schedules and solo dining slowly flexed a growing travel muscle.
Over time, I grew braver, traveling further afield, eventually finding myself in Kathmandu, Nepal for a writing workshop. There, among marigold leis and prayer beads, I met a community of creatives who became close friends. As we walked in meditation around the watchful eyes of Boudhanath Stupa, in step with the Tibetan Buddhists who held it sacred, I felt at peace for the first time since the breakup.
In the six years since my husband left me, I've traveled to 21 countries and my 50s look nothing like I'd imagined they would. I've bathed in thermal baths in Budapest, floated down the Mekong River in Laos, hot-air ballooned above the otherworldly landscape of Cappadocia and foraged for cloudberries in Finland. I've found my footing in the world, choosing adventures he wouldn't have favored. I'm grateful for my divorce. From the wreckage, arose a life more robust and fulfilling than I'd ever dreamed possible.
