Chapter 6 – Moving Out
“You’re not perfect, sport.”
— Robin Williams, Good Will Hunting
Joke: A friend of mine who was going through a separation—but still living under the same roof as his wife—once told me, “It’s gotten bad. All we have now is hallway sex.”
I gave him a confused look.
“Hallway sex?”
He nodded. “Yeah, it’s when you pass each other in the hallway and say, ‘F*** you!’”
“To Love, Honour and Betray” by Kathy Lette.
I’ll admit, I thought moving out would be easier than it turned out to be. But the process was just as heartbreaking as everything else. Once we confirmed that we were going to separate, we tried to make it as painless as possible.
One evening at the dinner table, we each wrote down what we wanted to keep from the house having been married for over twelve years. The larger assets would be divided later during the formal divorce process, but that night, it was about practicality—and preserving a shred of peace.
It’s interesting, isn’t it? That love between two people must be legally recognized to be considered real. A marriage certificate is just state-sanctioned proof of a relationship. Most people never imagine they’ll get divorced, and few ever research the legal side of marriage—especially when it comes to parenting, custody, and finances.
The first time most people learn these details is in a divorce attorney’s office. It’s usually expensive—and always sobering. Those legal realities just add more emotional weight to the already painful process of splitting assets and making decisions that will shape your life—and your kids’ lives—for years to come.
So, don’t just think about what feels right in the moment. Think about what you can live with long-term.
In my case, I chose to pay child support—even though I could have contested it. That decision gave me leverage, and I secured joint legal and physical custody of my daughters. It turned out to be one of the best choices I made. I wanted to be present as they grew into young adults. I couldn’t imagine not being part of their daily lives.
Since their mom kept the house, they stayed there part-time. That brought continuity into their world—and honestly, made the transition easier for me, too.
What I didn’t know then was that I’d move four times in six years.
Talk about a whirlwind.
With everything going on—especially the stress of the divorce and my concern for my daughters—I could barely sleep. For months.
To cope, I started taking naps in my car during lunch breaks at work.
As strange as it sounds, those naps helped me stay sane.
They gave me just enough energy to keep going.
I’ve seen some couples try to live together through a divorce. I knew early on that I couldn’t do it. I needed space to clear my head and let go of the emotional weight of cohabitating while unraveling a marriage.
Charged energy like that fills the air, no matter how polite or civil you try to be. Everyone feels it—especially the kids. They always know, no matter how well you think you’re hiding it.
So, I made it a priority to move out and start creating space for myself.
Q: How many divorced men does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: None. They never get the house.
(From: Web Joke Categories – Men/Women/Miscellaneous)
The Day the Movers Came
The day the movers showed up was bittersweet. I was relieved to be leaving, but I was also walking away from a home filled with memories—especially those tied to my two beautiful girls.
To make it worse, we had just remodeled the kitchen—something I’d looked forward to enjoying.
I remember helping the movers load up the truck with the things we’d agreed to split.
It all felt surreal.
But I kept reminding myself: the universe opens doors—if you stay aware and open to the lessons being offered.
That same day, my neighbor from across the street—an older gentleman I deeply respected—walked over and asked what was going on.
I told him the truth: we were separating, and I was moving out.
I’ll never forget the sadness in his eyes.
It made my stomach twist.
It was one of those moments when the weight of everything crashes down—
like when someone asks, “How’s the family?” and you either lie and say, “Good,”
or tell the truth and feel the ache all over again.
I realized I’d have to get used to moments like that. I’d have to get comfortable with being vulnerable.
Everything doesn’t fall apart at once.
At first, it felt like emotional lava—hot as hell and completely consuming. But if you hang in there, things begin to shift.
Looking back, I see that one of the greatest acts of kindness I gave myself was this: I tried to find one good thing each day. It didn’t always happen—but when it did, it helped ease the pain.
Gratitude, no matter how small, took the edge off. So did humor. Sometimes, that was all I had left at the end of the day when I was emotionally drained and exhausted.
I used to hate hearing, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I knew it was true, but it didn’t help in the middle of the storm.
If you’ve ever felt like it would be easier to die than to keep going—you’re not alone.
But here’s the truth:
The depth of your pain is equal to your capacity for love.
Your job now is to rediscover that love.
To shed the layers of hurt.
To reconnect with the light that’s still inside you.
A Place to Heal
For the first six months after moving out, I was lucky to stay in a vacant house that was up for sale—a house I had grown up in.
Even though it was temporary, it was familiar. And that helped more than I could have imagined. Another small gift from the universe.
During that time, I was juggling work, divorce counseling, and parenting my girls half the time. That old house became a kind of sanctuary. Strange at first—me and my daughters in a mostly empty space—but we made it work. I did everything I could to make sure they felt safe, supported, and loved.
After that, we moved to a duplex for about a year. Once the divorce was finalized, I started looking for a place that could really be home.
I wanted to create a sanctuary—for me, and for them. A calm place, free from the emotional residue of the past. I needed time to recalibrate. To remember who I was before the marriage. I’d lost a part of myself—someone more grounded, lighter, more balanced.
I didn’t want to carry anger forward. Or sadness.
I believed things could get better. And they did.
About a year and a half after the divorce, life finally started to settle. I was able to buy a house where my daughters had their own rooms. I had a dog, a backyard, and—most importantly—a sense of peace.
This home was mine.
A place to rest.
A place to stay.
No more moving.
Our fresh start.
Life is a constant cycle of endings and beginnings. Of stops and starts.
We push through massive changes, knowing things will never be quite the same. But you have to believe: there is light at the end of the tunnel. You will get through this, just as countless others have.
The sooner you face the heavy emotions—anger, sadness, grief, self-doubt—the sooner you’ll begin to heal.
And what you’ll discover on the other side is something powerful:
A heart that’s open again.
Ready to love.
Ready to live.
Ready for the next chapter—grounded, radiant, and fully alive.
