I wasn’t prepared for what motherhood would look like after divorce. It’s messy in ways you can’t anticipate, and for a long time, I didn’t know how I’d come out on the other side.
Growing up, I watched the many styles of motherhood around me—my friends’ moms, family members, and even strangers. Parenthood always seemed deeply personal, a reflection of who you were and how you chose to show up. What I didn’t realize, though, was that motherhood can’t be planned. I, like most children, carried a certain naivete, imagining that adulthood came with a roadmap: get married, have kids, decide exactly how many, and life would fall neatly into place. Reality, of course, had other plans. As I matured and learned the complexities of relationships, I began to understand life wasn’t linear—but I still had countless lessons waiting just around the corner.
My story followed the familiar arc of a college romance: love, marriage, a baby. But nothing unfolded the way I expected. I didn’t account for the tumultuous years that led to a devastating divorce. I never thought I’d find myself a single mother to a toddler in my 30s. I didn’t imagine, after 18 years with the same man, I’d be starting over, feeling like a geriatric contestant on a dating show that I hadn’t signed up for. Yet there I was—broken, a shell of myself, with a bright little girl watching my every move. I learned to hold it together for her, only to fall apart in the shower once she was asleep or curl up on the closet floor of my small single-mom den, consumed by loneliness.
Being the perpetual fifth wheel among couples pushed me toward rediscovering myself. I explored my inner recluse and relished nights out with my few single friends—it made me feel less like an outsider. Suddenly, things I hadn’t cared about in years became important: matching underwear, my hair, whether my legs were shaved past the knee. These small details felt like markers of life after a long, lonely marriage. It was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to date or simply stay home, bingeing chips and guacamole in my non-thong underwear. But I pushed myself out of my comfort zone, little by little, afraid of becoming the sad spinster I jokingly imagined myself to be.
Watching my daughter bounce between two homes, I was paralyzed by guilt. I had to constantly remind myself that our new reality, though imperfect, was far less stressful than staying in a marriage on the brink of collapse. With time, routines formed, and slowly, we adapted. Leaning on my closest friends and family, navigating a steamy rebound, and talking to myself with affirmations helped me rebuild my sense of self. But when dating reentered my mind, fear crept in. Any relationship would now involve more than just me. I wasn’t a single woman anymore—I was a mother.
Motherhood is messy in the obvious ways—diaper blowouts, spit-up on your shirt, sleepless nights. But nobody warns you about the other messy side. The emotional mess, the juggling, the constant anxiety over how anyone else could fit into your little world. The reality that someone new would witness meltdowns, watch you lose your cool, or have to cancel plans because your child is sick. There’s the heartbreak of trading date-night heels for ponytails and sweats, laundry piling up, and stomach bugs dominating your life. It’s the quiet fear of wondering if anyone could truly embrace all of this.
“Rachel, one day you’ll find your prince charming,” my mother would say, and for years, I clung to that hope. I always put my daughter first, deciding I’d be fine if no one ever fit into our duo perfectly. And then, unexpectedly, he appeared—the quiet to my chaos, the calm to my storm. From the start, he embraced both of us wholeheartedly. No games. No drama. Just unconditional love, patient and steadfast. It was proof that even in the murky waters of online dating, a “Prince Charming” can exist.
Our journey wasn’t perfect. Divorce leaves cracks that take time to navigate, but the foundation we built was honesty. I laid everything on the table: fears, flaws, past mistakes. He did the same. From day one, he respected me as a mother, accepted my daughter as his own, and supported me in ways I didn’t even know I needed. He held me through miscarriage, stroked my hair, and never pressured me to try again until I was ready. When we defied the odds and got pregnant, he carried our family through it graciously, sharing the responsibilities I had once shouldered alone.
Then came the arrival of our second daughter, eight years after the first. I worried endlessly: How will they bond? How will they grow up as sisters with so much age between them? Our newborn shook up every routine. We lost sleep, cried together, felt frustration, but also love—messy, chaotic, overwhelming love. That’s when I truly understood that motherhood isn’t about perfectly packed lunches or flawless Instagram moments. It’s full of struggles and triumphs, stress and joy, ugly and beautiful, all at once.
Those early plans I made at 22? Irrelevant. Motherhood isn’t something you control—it controls you. But all fears melted away watching my daughters interact: my older one stepping into the protector role, my younger one idolizing her, the chaos, the giggles, the fighting, the love. People often ask, “Do you regret the divorce?” But regret isn’t the right word. Nobody wants a divorce, and missing my child during time apart is painful. But we survive. We live. This journey may not have been what I imagined in my youth, but it is wholly, beautifully, and uniquely mine. I wouldn’t trade a single part of it.
