Finding Strength in Faith: How I Survived My Divorce and Reclaimed My Life

“You’re not listening to me!” I screamed, slamming the kitchen drawer so hard that the wooden spoon inside jumped out onto the floor. Mark stared at me from across the room, his jaw set, his eyes cold—so different from the boy I married in the spring sunshine eleven years ago. “You never listen, Jess,” he shot back, voice low and tired. “You just want to win.”

For a moment, I thought about throwing the spoon at him. Instead, I dropped to my knees, sobbing, picking up the spoon and clutching it like a lifeline. The kids—Aiden and Lily—were upstairs, probably listening, probably scared. The silence in the kitchen was deafening.

That night, Mark packed a bag and left. He didn’t slam the door; he just closed it behind him, quietly, like he didn’t want to wake a sleeping child. I waited for the relief to come, but only a cold, paralyzing fear settled over me. My marriage was over.

The next weeks were a blur—lawyers, custody meetings, texts that started with “per our agreement” and ended with “let me know.” I moved through each day like a ghost, my mind replaying every argument, every birthday party, every broken promise. I barely ate. I lost fifteen pounds. My hands shook when I tried to sign the divorce papers.

On a Wednesday night, after the kids were asleep, I sat on the porch with a mug of tea that had gone cold hours ago. I stared at the stars and whispered, “God, are you there?” I hadn’t prayed in years, not really. But that night, the words spilled out of me, raw and desperate: “Please, help me. I’m drowning. I don’t know how to do this.”

In the mornings, I started reading my old Bible, the one I’d shoved to the back of a closet after college. I read the Psalms and cried over the words: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” I prayed for strength to get my kids out the door, for patience when Lily refused to eat oatmeal, for forgiveness—mostly for myself. I started seeing God not as a distant judge, but as a friend sitting beside me in the mess.

My mother called every night. “Jessica, you can’t lose yourself,” she said one evening, her voice trembling. “You have to be strong for the kids.”

“I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’m failing them.”

“You’re not. You’re there. That’s enough. Let God do the rest.”

But the world didn’t slow down for me to heal. At work, my boss eyed me with concern, and my colleagues whispered when I stepped out to take calls from the lawyer. The PTA moms at school gave me tight smiles and said, “Let us know if you need anything,” but no one really knew what to say.

I tried to keep it together for Aiden and Lily. One Friday, Lily clung to my waist and cried, “I want Daddy to come home. Why did he leave?”

I knelt down and hugged her, my heart breaking all over again. “Sometimes grown-ups have problems they can’t fix, baby. But Daddy and I both love you so much. That will never change.”

I didn’t tell her about the loneliness that crept in after they went to bed, or the endless ache in my chest. Instead, I poured my pain into prayer. Some nights I just sat in silence, letting the tears fall. Other nights I raged at God—Why me? Why now?—and waited for some kind of answer.

One Sunday, I forced myself to church. I sat alone in the back pew, my hands clenched in my lap. The pastor’s sermon was about forgiveness—not just for others, but for ourselves. He said, “God isn’t waiting for you to be perfect. He’s waiting for you to be honest.”

After the service, a woman named Carol sat beside me. She squeezed my hand and said, “It gets better. I promise.”

We started meeting for coffee once a week—just two women, sharing stories and prayers. She didn’t offer easy answers. She just listened and reminded me that I wasn’t alone. Slowly, I felt the weight begin to lift.

The divorce finalized in March. Mark and I sat across from each other in the mediation room, our lawyers shuffling papers. He couldn’t meet my eyes. When it was over, I walked out into the gray parking lot, breathing in the cold air, feeling both free and unbearably empty.

That night, I prayed, “Thank you, God, for getting me through this. Help me forgive Mark. Help me forgive myself.”

Healing wasn’t a straight line. There were setbacks—panic attacks, angry texts with Mark, tears when the kids asked why we weren’t a family anymore. But there were small victories, too: laughter at bedtime, a new recipe that didn’t burn, a quiet moment in the garden with the sun on my face.

One summer evening, as I tucked Lily into bed, she whispered, “Mommy, you’re smiling again.”

I kissed her forehead. “Yes, sweetheart. I am.”

Faith didn’t fix everything, but it gave me hope when I had none. It reminded me that I was loved—by God, by my children, and maybe, someday, by myself. I still pray every night, not just for my own peace, but for every woman out there who feels lost after a broken marriage.

Would I have survived without faith? Maybe. But I know I wouldn’t have found this kind of healing, this sense that even in the ashes, something beautiful can grow. If you’re reading this, caught in your own storm, I hope you know: you don’t have to do this alone.

Sometimes I wonder—how many of us are quietly praying for a second chance, for the strength to start over? What would happen if we stopped hiding and started sharing our stories?