By Sarah Michelle Sherman
I knew my divorce would change just about everything in my life, but I didn’t expect the fallout to cut so deep. It felt like a second heartbreak.
I was 37 when I left last June — a mother, a writer, living in Albany, New York. It’s the kind of place where everyone knows your business, or thinks they do. I’d been with my husband for over a decade, married for six of those years. We met at the bar I worked at during grad school, and most of our social circle came from that world — restaurant owners, bartenders, servers, and the regulars whose generosity kept our pockets full. Even after I traded late nights behind the bar for early mornings at a desk job in the Governor’s office, I still believed those people were mine. That they’d be in my corner no matter how much I changed.
I expected a few awkward conversations, and that I’d slowly drift away from some of the people I’d surrounded myself with for over a decade. But I wasn’t prepared for the gossip, which began the moment people heard I left my husband — the blatant slander and rumors that felt ripped straight out of a high school cafeteria. I quickly learned who was “Team Him,” as if the end of my marriage was a game with sides to choose.
“You know Sarah. She got a new therapist.” That’s what one friend said my husband was telling people when they confronted him about the news, like that explained everything. As if Meaghan had hypnotized me into leaving. But she didn’t tell me to go. She helped me realize I could. That I didn’t have to keep quieting my fears or shrinking my needs just to hold my marriage together.
“Out again, huh?” another critic said to me one night in a judgemental tone. Like grabbing a drink with friends was some kind of crime. Like trying to fill the quiet hours when my son was with his father was something to be ashamed of. I was just learning how to be alone, but even that made people uncomfortable.
And then there was the “friend” who tried to play neutral, telling me the only thing that truly mattered was that we figured things out for our son. As if that wasn’t already the driving force behind every hard decision I’d made. As if I needed a reminder to prioritize him. He said our friends were confused and I had put them in awkward positions, like being a decent human and checking in required some kind of complex performance. But their discomfort wasn’t my responsibility. Their confusion was not my problem. And the positions they found themselves in? They did that to themselves.
I’d spent years with these people celebrating weddings and babies, sharing vacations, navigating life. They didn’t just slip away. They made their exit known. They tore me apart from a distance, crafting narratives about my life without asking to hear mine. It felt like my relationship and its ending had been turned into a spectacle for them to dissect.
And then it hit me: they weren’t actually my people. They were only interested in the version of me that served them — the one who was complacent, self-sacrificing, and struggling in silence. The one who didn’t make them uneasy with her honesty.
I’ve wondered if divorce makes people uncomfortable because it holds up a mirror. Maybe seeing someone walk away makes them question their own relationship.
The truth surfaced slowly, painfully, and without apology. Every whisper, every dirty look, every absence revealed who had really been standing beside me all along — the right ones, the real ones. And they were still there.
Some were old and familiar, like my roommate from my freshman year of college. After nearly 18 years of “we need to see each other” texts and life getting in the way, we finally did it. I was in Brooklyn for work, she was living on Long Island, and we met in Manhattan for a night. It was just the two of us, like no time had passed.
She walked out of the hotel bathroom and saw me sitting on the bed, apparently as I used to back in our dorm room. “You even sit the same,” she laughed.
We talked like no time had passed. She reminded me that even back then, I was more than enough. That I had always been someone worth knowing, loving. She’s one of the rare ones: steady, sincere, and impossible to replace. I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I know I’m endlessly grateful to have her.
There are other people whose presence has never strayed. Like the one who’s been there since fourth grade picture day. She’s now a professional therapist, though she’s never once made me feel like a case to manage. I feel guilty for how much I lean on her. But the truth is, I always have. And I’m certain I couldn’t get through this without her.
She has this way of listening and responding that makes me feel like I make sense, even when I don’t. She validates me, challenges me, and encourages me. And she’s held every version of me without flinching.
Other friends returned from chapters I’d never meant to close, like my grad school family. After I got married, I unintentionally drifted from them. And in doing so, I lost a vital part of myself. I buried it beneath marriage and motherhood and the quiet pressure to be someone I wasn’t.
But last year, just after I left, they were right there. They came to my son’s third birthday party at my parents’ house, which was my first time hosting alone. They brought gifts, took pictures, and asked if I was okay. They made it evident I wasn’t in this alone.
Now we see each other often. And these people? They don’t expect me to have it all figured out. They’re patient, unwavering, and healing. They reflect the parts of myself I forgot, and the pieces I’m still trying to find.
From my oldest friend to the ones who came later, the people who remained showed me what it feels like to be truly held, and reminded me who’s worth holding onto. In their presence, I’ve found clarity. The divorce hurt; it broke me in ways I don’t think I could’ve ever prepared for. But what followed taught me more. Not everyone can handle someone choosing themselves. The ones who could, stayed. And the ones who left weren’t losses. They were lessons. In losing them, I’m finally finding myself.