After 35 years of marriage, my husband left me for someone else, and I finally realized I never thought about myself.
When my husband, Alexander, left me for another woman after three and a half decades together, I felt more than just pain—it was an overwhelming emptiness. We had spent decades together, raised two children, built a home, and supported each other through tough times. And now, I was alone, heartbroken, with my world seeming to collapse around me.
The day he packed his suitcase and left without a word, I stood by the window, unable to move. It felt like I was watching my life from the outside: a woman who had dedicated herself to her family was now unwanted. The children had long since moved out, the house felt empty, and for the first time in ages, I was truly alone with myself.
At first, I couldn’t comprehend how this had happened. Had I done something wrong? I had always strived to be a good wife—caring, understanding, faithful. I thought about him, the kids, the home, but never about myself. This realization struck me harder than anything.
A few weeks after his departure, it became clear: I had never lived for myself. My happiness always depended on someone else, and with that “someone” gone, I had to start over. So, I decided to travel—to a place I had always dreamed of but constantly postponed.
I chose Italy. In my youth, I had longed to visit this country, but back then, Alexander thought such trips were a waste of money. Now, I could finally do what I wanted. The trip marked the beginning of my new life. I wandered the narrow streets of Florence, enjoyed coffee in Roman cafés, and for the first time in years, felt light and free.
There, I met Elizabeth—a Frenchwoman, ten years my senior. She was a woman with an incredible backstory: she had once gone through a divorce and, like me, devoted much of her life to family. We sat on a small café terrace and talked about everything: missed opportunities, fears, and what to do next.
Elizabeth said, “Life truly begins when you start seeing yourself from another perspective.” Her words were a revelation. For the first time in many years, I considered: what brings me joy? What do I want to do?
Upon returning home, I signed up for painting classes. Years ago, I loved to paint, but obligations and daily life pushed aside this passion. Now, standing before a blank canvas, I felt like I was rediscovering myself.
Six months passed, and I was no longer the woman my husband left. I no longer cried at night or blamed myself. I learned to enjoy simple things: the morning sun, long walks, new people in my life. My neighbor, Ann, suggested we open a small art studio together, and I agreed. We began hosting workshops for women like me, who were lost in life’s routines and searching for themselves.
Alexander occasionally called, wanting to come back when he realized the new life with another woman wasn’t as wonderful as he’d imagined. But I was someone different now. I looked at myself in the mirror and for the first time in years saw confidence and happiness in my eyes. I thanked him for the years we spent together but firmly said “no.”
Now I know that loving yourself is not selfishness; it’s a necessity. I have learned to be happy without depending on someone else, to listen to my desires and needs.
Life after fifty is not an end but a beginning. And while the journey isn’t always easy, it leads to something new.
