After 35 years of marriage, my husband left me for another woman, and I finally realized that I had never thought about myself.
When my husband, Alex, left me for someone else after thirty-five years together, it wasn’t just painful; it felt like an all-consuming void. We had shared decades, raised two children, built a home, and supported each other through tough times. Now, here I was, alone with a broken heart and a sense that my entire life had collapsed.
On the day he packed his suitcase and silently left, I stood by the window, unable to move. It was as if I was watching my life unfold from the outside: a woman who had dedicated herself to her family was now unwanted. The children had long moved out, the house was empty, and for the first time in ages, I found myself alone with my thoughts.
Initially, I couldn’t comprehend how it had come to this. Had I done something wrong? I always tried to be a good wife—caring, understanding, faithful. I thought of him, the children, the home, but never of myself. This realization struck me harder than anything else.
A few weeks after he left, it became clear: I had never lived for myself. My happiness had always depended on someone else, and now that this “someone” was gone, I had to start anew. So, I decided to go on a trip—somewhere I had long dreamed of but always postponed.
I chose Italy. In my youth, I had longed to visit this country, but back then, Alex considered such trips a waste of money. Now, I finally had the freedom to 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 a long while, I felt light and free.
There, I met Elizabeth, a Frenchwoman ten years my senior. She had an incredible story: she had once gone through a divorce and, like me, had devoted much of her life to her family. We sat on the terrace of a small café and talked about everything: missed opportunities, fears, and what to do next.
Elizabeth said, “Life truly begins when you start to see yourself from a different perspective.” Her words were a revelation. For the first time in years, I asked myself: what brings me joy? What do I want to do?
Upon my return, I signed up for art classes. Once, in my youth, I loved to paint, but responsibilities and daily life had pushed this passion aside. 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 had left. I no longer cried at night or blamed myself. I learned to appreciate simple joys: the morning sun, long walks, new people entering my life. My neighbor, Anne, suggested we open a small art studio together, and I agreed. We started holding workshops for women like me, who had lost themselves in life’s routine and were searching for themselves.
Of course, Alex called from time to time. He wanted to return, realizing that his new life with another woman wasn’t as wonderful as it seemed. But I was different now. I looked at myself in the mirror and, for the first time in many 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 self-love is not selfishness but a necessity. I’ve learned to be happy without dependency on another person, to listen to my own desires and needs.
Life after fifty is not an end but a beginning. Although the path isn’t always easy, it leads to something new.
