After 35 years of marriage, my husband left me for another woman, and I finally realized I had never thought about myself.
When my husband, Alex, departed to be with someone else 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 left alone, with a broken heart and a sense that my whole world had collapsed.
On that day, when he silently packed his suitcase and walked out, I stood by the window, unable to move. It felt as if I was watching my life from the outside: a woman who had dedicated herself to her family, now deemed unnecessary. The children had long gone, the house stood empty, and for the first time in a long time, I was alone with myself.
At first, I couldn’t understand how this happened. Had I done something wrong? I had always tried to be a good wife—caring, understanding, loyal. I thought about him, the kids, and the house, but never about myself. This realization hit me harder than anything else.
A few weeks after his departure, it became clear to me: I had never lived for myself. My happiness was always tied to someone else, and now that “someone” was gone, I had to start anew. So, I decided to take a journey—a journey I had always dreamed about but kept postponing.
I chose Italy. In my youth, I had fantasized about this country, but back then, Alex considered such trips a waste of money. Now I could finally do what I wanted. The trip marked the beginning of my new life. I wandered through the narrow streets of Florence, enjoyed coffee in Roman cafés, and felt a sense of lightness and freedom for the first time in years.
There, I met Elizabeth—a Frenchwoman ten years my senior. She had an amazing story: she once went 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 seeing yourself from a different perspective.” Those words were a revelation to me. For the first time in many years, I pondered: What brings me joy? What do I want to do?
Upon returning home, I signed up for art classes. Once, in my younger days, I loved to draw, but responsibilities and daily life pushed away that passion. Now, standing in front of 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 nor blamed myself. I learned to take pleasure in simple things: the morning sun, long walks, new people in my life. My neighbor Anna suggested we open a small art studio together, and I agreed. We began conducting workshops for women like me, who had lost themselves in life’s routines and were searching for themselves.
Of course, Alex called sometimes. He wanted to return once he realized that the new life with another woman wasn’t as picturesque as he imagined. But I was already different. I looked at myself in the mirror and, for the first time in years, saw confidence and joy 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 but a necessity. I learned to be happy without relying on someone else, I learned to listen to my own desires and needs.
Life after fifty is not an end but a beginning. And although the journey is not always easy, it leads to something new.
