After 35 years of marriage, my husband left for another woman, and I finally realized I had never thought about myself.
When my husband, Alex, left me for someone else after three and a half decades together, I felt not just pain but an overwhelming emptiness. We had shared so many years, raised two children, built a home, and supported each other through tough times. And now I was alone, heartbroken, and feeling like my whole life had collapsed.
The day he packed his suitcase and left without a word, I stood by the window, unable to move. It was as if I was watching my life from the outside: a woman who had devoted herself to her family now deemed unnecessary. The children had long since moved away, the house was empty, and for the first time in ages, I was left alone with my thoughts.
At first, I couldn’t understand how it happened. Had I done something wrong? I always tried to be a good wife—caring, understanding, faithful. I thought about him, the children, the house, but never about myself. And this realization struck me the hardest.
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” had gone, I had to start anew. So I decided to go on a trip—somewhere I’d always dreamed of but never pursued.
I chose Italy. In my youth, I had fantasized about this country, but Alex always dismissed such trips as a waste of money. Now I could finally do what I wished. The trip was the start of my new life. I wandered through the narrow streets of Florence, savored coffee in Roman cafes, and for the first time in years, felt light and free.
There, I met Elizabeth, a Frenchwoman ten years my senior. She had an incredible story; having once gone through a divorce, she too had dedicated much of her life to her family. We would sit on the terrace of a small café and talk 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 for me. For the first time in years, I pondered: what brings me joy? What do I want to do?
Back home, I enrolled in art classes. Once, in my youth, I loved to draw, but duties and the grind of daily life pushed that aside. Now, standing before a blank canvas, I felt like I was discovering myself anew.
Half a year passed, and I was no longer the woman my husband had left. I didn’t cry through the nights, nor did I blame myself anymore. I learned to enjoy the simple things: the morning sun, long walks, new people in 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 the routine of life and were searching for their identities.
Of course, Alex would call sometimes. He wanted to return when he realized the new life with another woman wasn’t so great after all. But I had changed. 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 spent together but firmly said “no.”
Now I understand that self-love isn’t selfishness but a necessity. I learned to be happy without relying on someone else, learned to listen to my desires and needs.
Life after fifty isn’t the end but a beginning. And although the path isn’t always easy, it leads to something new.
