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, I felt more than just pain—I felt an overwhelming emptiness. We had been through decades together, raised two children, built a home, and supported each other during difficult times. And now, I found myself alone, with a broken heart and a feeling that my entire life had collapsed.
The day he packed his suitcase and silently walked out, I stood by the window, unable to move. It was like watching my life unfold from the outside: a woman who had dedicated herself to her family, now felt useless. The children had long moved out, the house felt empty, and for the first time in ages, I was left alone with myself.
At first, I couldn’t understand how it had happened. Had I done something wrong? I had always tried to be a good wife—caring, understanding, faithful. I thought about him, the children, the house, but never about myself. This realization hit me the hardest.
A few weeks after his departure, it became clear: I had never lived for myself. My happiness always depended on someone else, and now that this “someone” was gone, I had to start anew. I then decided to embark on a journey—to somewhere I had long dreamed of visiting, but always postponed.
I chose Italy. In my youth, I had dreams about visiting this country, but Alex always dismissed such trips as 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 cafes, 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 astonishing story: once divorced and, much like me, had devoted most of her life to her family. We sat on the terrace of a small café, speaking about everything: missed opportunities, fears, and what to do next.
Elizabeth said, “Life truly begins when you start looking at yourself from a different angle.” Her words were a revelation to me. For the first time in many years, I pondered: what makes me happy? What do I want to do?
Upon returning home, I signed up for painting classes. In my youth, I loved to paint, but then responsibilities and everyday life pushed this hobby 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 left. I no longer cried through the nights or blamed myself. I learned to find joy in simple things: the morning sun, long walks, and new people in my life. My neighbor Anne suggested that we open a small art studio together, and I agreed. We began holding workshops for women like me who had lost themselves in life’s routine and were searching for their sense of self.
Alex did call sometimes, wanting to come back once he realized life with another woman wasn’t as wonderful as he’d thought. 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 we’d spent together, but firmly said “no.”
Now I understand that self-love isn’t selfishness; it’s a necessity. I learned to be happy without relying on another person, to listen to my own desires and needs.
Life after fifty isn’t an end but a beginning. And although the path isn’t always easy, it leads to something new.
