I went through hell, got divorced, and found a new version of myself—now I’m truly living
Sometimes life drags you through darkness, burdening you with suitcases full of pain, shame, exhaustion, and fear. But one day you just drop them, straighten your shoulders, and take a step forward. A step into the unknown, into freedom, into your true self. That’s what happened to me. Looking back, I feel like the woman I was before the divorce was someone entirely different—forgotten, lost, and broken.
My name is Lisa. I’m from Manchester, and I’m 52 now. A long time ago, I got married not out of love, but because it was expected. In our community at that time, a woman unmarried by 25 was considered a disgrace. Pressure came from everywhere—parents, aunts, neighbors. I couldn’t go to the cinema with a friend without being interrogated: “Was there a lad? Is he serious about you? When’s the wedding?”
So I got married. To a former classmate, Peter. He was ordinary, too much so. No special qualities or ambitions, but he had a passport and a ring. The family sighed in relief. But happiness didn’t follow.
Then my daughters were born, one after the other. That was my joy. I loved being a mum, sewing their dresses, doing their hair. That was my world—home, the girls, needle and thread. However, money was terribly tight. My husband neither wanted nor knew how to keep a job. He bounced from one to another, quitting, searching, drinking again. Each time sinking a bit deeper.
At first, I endured. Then I suggested, “Let me sew at home; at least we’ll have some money.” He exploded: “A woman should stay at home, not be the breadwinner!” Eventually, there was no one left to talk to—he began to drink heavily. The bottles piled up in the closet, like monuments to my dashed hopes.
And then came the recession. The ’90s. No jobs to be found. My eldest daughter was preparing for her final exams, the younger was on the verge of adolescence, and at home—a drunken husband and an empty fridge. The first time he attacked me with yells and fists, I knew it was over. This was no longer family; it was survival.
The next day another blow hit: he grabbed my throat, growling in my ear, “Where are you hiding the money, you witch?” I could barely breathe. My eldest saved me—she rushed in, pulled him away, and called the neighbors. They threw him out. Then came the court. The divorce. There was nothing to divide.
I was left. A woman with two daughters, with bruises on my body and a torn spirit, in a city with no future. But I remained. I lived. I rose.
My girls became my wings. The eldest took on studies and worked as a waitress. I picked up the sewing machine and got to work again, stitching, mending, adjusting, altering. People weren’t living extravagantly then—everyone wore whatever they could, and I quickly gained customers.
Slowly, we began to climb out.
Then—a miracle. My daughter met a foreigner. A gentle, kind fellow. They had a modest wedding and moved away. Within a year, I became a grandmother. They sent help. We could afford meat. I started sleeping through the night again.
The younger daughter didn’t disappoint either. She studied hard. Eventually, she got into a university in the US—the eldest helped with advice and some money. I was alone. Yes, it was tough, my heart ached. But I knew it was for their future.
One day, my eldest called and said, “Mum, you’ve earned a holiday. Is your passport in the drawer? Check. I’ve booked you on a cruise.”
At first, I thought I misheard. A cruise? Me? I found myself aboard a massive ship where everything sparkled and smelled exotic, where women laughed freely and men looked you in the eye. I didn’t meet a prince there, but I did meet… myself. The real me.
I stood on the deck at night, watching the water part beneath the ship, thinking: I survived. I overcame. I left behind someone who broke me and rebuilt a home. I wasn’t just living—I began to dream again.
Upon returning, I decided not to stop. I picked up a camera. Now my hobby is traveling around England and capturing photos. I travel with friends, exploring small towns, nature reserves, old churches. I take pictures and send them to my daughters. They write back, “Mum, you’re the strongest. And the happiest.”
Today, I’m not wealthy, but I have everything. Freedom. A smile. Faith in myself. Those dark years are behind me. Ahead—light, new paths, and me. The real me.
