Reflecting on Marriage and Divorce: A Journey to Sun Valley

During the pandemic’s first year, my husband, G, and I traveled to Sun Valley, Idaho, to bring our marriage to a close. We chose a place neither of us had visited, ensuring neutrality without the burden of nostalgia. The plane from Los Angeles was filled with masked passengers as we landed. Turbulence made me uneasy, reminding me of the precariousness of our situation. Instinctively, I reached for G, then stopped. We appeared to be a couple married for 25 years. Legally, we were, but we had lived apart longer than we were together. Fourteen years ago, I asked G to leave our home, envisioning a straightforward divorce process. Our path, however, was different.

We met at 18, living on the same freshman dorm floor. G was from Long Island; I was from the Midwest. He was well-liked, and many people gathered in his room, enchanted by his humor and quick mind. A drunken hookup led to dating. It was different from my previous relationship—more electric, less awkward. We both loved reading 20th-century American literature, which was intoxicating to us.

I remember falling in love during my first visit to New York City with G. The city was unlike anything on TV or in movies. G’s parents were larger-than-life—his mother with her weekly salon visits, his father with his Rockefeller Center office. Over dinner, we laughed at their stories, like when his mother forgot him strapped in a stroller she’d put in the trunk. It felt like a sitcom.

G and I shared wine in Oyster Bay, talking about Hemingway and Steinbeck. We were enthralled by stories of life and the American Dream. Sitting there, I felt vibrant, free from the gloom I had felt about my impractical major. G was studying medicine, and I wanted to help people and be a mom. The sea’s sound and grand mansions gave me hope to move beyond my small-town origins and depression. We moved in together after college and married two years later.

At Sun Valley, our shuttle to the lodge had no other passengers. We hadn’t spent time together for years; we lived an hour apart in California, mostly communicating during daughter handoffs. G sat across from me on the shuttle. He looked older, with gray hair, and I reminisced about our youthful days in Oyster Bay and our belief in family life as protection from misfortune.

We arrived at Sun Valley Lodge, built in 1936. It was a glamorous spot once favored by Hollywood. Hemingway wrote “For Whom The Bell Tolls” in Suite 206. We agreed to meet at the heated pool before dinner. In my room, I unpacked clothes, ski gear, and a folder labeled “Divorce.” Our plan was to try navigating the divorce without lawyers. I had organized internet research for guidance.

Growing up mormon, I had no examples of divorce. Family life was preached as the path to celestial eternity, and failing to marry meant earthly and heavenly loneliness. Through my childhood, I scrutinized my actions to ensure heavenly acceptance, dreaming of a perfect family life. After my parents left the church, such ideals echoed within, sometimes suffocatingly.

At the pool, I arrived before G and watched the sunset fade behind the mountain. The warm water was a soothing respite. The year had been traumatic with the pandemic, Trump’s actions, and my stalled writing career. G appeared, but I looked away, remembering past struggles with his bipolar disorder and my changed body. Once, our encounters were electric, but back then, I used intimacy as a bargaining tool.

In our early marriage, a trip to Laguna Beach inspired a fear-driven desire to have children. However, now floating in the pool, our bodies brushed, but we moved apart, unable to communicate physically anymore.

The next morning, we ascended Baldy’s summit, a symbol of G’s passion for skiing. Anxiety hit me at the steep slopes. I hadn’t skied nearly as long as G, who encouraged me to try. Watching him expertly navigate was irksome as I doubted my capabilities. My legs felt weak, and fear won. I crashed, equipment scattered, and G ascended the slope to offer help. Embarrassed but determined, I managed to continue, though unsure of my place amid his competence.

Years before, we moved to Connecticut with our daughters, ages 4 and 6. G had just completed medical training, and I was in full-time mom mode. We purchased a fixer-upper with a physician loan. Yet, something felt amiss. G’s prior steadiness turned into inappropriate gregariousness and withdrawal. He paced, lacked sleep, and became someone unfamiliar, affecting us all.

G’s strange actions, like leaving the freezer door ajar, indicated something deeper. Finally, a therapist took G’s mental health seriously, diagnosing bipolar disorder. It was difficult informing our parents, who doubted my claims. G downplayed his state, some therapists sided with him, and I was left to manage the household entirely. The revelation of G’s family history of mental illness further complicated the situation.

Eventually, I asked G to leave, felt a mix of fear and conviction. His family criticized my decision, but I had to prioritize safety. He moved to a nearby apartment. Our daughters were deeply impacted by the separation, and I worked to keep them emotionally safe while finding a way forward. During a solo walk, a realization dawned: this wasn’t only about G’s illness but my constraints within societal and familial expectations.

I established new rules and took steps towards stability. Therapy asked, “How do you feel?” and “What do you want?” I wanted safety and to live on my terms. G complied with treatment, and we maintained a family setup, albeit an unconventional one. Moving to California, we created a new life. I found work, took care of our finances, and fostered my writing career. G’s stabilization allowed for a better relationship with our daughters, who primarily lived with me, visiting him on weekends.

Back in Sun Valley, we strolled to Ketchum for dinner, passing quiet landscapes disrupted by the pandemic’s restrictions. Over shared memories, we laughed and reminisced. After years in Connecticut, our house became an asset only in memory. In a spirited exchange at dinner, G wrote on a slip, suggesting commitment to family ties, something echoing his previous plea to reunite the family. Then, I had refused, unwilling to return to a past model. Now, affirming our journey, I accepted, validating the kindness and new beginnings we formed. The next day, we skied, each to our levels and interests, demonstrating our independence and appreciation for change.

Navigating divorce and redefining life was challenging. Marriages are often sanctified as stable and desirable, with culture and law upholding these values. Divorce invites public questions and discomfort at veering from norms. G and I found strength in our love, choosing an unscripted path. The societal and mental health stigmas loomed, but we forged ahead. Our new chapter lacked the traditional resolutions, yet we adjusted life’s expectations into opportunity, reflecting mutual respect and understanding.

Our paths had diverged, yet we maintained unity. With a shared life’s adventure transitioning into distinct journeys, we cherished what came before and embraced what lay ahead.