As soon as I could break away from Uri, I bolted for Rebbetzin Shulberg’s house. “Mazel tov!” she cried, as she wrapped me in a warm embrace. “Everything’s going to be fine, don’t you worry.”

There, in her arms, I felt safe. If she said so, then everything would be fine. We’d just have to figure it out.

But figuring it out was not so easy. Coming as we did from vastly different backgrounds, Uri and I came to loggerheads over countless issues.

Where he came from, men were the breadwinners, and women stayed home, kept house, and tended to their husband’s every need and whim. As the head of the family, Uri felt entitled to make decisions unilaterally, and he expected me — and later the children — to obey his executive orders unquestioningly.

Each time our relationship hit a serious snag, I turned to Rebbetzin Shulberg for advice and support. “All men are like that,” she would soothe me. “You just have to be an ishah kesheirah and make shalom.”

Whatever the issue was, she would tell me to be mevater and do what Uri wanted. “It’s not that important,” she would say.

In the meantime, I was doing my best to be an ishah kesheirah. I had six children in as many years, and, like Rebbetzin Shulberg, who had stopped teaching for many years so she could be home with her children, I stayed home and cared for my children devotedly. I didn’t have much of a choice in this regard, actually, because Uri had an extremely demanding work and learning schedule, leaving the house at the crack of dawn every day and returning at midnight, and I had to pick up all the slack for him, running his errands, making his phone calls, and in general managing the back end of his life.

Several years into our marriage, even Rebbetzin Shulberg started to get exasperated with Uri. When I would call her to vent my frustration, she would say things like, “He totally doesn’t understand what it means to live in America. No matter how hard I try to tell him that what he grew up with won’t work for his family, he refuses to accept it.”

Knowing that I was going to cry to Rebbetzin Shulberg after every big fight, Uri would often preempt that by calling her himself and presenting his side of the issue. Eventually, Rebbetzin Shulberg got tired of speaking to him. “I can’t get through to him,” she would tell me. “It’s like he’s living on a different planet.”

In Uri’s worldview, there was no place for marriage counseling or therapy, and no matter how hard I begged him to come with me for help — “Please, let’s do it for the children!” — he wouldn’t even consider it.

Feeling lonely and frustrated in my marriage, I turned to Hashem, davening my heart out and devouring books on emunah. One of my favorite emunah books was geared specifically to women, with a focus on marriage and shalom bayis. The book encouraged its readers to thank Hashem not only for the good in their lives, but also for their nisyonos, which are actually hidden gifts. I’d read about the many women who worked on their emunah to the point that they were able to thank Hashem even for their difficult husbands, after which they merited astonishing yeshuos in their marriage. I, too, trained myself to say “Thank You, Hashem” for both the obvious good and the hidden good in my life, as I hoped and prayed for my personal miracle.

I needed more than one miracle. Our oldest daughter, Penina, was not an easy kid, and over the years she was diagnosed with ADHD, ODD, and various other disorders, none of which came with easy solutions.

During these years, I consulted with several parenting experts, each of whom offered strategies for how to deal with Penina. One of these experts had a different take on the situation, however. “You have a lot on your plate right now,” he told me. “The most important thing you need to do is get therapy for yourself, to help you cope with all this.”

When I entered therapy, my first item of business was Uri. But the therapist, whose name was Faigy, had a different agenda. “Forget your husband for now,” she said. “Let’s talk about you.”

Me? Who was I? Just a typical frum woman.

“But you’re not a typical frum woman,” she pointed out. “You didn’t grow up frum. What about the person you were before you became frum?”

“That person no longer exists,” I said.

“Of course she does,” she responded.

As we worked together, I started to realize that in the process of becoming frum, I had not only thrown my upbringing out the window, I had also thrown much of myself out in the process. Instead of drawing upon the positive values my parents had instilled in me — they were good, kind people, after all — I had carved out a hollow space inside me to be filled with the perceived expectations of frum society.

“But are all of those expectations right for you?” Faigy asked.

I had never asked myself that question. From the time I became frum, I had assumed that my life was supposed to look a certain way, that avodas Hashem was all about suppressing your own needs and desires, that what was right for people like Rebbetzin Shulberg was right for me.

“It’s great to seek guidance,” Faigy said. “But did you ever check in with yourself and ask yourself whether the advice you received would work for you?”

That was a totally novel idea.

With Faigy’s help, I started learning to connect to my true self, to hear my inner voice, and to seek advice from myself, not only from those around me. It was a long journey, but as the months and years went on, I began to feel a deep connection to my inner world.

One day Uri dropped a bombshell by informing me that he was planning to move the family to his home country. He had never gotten used to America, he said, and he didn’t approve of the values the kids were growing up with.

Neither I nor any of the children spoke the language of his home country, which also happened to be going through serious civil unrest at the time. And the frum community there was small and hardly flourishing — not the kind of Jewish atmosphere I thought my kids would thrive in. But for me, the biggest issue of all was Penina. “There’s no way she can get the therapy and services she needs in that kind of environment,” I told Uri.

“Back in my country she’ll get some good old-fashioned discipline,” was his response. “There, we can forget about all the ADHD and ODD labels and start to raise her the way my parents raised me.”

Uri wasn’t asking me whether I wanted to move — he was informing me that this is what was going to happen. Which was typical. In the past, I probably would have called Rebbetzin Shulberg, or a rav, in a panic. But this time, I didn’t feel I needed anyone’s advice.

“I’m not ready to move across the world,” I said. “And I think it will be disastrous for the kids. If you want to move, you’ll have to give me a get first.”

Uri didn’t think I was serious. He actually went and booked tickets for the entire family. For a month later.

And then I did something I never would have dreamed I’d have the courage to do: I got a restraining order preventing Uri from leaving the country until a custody agreement was worked out.

When I called Rebbetzin Shulberg to tell her that I was planning to insist on a get, her response floored me. “Good for you!” she cheered. “I’m proud of you! And I’m so happy you’re finally getting out of this.”

“But you were always the one who told me to make shalom!” I spluttered.

“I only said that for the first few years, until I realized just how different your husband’s mentality was,” she said. “At that point, it became obvious that the two of you were totally incompatible, and none of the regular shalom bayis advice applied anymore.”

“So why didn’t you tell me to get out?” I cried.

“I’ve been telling it to you for years,” she said, sighing. “You just weren’t hearing it. And I wasn’t going to tell you straight out to get divorced, because how could I take responsibility for that?”

My parents, my therapist, and my best friend were also thrilled when they heard I was getting divorced. Each of them independently echoed the rebbetzin’s sentiments, telling me that they were hinting to me for years that I should get divorced, but didn’t want to come right out and say it.

Why hadn’t I picked up on their hints? Faigy, my therapist, said it was because I was deaf to my own voice and out of touch with my inner wisdom. Now that I had come back in touch with myself, the solution was obvious to me.

But there was more to it. Uri was a good person. He just wasn’t a match for me, or any American girl; the cultural differences ran too deep. But in my heart of hearts, I had been waiting for a miracle. I truly believed that if I turned myself into Rebbetzin Shulberg, one day Uri would turn into Rabbi Shulberg — or, at very least, into someone I and my children could relate to. And my emunah books nurtured that hope, by feeding me story after story of miraculous salvations.

Nowhere in any of the emunah books, and certainly not in the emunah and shalom bayis book, had I read about someone who worked on her emunah and developed a deep relationship with Hashem — which led her to take decisive action and walk out of an untenable marriage. The book always told stories of women who worked on their middos and emunah and then lived happily ever after. But that didn’t happen for me. I almost felt like I was having a fight with Hashem for years: “Look, Hashem, I’m having emunah, davening, making shalom, being mevater. Nu?” But in the end, my marriage taught me what real emunah is all about: Everything that happens to me is good for me. Even if it doesn’t turn out the way I want it to.

I did experience a miraculous salvation in that the get proceedings went smoothly, the beis din awarded me full custody, and Uri — who has since moved to his home country — is paying generous child support every month without complaint. As I said, he is a good person. But the biggest miracle of all is that I came out with a deep connection to my true self, and to HaKadosh Baruch Hu.

My personal miracle might never make it into any emunah book, but the fact was that the same emunah that kept me sane throughout my 12 years of marriage also gave me the confidence to get out when the time was ripe. I had been lonely for many years in my marriage — but by the time I received my get, I was no longer lonely. I had Hashem.

From the time I had become a baalas teshuvah, I was scrupulous about davening from a siddur. But the pain I experienced in my marriage spurred me to do a different kind of davening, speaking to Hashem constantly, telling Him what was going on in my life, beseeching Him for what I needed and wanted, thanking Him for everything, and asking Him to show me the right path forward.

In the process, I began to feel Hashem’s love palpably and pay attention to what He was trying to convey to me throughout each day. Prayer metamorphosed from a scripted monologue into a vibrant dialogue: I was having a conversation with Hashem every day, talking to Him and looking for His reply.

Before the get was finalized, I spoke to a rav in my community about my fears of being divorced. “I’m afraid that people are going to judge me,” I confided. “There’s so much stigma attached to divorce in the frum community. People are going to think I should have worked harder.”

“Part of your journey and growth is to learn to live a fulfilled, happy life in your situation,” he replied. “You have to believe that this life is exactly what you need and what is good for you and your family. If you truly believe that, you won’t care what others think.”

In the past, I would have had a hard time with that advice, because I had absorbed the hashkafah that marriage is supposed to be forever, and that shalom bayis trumps all other considerations. But now, I allowed the rav’s words to filter through my own feelings about my situation, and I found that they resonated with me. That’s what real emunah is, I told myself.

I began to reframe, in my mind, how I viewed my new status. I resolved to hold my head high, be the best mother to my children, and treat myself with dignity and respect.

During my marriage, I hadn’t gone out to work because I needed to hold the fort and constantly be at Uri’s beck and call. But if I could finally admit the truth, I didn’t love being a stay-at-home mom. A day filled with nonstop childcare and housework didn’t leave me fulfilled, and, to be honest, I couldn’t bear the constant mess and cleanup. After the divorce, I took a part-time job and hired cleaning help, and I found that I had much more energy and excitement to be with my kids the rest of the day.

In the many shiurim I’ve heard in seminary and afterward, the recurring theme has been that a woman should do everything she can to help her husband, care for her children, and think about others. I don’t remember ever hearing that a woman also needs to fill up her own soul — not only through “spiritual” activities such as listening to shiurim and davening, but also by doing the things that light her up inside and put dance in her step. For me, that meant visiting friends, standing on a mountain and watching the sun set, or lying beside a lake. As a married woman, I never granted myself those pleasures. As a single mother, I did. I needed them — even if Rebbetzin Shulberg didn’t.

I’m happier now, as a single mother, than I’ve ever been in my life. I mean that. I really love my life. I’m happy, I’m fulfilled, and I don’t feel that I’m lacking anything. And my kids absorb and reflect that joy. They’re the most popular kids in school and in the neighborhood, and none of their teachers or classmates see them as “nebachs,” because they don’t see themselves that way. Even Penina, who was by all accounts an at-risk child, has settled down since the divorce, and today she is bringing me tremendous nachas.

I still maintain a close relationship with Rebbetzin Shulberg, except that today, I recognize that she and I are not the same person, and what works for her won’t necessarily work for me. I continue to ask her, and others, for advice — except that now, I also ask myself whether the advice feels right to me. And what’s really amazing is that I can ask myself for advice, too.

Recently, Rebbetzin Shulberg called me up to ask mechilah for pushing me into the shidduch with Uri and pooh-poohing my concerns.

“Mechilah?” I wondered. “Didn’t you teach me that after something happens, we have to believe fully that it was Hashem’s will?

“Do you know why I married Uri? It’s because I saw the life that you had. You were so close to Hashem, so happy, so full of emunah, and I was sure that it was because of your relationship with your husband. I wanted your life and your connection to Hashem, and that’s why I married Uri. And you know what? I got that connection with Hashem through my marriage. Just not exactly in the way I thought I would.”

I could hear Rebbetzin Shulberg’s smile through the phone. She’s been through some difficult times in the past few years, but she still radiates such simchas hachayim, you would never know what she’s been through.

“Life can be tough,” she reflected. “But the only way you can live is if you have simchah.”

“And the best way to have simchah is to be close to Hashem,” I added.

“No,” she corrected me. “The only way to be happy is to be close to Hashem.”

I knew that was good advice the minute I heard it.

(Originally Featured in Mishpacha Issue 676)