Undertow

For me, the hardest part of my new life was giving up my children. They left on Wednesdays every other week, and each time was excruciating. I dreaded the packing, gathering piles of clothes, school papers, and toothbrushes, and the seemingly millions of items my daughters needed. In the beginning, I packed for them, and we dealt with last-minute scrambles for forgotten papers or clothes, but as the weeks and months passed, the transitions became part of our routine.

My girls packed for themselves as casually as preparing a bowl of cereal and milk for breakfast, and that was one of the most painful things for me to witness… that the nomadic life of the divorced child was our new normal.

I prided myself on my clean kids, clean home, and meticulously done schoolwork, but when my children were away, schoolwork or clean kids didn’t always happen. The teachers were understanding, but the feelings of inadequacy haunted me. Worry. Fret. Panic. The hours away from my children dragged on in a mental torture chamber.

And then they returned.

“I’m too tired,” one daughter would whine after going to bed at who-knows-when the night before.

“No, I didn’t have a bath,” the youngest would say innocently as I eyed her stringy hair.

“I have to do my homework!” another would tell me frantically, while I held back my annoyance at all that was left undone when they weren’t home.

It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t even their father’s fault. But the anger consumed me, and so did the guilt.

It took time for the understanding to seep through; this wasn’t my plan. It was Hashem’s, and worry and anger weren’t helping anyone. I wanted a happy home, I wanted to be a happy mother, so I needed to let go. Ultimately, it was the best thing for my children, and I called a tentative truce with that hard fact.

But if holding on was hard, letting go was even harder.

“Hashem, please watch over my kids,” I would whisper as I said goodbye. Instead of the usual miserable paralysis and frantic thoughts, I used my solitary time to rest, rejuvenate, and enjoy the quiet hours. My little ones would survive, even if they weren’t bathed. The daughter who stayed up too late would learn to close her beloved books and put herself to bed earlier. I couldn’t hover and rescue everyone when I wasn’t around, and maybe that was better for them.

Giving up control was brutal, but it was the only way.

Rapids

“I really think you should join.” It was my neighbor, again, urging me to become part of Sister to Sister, an organization that helps divorced women and their families. Still navigating the weekly crisis of sending off my daughters, I wasn’t open to the idea.

“I’m not interested,” I replied. “I don’t want to be pitied, and joining a group of divorced women will give me an identity I can do without. Look, I don’t feel like a victim. I have a whole life. I’m not just divorced.”

She wasn’t fazed. “My sister went through a divorce, and Sister to Sister was a lifesaver. You’ll meet women who really understand what you’re going through. You have nothing to lose. Check it out, take what you can get, and leave the rest.”

I sighed. She wasn’t going to quit. “Fine, what do I do?”

I hesitated, but I did it anyway. I was too tired to argue anymore, and the idea of meeting people who really understood was intriguing.

After taking down a basic outline of my circumstances, the intake person asked the question that changed my life: “Do you want an advocate?”

“A what?” Was that jargon for ‘legal counsel’?

“An advocate is a volunteer, someone from your community. She checks up on you every week or so. It can be a five-minute schmooze, or a longer conversation. You meet face-to-face once, and then build the relationship through phone calls. Your advocate becomes your friend, a listening ear, and empathizes with your unique challenges. It’s not a huge investment of time, but it can really help,” she explained

“How does the advocate help, besides listening?” I asked, still skeptical.

“Every single woman has her own story and her own needs. We can help with financial counseling, shul partners, mentors for kids, professional therapists and coaches, camp scholarships, and Shabbos meals. Your advocate can also connect you to services that exist in your specific community, like local mentoring programs. We’ll help you make the most of what’s out there. We’re here for you.”

We’re here for you.

The words revealed my vulnerability, yet filled me with relief.

Breakers

Ask any preschooler to draw a family, and you’ll get bold, lopsided versions of Mommy and Tatty (or Abba and Ima, Mom and Dad), alongside stick figure children. The duties and rituals in a Jewish home are divided between men and women, with each parent occupying their unique sphere. A one-parent home erases the typical structure, causes the sense of normalcy to evaporate.

“I don’t want to bring friends over on Shabbos,” one of my daughters complained. “It’s so embarrassing.”

I didn’t blame her.

In our home, Shabbos was uncomfortably different. Mommy made Kiddush and cut the challah. Mommy held the Havdalah candle and sipped the wine.

But if Shabbos was hard, Yom Tov was even worse. Being together with extended family was a reminder of all the things we didn’t have anymore, and halfway through Yom Tov, when my children would go to their father, I was completely, utterly alone. No distractions. Just myself in the middle of the swirling chaos of siblings, siblings-in-law, nieces and nephews. The pain was shattering.

Divorce is treading through liquid loneliness, and now I was learning how to connect. No one could take away the sadness, but I was imbibing the strength to handle it. There were get-togethers where I talked and laughed and cried with other women who completely understood. Once a year, I was part of an incredible weekend retreat, complete with speakers, workshops, and free gifts. We were pampered from the moment we stepped into this supportive oasis, and the relationships we built endured. There were also activities for families, which allowed my children to meet other kids in the same situation. We built a community, a family that was strong and compassionate and normal.

When my children were ready, there were mentors, connecting with their confusion and grief. I never pushed my children to accept help, but when they did, I watched them begin to process the breaking and rebuilding of their universe.

And when I was finally ready, there was the seven-letter word that saved the situation — therapy. My advocate encouraged me to begin the process, despite my refusal — come on, I was normal! Why did I need therapy? My kids needed help, but I was an adult. This was just divorce, right?

Wrong.

I don’t know how anyone in my situation can survive without it.

There are no blanket statements that apply to every divorce. Each marriage is unique, and every unraveled partnership is more of the same. Some leave deeper scars than others. With my therapist, I began the painful work of probing inward. The changes were small and hard-won, but they redefined my inner landscape. The first time I laughed without a tinge of sadness was a victory. I sang and baked with my daughters, and pushed away the thoughts of what wasn’t. Slowly, I let go of guilt and blame, and replaced them with compassion.

The waves kept coming, because challenges don’t disappear just because you’re getting help, but therapy was the life raft that let me heal, reclaim myself, and navigate the pain and insecurities. The depleted woman transformed into a vibrant, functioning mother.

“You can’t give what you don’t have,” my therapist told me during a rough session.

I finally had what to give.

Shallows

“Are you looking for someone yet?” my aunt said, her way of asking if I was ready to remarry.

Soon?  Later?  Not yet? I wasn’t sure what to say. Therapy was also about the future, and we discussed the possibility of remarriage and building a new, healthy home, but I had no immediate plans in that direction. It was a vague dream, a tentative hope centered on “someday.” Right now, I was learning to live with the work-in-progress that, to some extent, I’d always be.

My aunt, though, was on a mission to marry me off.

“I know what you need,” she informed me one day. “I can see you marrying a widower with a few children.”

I laughed at her, but she decided to find the mythical man of my (her?) dreams. She asked everyone and anyone about a widower with children who fit the criteria, and finally someone responded.

“I found him!” she yelled into the phone.

I had no idea what she was talking about. She explained. As she described her “find,” hope stirred. We were from different backgrounds, and we lived in different parts of the Tristate area, but we seemed to be heading in the same direction hashkafically. I gave a tentative yes to a first date.

Preparing to go out in my thirties was a surreal experience, and I had to shelve the memories of my first time around. I applied lipstick, smoothed my sheitel, and the questions frantically ricocheted around my mind. Was I doing this? Was I ready? Even with the dating support I was getting, this was a huge and frightening step.

Perched on a hotel lounge chair, a lukewarm Diet Coke in my hands, I looked at the man my friend insisted I was going to marry. I’d rarely left Lakewood; he was a classic out-of-towner. Our families were different. We had both experienced pain, but in vastly different ways. He’d lost his wife to illness; I’d lost my husband to divorce. But this was my second time around, and the things that loomed large in my twenties, like looks and personality, weren’t important anymore. Then, it was the externals — looks and personality — that spoke to me first. Not that externals aren’t important, but I was now focused on meeting someone with middos and inner strength. We were both mature adults who knew what we were looking for, understood our needs, and carried baggage — and a strong sense of self.

Stilted conversation began to flow, warmth replaced nervousness, and my Diet Coke sat untouched as we exchanged personal histories and then plunged deeper. Despite the differences, the similarities were there. We connected over common goals and dreams of building a warm, loving family, of reaching for a second chance at happiness.

We took it slowly and cautiously — me, because I needed to feel completely comfortable before making such a big commitment, and both of us because of our children — my four and his three. I invited him to supper to spend time with my girls, and one evening I introduced myself to his two daughters and teenage son (a completely new experience for me!). The presents that we gave each other’s children helped!

But even with the slow pace, there were still emotional hurdles. Like the moment when I realized that he expected me to move into his home, leaving my supportive friends and family behind.

Can I really do this? I wondered, doubting my dreams. But the empty quiet of the evenings, after my girls were in bed, intensified my loneliness.

I wanted to get remarried, to build a solid home again, and the realization of the upcoming change was wrenching.

“Does this feel right?” my dating coach asked me after each date. She forced me to think and make clear, safe decisions. There were midnight tears and long conversations. It was difficult — but worth it.

I was ready.

Were my children?

They knew I was dating right from the beginning, and they’d already met my husband-to-be. What I didn’t realize was that a short meeting (with gifts) wasn’t the same as living under the same roof.

“I think it’s time for everyone to do something together,” my husband-to-be said one day, as the familiarity and comfort level grew. We finally took the momentous next step — a fun activity and then a trip to a local restaurant with both families.

I was on a high, both nervous and excited, and davening that everyone would love each other. The kids were unsure and didn’t interact too much, but we saw the possibilities. I was convinced, in my euphoric, pre-engaged state, that once we were married, we would be “instant” family. Together, with our children, we would rebuild.

Our engagement brought endless brachos (and a loud “I told you so!” from my aunt). I floated on airy wings of bliss, wrapped in rapture. For the moment….

Depths

Wide-eyed, innocently, cluelessly, hopelessly naive.

I attended a few Zoom workshops specifically for women who were newly remarried and those looking to remarry. I spoke to some remarried women, and plumbed the depths of the future with my therapist. I thought I was prepared for anything, that our love for our families would just make things work out. After all, I was engaged to an amazing guy, he had wonderful children, I could do the girl-thing in my sleep (I mean, four daughters was good preparation for his two), and I was so excited to finally mother a boy after all my (precious) daughters. What could possibly go wrong?

I look back at my false confidence, and I just want to say: What were you thinking?!

Being married again was wonderful. There was someone to share my life, and the sense of safety — the predictable, ordinary routine of a Jewish home — was both familiar and delightfully new. Hello, stability. I was playing a role that I understood, and I wasn’t alone.

And then the tsunami of reality came bearing down on our fragile, new life.

Because I wasn’t only a wife. I was a second wife.

I wasn’t only a mother. I was a stepmother. (A title I loathed for its evil, fairy-tale associations.)

All the love and joy and closeness in the world weren’t going to take away the reality of the sheer hard work I put in to keeping our family together.

“You need a mentor,” I was told. It was the best piece of advice. I found someone older and wiser who really understood the nuances of remarriage and the joys of mothering someone else’s children.

She was there the first time someone said, “You’re not my mother!” when I laid down the law. And when the newer elements refused to touch my most tempting culinary efforts, her support helped me not take it (too) personally. (And today, all my children love my food!). There was a lot of love to go around, but also plenty of challenges.

A remarriage is not a “blending” of people, but an attempt to merge two distinct parenting styles, two ways of interacting with children, different methods of running a household — everything. For young couples, these issues get thrashed out as their family grows and changes. We were handed a ready-made family and forced to make everything work — quickly.

“No food upstairs!” I said.

“But we always eat upstairs!” came the swift response,

“Throw your plates in the garbage,” elicited blank stares from a few members at the table.

“I need to make supper, but they won’t eat!” I ranted to my husband when his kids refused my spaghetti and meatballs.

“Why not get takeout?” he asked reasonably, mystified by my desire to feed the family food that wasn’t deep-fried, drenched in sugar, sprinkled with MSG.

“They might fight with you, but the kids want safety. They want you and your spouse to be unified,” a speaker mentioned at one of the remarriage workshops I attended.

Discipline was a delicate dance. What to say, and even more important, what not to say. I held my tongue so much that I thought it would shrivel with disuse. My daughters were mostly understanding when I turned a blind eye to household routines that were routine for us but not my husband’s children, but it wasn’t simple. Patience has not always been my mantra, but during those early years it became my savior.

And a heaping dose of humor made it all bearable.

When I clung to the last shred of sanity, davening to Hashem for stability, there was always a part of me that laughed at my mistakes, refused to stop loving all my children even when they lashed out in pain, and held on to the promise of a time when this would be a distant memory (I hoped).

“The most important thing for you is to nurture your marriage,” my mentor said. “It’s important in the first marriage, a necessity in the second. Get away! When you invest in your relationship, you can take care of the children.”

Get away? It sounded like a shimmering mirage, teasingly out of reach. Life was hectic and busy, I was juggling more responsibilities and a larger family, the laundry was overtaking my home, and the kids weren’t happy that my husband and I sometimes had less time for them.

We did it anyway.

It was hard to leave when some of our children felt abandoned, but the time we carved out for ourselves strengthened our bond and gave us the energy to nurture and support our children. Time has a way of softening edges, leaving beauty behind.  Slowly, subtly, as the months and years passed, we became a family.

Harbor

Looking back can sometimes be painful, but for me it’s source of joy.

My family is whole.

My life is whole.

I’m whole.

But there are so many women who are still there, engulfed in those unknown waters. When my children grew older and my life calmer, I wanted to help those single women who reminded me so much of myself. Our stories are different, but the loneliness and the challenges are universal.

I now act as an advocate for a few women and oversee other advocates. I’m always finding better ways for advocates to help single mothers, and one way is to have a network chat, where we can share ideas and thoughts on a daily basis.

I also spread awareness of the needs of the divorced community. It’s a painful reality that divorced women and their children seem to slip through our consciousness, almost unnoticed. There’s the girl who yearns for a brachah on Friday night, the son who refuses to go to Avos U’banim without a man to learn with, the woman who is now both father and mother to her children. I recruit women as advocates, because there is so much need for the connection. When I listen to the stories of these single mothers, my heart cries. There is a gaping chasm between what’s necessary and what we can give, between loneliness and the feeling that someone really cares. We need to bridge that gap.

For me, this is a passion, the place I devote my energy and love.

I meet incredible, successful, strong women, all dealing with the difficulties of divorce. I listen. I marvel at their emunah and dignity.

I watch them: Breathe. Keep going. Repeat.

I’ve been there.

I know.

They are my heroes.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 910)