When the Life You Imagined Didn’t Happen
I didn’t expect a 30-second YouTube video to crack my heart open—but it did.
A grandfather was gently holding and cooing at his baby grandchild, and suddenly, I was flooded with a pang of sorrow and regret I didn’t see coming. Out of nowhere, I realized: I’ve never seen my ex-husband with our grandchildren. And that moment brought with it a wave of grief—not just for what is, but for what will never be.
I divorced in early midlife, just as my children were reaching adulthood. I’ve worked hard to make peace with a life that turned out very differently than I imagined. Most of these post-divorce years have been focused on surviving and rebuilding. Only recently have I begun to lift my head, to dream again—to ask how I want to shape my remaining working years and what kind of life I hope to create in retirement.
But sometimes, when we pause long enough, unprocessed feelings rise to the surface—and we’re reminded that grief doesn’t run on a schedule. This is one of those moments. And I think I’m not alone.
I’ve approached life after divorce with a pragmatic mindset. I don’t dwell on what might have been—at least not often. But over the years there have been moments of sadness, even self-pity, especially when the path forward felt impossibly hard. There were long stretches when every decision felt like triage, every dollar counted, and the future felt uncertain at best. Still, I pressed on and built a fulfilling life for myself. And through it all, I held onto one core belief: it’s better to be alone than to stay in an unhappy relationship.
Still, I can’t help but wonder about the path not taken—the one where I was still married and navigating each new life phase with someone by my side: launching our children into the world, building a comfortable life with two incomes and an empty nest, traveling to visit our adult children, experiencing the joy of each new grandchild, and dreaming about retirement together. It’s not that I wish to still be married, but I can’t help feeling the loss of the life I once imagined—one where we shared these experiences.
I don’t linger in that space often. For years, shutting down those feelings was necessary to keep going. But now, I have the space to pause. To catch my breath. To reflect on where I am—and consider where I still want to go.
Maybe that’s the hidden gift of these moments: they remind us that we’re still becoming. Still growing, still choosing. Even when life didn’t go the way we planned, it’s okay to grieve the old dreams—and still move toward new ones. And even though I’m genuinely proud of the life I’ve created, I also need to honor the disappointments. The sadness. The letting go of what might have been.
If any of this resonates with you, I invite you to reflect and write about the following:
What version of the future did you once imagine—and where are you now?
What have you had to let go of, and what are you still reaching for?
What parts of your story need a pause, a breath, a reckoning?
We don’t need to have all the answers. But we can give ourselves the grace to ask the questions.
