March was brutal. I’m not gonna lie—I struggled. Like, soul-level, heavy-hearted, what-is-even-happening kind of struggling. But hey… I made it. I survived. And that alone deserves a trophy, or at least a nap and a snack.

The last week of March, Jenna and I texted to plan a meet-up. It was about health insurance and “stuff”—but let’s be real. We both knew “stuff” meant divorce. My stomach dropped reading her texts, but I was still oddly excited. Not for the divorce, obviously. But for the chance to see her. Face-to-face. I wanted to feel the dynamics between us again. So when she gave me the option of FaceTime or meeting in person, I went for it. Real life. Real emotions. Real closure, maybe.

We set a time: April 6th at 4:30pm. As the day crept closer, anxiety moved in like an uninvited guest. What if she bailed? What if seeing her shattered me all over again? So I texted to confirm, trying to play it cool. She replied—yes, still on—but let’s meet at 4:15 instead at Mother Tongued in Oakland. I said yes immediately. Because when life throws you an opportunity, even a hard one, sometimes you just say yes.

When I got there, I thought I was late. Turns out I was early. (Classic me.) I waited. She arrived around 4:20, and boom—there she was. Jenna. My wife. My almost-ex-wife. My something.

We didn’t hug. I couldn’t read the room. So I kept it simple: a quiet “hi” and we got in line for drinks. Inside, I was screaming, aching, breaking—but outside? Calm. Polite. Careful.

We sat. We talked. Health insurance, divorce, all the grown-up stuff you never dream about when you say “I do.” I told her she could keep using the health insurance, especially with everything going on in the world and her autoimmune condition. I meant it. I still mean it. She was hesitant—didn’t want to feel like she was taking advantage. But I told her: no. Please. Use it. I want you healthy.

She joked she should’ve recorded me saying that, and I told her to go for it. I wanted her to believe me. I’m keeping my word.

And then, the words I was dreading: she’s ready to move forward. She wants to start dating again. So… yeah. Divorce.

I nodded. Said “okay.” Respected her choice. What else could I do? You can’t force someone to stay where they don’t want to be, even if you’re still holding space for them in your heart.

I told her I still love her. I didn’t hide that. But I also told her I won’t stand in her way.

We talked more. About the past. About how I struggled with communication—especially after my hand surgery back in January. About how I asked someone else to watch our cats without telling her, because I thought she needed space. She was hurt then. But now? She understood. And that mattered to me.

This meeting, this moment, it was like a mirror. I realized I’ve grown. I was able to explain my choices. Own my missteps. And still, show up with love and honesty. That’s new for me.

But it still hurts. Like… deep. Knowing that she wants to move forward without me. And yeah, I’m nervous. Nervous for the day I see her at an event surrounded by admirers, and I’ll have to pretend I’m okay. I’m scared I’ll overthink, spiral, feel everything too much. But I’m trying to let go. To honor her wishes. To give us both the space to heal.

We agreed to check in once a month. She even said she’d still help with the cats. Small things. Big meaning.

When it was time to go, her throat was scratchy—she needed to rest. We walked to our cars. She smiled at mine. We waved goodbye.

Later that night, I texted her. Thanked her for meeting up. Sent a picture of our cats. She replied warmly, thanked me, wished me a good week.

I told her to be good to her heart. To take care of her health.

And that was it.

—

It’s weird, you know? Letting go of someone you still love. But I’m doing it. With grace. With honesty. With a little hope that maybe, just maybe, the universe sees how hard I’m trying.

I’m working on myself. I’m in therapy. I’m facing my ADHD and learning how my brain processes emotions so I can avoid the conflicts that once wrecked us.

It hurts. But I’m learning to live with the hurt, not run from it.

Because even when love ends… compassion doesn’t have to.

And that’s how I know I’m healing.