I always thought divorce was something other people whispered about. I never imagined I would be the one people whispered about. Growing up, I had heard the word “stigma,” but it felt like an old idea, something our generation had left behind. I was wrong.
When I got divorced, I thought I’d feel relief. Instead, I felt exposed. Suddenly, I wasn’t just me—I was “the divorced woman.” People didn’t say it to my face, but I felt it. In the way conversations shifted when I entered a room. In the way some of my married friends started avoiding me. One even stopped inviting me over, and I later found out her husband told her I was “too independent now.” As if that were a threat.
But the moment that broke me came during a trip to India. My grandmother, who had always been proud of me, asked quietly, “Did he divorce you, or did you leave him?” I told her, honestly, “He wanted the divorce.” She looked relieved. Her hands folded together and she said, “Good. At least I can say you didn’t leave him. That’s more acceptable.”
More acceptable.
My pain, my struggles, my healing—it all vanished behind one sentence. It wasn’t about me anymore. It was about how others would talk about me. About her. About our family.
I didn’t argue with her. I just sat there, feeling like a stranger in my own story.
But over time, that story started to change. Slowly, I began to see who stayed by my side and who faded away. I met other women who had walked through the same fire and come out stronger. I realized that the shame wasn’t mine to carry. It belonged to a society that still hasn’t figured out how to value a woman on her own terms.
Divorce didn’t break me. The loneliness almost did. But in that loneliness, I found my truth—and it’s this:
I am not a failure.
I am not a threat.
I am not your story of pity.
I am a woman who chose herself—and I’m not sorry.
