This month would’ve marked twelve years of marriage. And just like clockwork, Facebook memories have started to pop up.
Photos of us smiling. Embracing. Laughing on vacation. Posts filled with heart emojis and promises of forever. Comments from friends saying how lucky we were. How they hoped to find a love like ours.
And looking at them now —
I see a woman who was trying so hard to hold it all together.
I see a smile stretched wide across my face.
But what I don’t see… is the pain hiding behind it.
Because those pictures didn’t show the moments when I was being slowly broken down.
They didn’t show the yelling. The name-calling. The emotional bruises that never left a mark on my skin, but deeply scarred my soul.
They didn’t show me walking on eggshells in my own home — never knowing what mood he’d be in, what small thing would set him off, what version of him I’d be met with that day. His temper wasn’t just quick… it was cruel. And I learned to adapt. So did my kids.
He never hit me physically.
But emotionally?
He hit me over and over again.
And I stayed.
I stayed because I held onto the good moments.
Because in between the storms, there were sunny days. We laughed. We held each other. We went on dates. We dreamed together. We made love. We raised a family. And I kept chasing that version of us — the one that showed up sometimes. The one that reminded me why I fell in love with him in the first place.
But the truth is…
We started dying long before the conversations about separation ever happened.
We stopped taking pictures.
We stopped posting about each other.
We changed our profile photos from us… to just ourselves.
We started living separately while still under the same roof — finding happiness away from each other instead of with each other.
We weren’t partners anymore.
We were two people coexisting in the memory of a marriage that no longer existed.
And when he finally said the words — that he wanted to live his life without me — I wasn’t shocked. Deep down, I knew. I just wasn’t ready to face it.
Because he was strong enough to choose himself first.
And I had to be strong enough to stop choosing someone who wouldn’t choose me back.
I’ve never been good with change I didn’t initiate. I settle into situations, even painful ones. I adapt. I get used to the cycles — because even chaos can start to feel familiar when it’s all you’ve known.
But this?
This time, I don’t get to stay.
This time, I’m being pushed to finally choose myself.
And it hurts like hell.
Because I gave him everything I had. I molded myself to fit the cracks. I silenced my needs. I showed up with love over and over again, even when I wasn’t met with the same effort. And now, with nothing left to give him… I have to find a way to give everything back to me.
But the woman I used to be — she’s gone.
She didn’t survive this.
And maybe that’s okay.
Because the version of me that’s rising now? She’s softer and stronger. She doesn’t shrink to be chosen. She doesn’t settle for affection that comes with pain. She’s learning to love herself in the spaces where she once felt unworthy. She’s rebuilding. From scratch. With tears in her eyes and a fire in her spirit.
Every tear I cry is not weakness.
It’s release.
It’s healing.
It’s proof that I’m moving forward.
One breath at a time. One truth at a time. One brave, beautiful choice at a time.
So yes — this month hurts.
These memories sting.
But I’m no longer mourning just the marriage.
I’m mourning the version of me who thought being loved meant being broken.
She deserved better.
I deserve better.
And this time… I’m not waiting for someone to choose me.
This time, I choose me.
“Just because a picture is perfect, doesn’t mean the story behind it was. Smiles can lie. But healing doesn’t.”
With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.