After My Divorce During the Pandemic, I Moved Back in With My Parents—And Found Myself Again

After My Divorce During the Pandemic, I Moved Back in With My Parents—And Found Myself Again

By Lila Hart

When I signed the divorce papers, I thought the silence that followed would bring relief. Instead, it echoed. The pandemic had shut down the world, but the loneliness inside my apartment was louder than ever. I hadn’t just lost a partner—I had lost the version of myself I thought I was supposed to be.

So, I did something I never imagined I’d do in my thirties: I moved back in with my parents.

It felt like defeat at first. Like failure wrapped in a suitcase of regrets. I had left home years ago to chase independence, to build a life with someone I loved. And here I was, curled up on the same bed I slept in as a teenager, with walls still painted in soft lilac and posters from another life.

But something strange happened. The first night I arrived, my mother made tea—just like she used to—and we sat in the kitchen in silence. No judgment. No questions. Just presence. That night, I slept better than I had in months.

Relearning the Ordinary

At first, the days felt slow. I helped my dad with yard work, folded laundry with my mom, and ate dinner at the same table every night. There were no big revelations—just small, ordinary moments I had taken for granted for so long.

I started to heal in those routines. I found clarity in washing dishes, comfort in morning walks, and quiet strength in hearing my parents talk about how they had survived their own storms over the years.

In the stillness, I began asking myself questions I had been too afraid to face:

• Who am I without the roles I used to play?
• What do I actually want?
And maybe most importantly:
What if starting over didn’t mean starting from scratch—but starting from truth?

The Grief That Taught Me Grace

Divorce is a kind of grief. You don’t just mourn a person—you mourn a future, a plan, a version of yourself that no longer exists. The pandemic only intensified that grief. I was grieving in isolation, disconnected from friends, from routine, from identity.

But back in my childhood home, I gave myself permission to feel it all. To cry in the shower. To scream into a pillow. To admit I wasn’t okay.

And my parents didn’t try to fix me. They just listened. That kind of quiet support was the most healing gift I could have received.

Finding Myself Again—Slowly, Fully

I didn’t find myself in a single moment. There was no cinematic montage. It was gradual, like light slipping through a cracked window. I started journaling again. I took up watercolor painting. I reread the books I loved as a teenager. And little by little, I saw pieces of myself return—pieces I didn’t even realize I had lost in the marriage.

I realized I had been so focused on being a “good wife,” a “strong woman,” a “successful adult,” that I had forgotten to just be me.

And she—this raw, real, resilient version of me—was worth coming home for.

The New Beginning I Never Expected

Eventually, I moved out again. But this time, it wasn’t to escape. It was to expand. I left not because I needed to prove anything—but because I was ready.

My parents didn’t just give me a place to live. They gave me space to fall apart and rebuild. They reminded me of where I come from—and helped me remember who I am.

Today, I look at my divorce not as a failure, but as a beginning. Painful, yes. Messy, absolutely. But also necessary.

Because sometimes life has to fall apart…
So you can fall back into yourself.

Closing Reflection

In a world that values constant progress, moving back home felt like regression. But it became the most forward step I’ve ever taken. I found healing in slow mornings, love in quiet conversations, and freedom in rediscovering myself without apology.

I am no longer ashamed of the restart. In fact, I honor it.

Because after my divorce, during a global pandemic, I moved back in with my parents—and I found something I never expected:

Myself.