The Unfiltered Joy of Being 40 and Divorced

I woke up this morning with no one to impress and nowhere to be. That’s the kind of magic they don’t tell you about when you’re signing your divorce papers with trembling hands and tear-streaked cheeks. I stretched across my queen-size bed like a victorious starfish, limbs tangled in a sea of pillows, knowing full well that every square inch of that bed was mine. Every. Single. Inch.

At 40, being divorced doesn’t feel like failure. It feels like freedom. But no one markets that feeling. There’s no section in the self-help aisle called “Holy Hell, I’m Gloriously Free.” There should be. I’d write the foreword.

Coffee came next. Strong, black, unapologetic. Just like me now, actually. I sipped it slow while standing barefoot in my kitchen, listening to the birds, which—might I add—sound way less annoying when you’re not living with someone who complains about how early they chirp. It was just me, the caffeine, and a playlist I don’t have to compromise on anymore. (Goodbye, 90s alt-rock. Hello, moody French jazz and Beyoncé.)

You know what’s underrated? Silence. Silence without tension. Silence that isn’t the prelude to an argument or the aftermath of a passive-aggressive remark about how “we never talk anymore.” My home is so peaceful now it could be a spa, if spas had mismatched mugs, slightly dusty bookshelves, and the occasional dancing woman in yoga pants lip-syncing to Lizzo at 9 AM.

By 10, I was at the farmers’ market. Alone. Not dragging a reluctant partner who grumbles about “overpriced arugula” or tries to negotiate how many stalls we’re “allowed” to browse before heading home. I lingered. Tasted things. Flirted (harmlessly) with a man selling handmade sourdough, just because I could. I bought fresh strawberries I didn’t have to share, and tulips just for me. Who says you need a partner to receive flowers?

You’d be amazed how much joy is buried beneath the rubble of a broken marriage. I didn’t find it immediately. It took a while. A lot of crying in supermarket parking lots and wondering if I’d made a colossal mistake. There were nights I stared at the ceiling wondering who I even was without “us.” But here’s the plot twist nobody tells you: once the fog clears, the air is sweeter. And so is the wine, when you’re drinking it in your underwear while watching reruns of Golden Girls and laughing like a maniac because, guess what? Blanche totally gets it.

People love to ask me if I’m dating again. I usually smile and say, “Only myself.” Some laugh. Some look horrified. But it’s the truth. I take myself to brunch. I read books uninterrupted. I spend money the way I want to. I don’t explain where I’m going or justify why I need another pair of boots. I dress for no one but me—and sometimes I wear mascara just to walk the dog. Not because I’m hoping to run into someone. Just because I like how I look with it on. Revolutionary, I know.

I won’t lie—divorce at 40 is weird sometimes. All your friends are deep in kid stuff or couple drama or pretending their husband’s snoring doesn’t make them homicidal. And here I am, trying to figure out if I should spend a long weekend in Lisbon or finally take that pottery class downtown. It’s not better. It’s just… different. And holy hell, is it mine.

Afternoons are sacred now. That golden hour when the sun hits my windows just right and reminds me that I get to do this. Live like this. My way. I put on a sheet mask that makes me look like a horror movie extra and scroll through Zillow listings in fantasy cities, imagining who I’d be in Portland or Palermo. I dream like a teenager again, except now I can actually book the flight and afford the Airbnb.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved once. Deeply. I married someone I genuinely believed I’d grow old with. And then we didn’t. That used to devastate me. Now? It makes me human. Not everything we love lasts forever. But some things—like dignity, independence, and a good Wi-Fi connection—absolutely can.

Evenings are my favorite. I cook just enough for me, no second plate needed. I eat on the couch. Sometimes in bed. I light candles, not for romance, but for ambiance. I watch what I want, pause when I want, and talk to the screen without judgment. If I want to cry over a documentary about flamingos, I do. If I want to start a jigsaw puzzle at 11 PM, well, no one’s going to stop me.

There’s a version of life that women are told to want: husband, house, kids, weekends at Target, maybe a dog, rinse, repeat. But there’s another version they never pitch: one where you get to rediscover who you were before you made yourself small enough to be someone else’s idea of “wife material.”

Divorced at 40 isn’t a tragedy. It’s an origin story.

And no, I’m not waiting to be “found” or “fixed” or “loved again.” I’m not a half. I’m a whole-ass person. A vibrant, evolving, strawberry-buying, solo-travel-planning, sometimes-sassy, always-free woman who learned that the best relationship she’ll ever have is the one she has with herself.

So if you see me at the coffee shop with a smirk and a book, just know: I’m not lonely. I’m just finally at peace. And if the right person walks in? Cool. If not? Also cool. I’m not searching anymore. I’m living.

And darling, that’s the real happily ever after.