On a cold snowy February Tuesday, I found myself flipping through the racks at Beacon‘s closet in Union Square. I had brought in a few items to sell and was waiting my turn for the buyers to review my items. My hand paused on a pale pink wool coat with a stove pipe collar, and I reached inside the garment to check the size and price. It took me a moment to realize why I was having such an intense feeling of déjà vu: This used to be my coat.

The last time I wore it was four-ish years ago. I have vague memories of wearing it while going out to brunch with my now ex-wife and our then infant daughter, feeling so lucky and proud of our beautiful little family.

A few months ago, I sold the coat to this thrift store. Like anyone else who has had this experience, I was only mildly shocked to see they were now selling it for at least eight times what they’d paid me for it. When everything else is crumbling around you, you can still count on capitalism to remain unflinchingly cold and calculating in the face of it all.

The buyers called my name, pulling me out of my reverie, and I went up to the counter to finish my transaction. Of all the hard choices and sacrifices I’ve had to make over the last few years, selling off my clothes to vintage and consignment shops is among the least painful.

I’m in the thick of what I’ve come to think of as the messy middle: post-divorce life that doesn’t resolve neatly into fixed states like “healed,” “thriving,” or “starting over.” This period requires ongoing recalibration, not just financially, physically, and emotionally, but energetically, too.

In my case, that includes becoming a solo parent and matriarch, rebuilding my work identity, and learning to grow where I’m planted. This may not be where I planned to land, but now that I finally am, I’m building something that will last.

***

When my mother told me having a child with someone was forever, she really meant it. No matter how viciously my ex’s attorney attacked my character in court, I still had to find a way to compartmentalize the ongoing emotional pain of custody litigation and make joint parenting decisions for the sake of our child.

I learned this while sitting with my lawyer, going back and forth on drafts of the section of our custody agreement that determines where our child will go to school. When edits came back from opposing counsel, my lawyer, trying to nudge me toward compromise, said something like: you’re both very smart — your ex isn’t actually going to let your kid go to a bad school.

I had to laugh. She wasn’t wrong.

I didn’t spend the better part of my twenties building a family — saving, planning, investing what amounted to a down payment on a house — just to have our child end up somewhere unsafe or unsupported.

What my lawyer was trying to tell me, as a divorced single mom of two herself, is the show must go on. Whatever intense (righteous, justified) feelings I may have toward my ex and her attorney’s unethical tactics, no matter how incendiary the lies were that they told, they were secondary to my ability to show that my commitment to my daughter’s wellbeing was paramount.

***

When my ex and I first decided to start a family almost a decade ago, queer parenthood felt like the most intense group project I had ever worked on. Now, it feels less like a group project and more like being assigned to work with a colleague I cannot trust on a project that cannot fail.

I had a coworker like this at my last job, where I had worked my way up to my dream role. I was leading a major project alongside a well-known person in my field, and I was all in. When we got on the ground for a site visit in rural Montana, she behaved in a way that even our organization’s HR department later agreed was inappropriate.

Beneath all her awards and accolades, my coworker was still a white woman. She believed her mentorship of junior staff of color could erase the impact of her racist and callous behavior. She thought it was acceptable to threaten my job when I tried to explain what a sundown town was, and why, as a Black, queer woman, I wasn’t going to drive across the state after dark by myself. According to her, I was being insubordinate by refusing to comply with her demands. She put me off the project, and I flew home early.

And yet, I still had to find a way to transition off that team gracefully. We still had to work together. She still reviewed my work and gave feedback on my performance.

The feedback was measured, professional, and appropriate, because it had to be. There were structures in place, expectations and accountability. We were both still respected members of our department, working on high-visibility projects.

I worked at that company for another couple of years before I got laid off in early 2025. I still saw that coworker at department meetings, quarterly project reviews, and holiday parties. By silent agreement, we never spoke to each other again. The project went on to be a success. The show goes on.

***

Earlier this summer, I ended up watching the WNBA draft on a date. Without realizing it, I started talking about how I’d come to love the game through my relationship with my ex-wife. In the years since my marriage ended, I’ve gotten used to threading the needle on relaying facts about myself, my interests and preferences, without letting them be hijacked by old memories.

They smiled, and without missing a beat, asked if that’s something we share with our daughter. I laughed, and replied yes, that she was no stranger to the sound of her moms cheering on UConn to yet another Final Four appearance. We took her to her first NY Liberty game before she turned two, dressing her in a pair of purple earmuffs that matched her sundress. We were attending the birthday party of one of my old grad school professors. It was a milestone birthday, so she’d gotten a box for the occasion. It’s still one of my favorite memories, even if my ex-wife is an inextricable part of it.

As our daughter has gotten older, sometimes she asks to see photos of our family “in the before times.” In those moments, I have to thread the needle on relaying memories about those early years, without letting them be hijacked by grief.

There are structures in place. Expectations. Accountability. My ex and I are both still responsible for the success of this project.

***

Our marriage is over. So what next?

My ex-wife and I are finding what practical, sustainable co-parenting looks like for our family. We still have to work together. We still review each other’s work. We’re learning how to communicate with each other in a way that supports our daughter’s wellbeing. Most of the time, that communication is measured, professional, and appropriate. Some days, it’s not. Some days, those interactions are harder than others. Some days, those interactions remind me why I left in the first place.

While our marriage was falling apart, I told my ex-wife a number of lies in an attempt to keep our family together. Among them, I promised my love for her was big enough to hold the whole sky and that, no matter what happened, I would always love her.

Three years, 17 court appearances, and one joint custody order later, I would like to amend that statement. My love for our child is big enough to hold the whole sky. It’s big enough to hold the fact that it took half a million dollars in legal fees to metabolize the death of the future we thought we were supposed to have together. That love is what keeps me coming back to this project, day after day. After all, there are structures in place. Expectations. Accountability. My ex and I are both still responsible for the success of this project.

This project, our daughter, is already successful: a happy, healthy, whole human being who proudly told a kid on the playground the other day she has two moms because two moms are better than one. The show goes on.