There are moments in life so devastating, so deeply unraveling, they pull everything you thought you knew into question. I’ve lived two of them.

The first was the day I signed my divorce papers—hands shaking, soul fractured—feeling the weight of a love that didn’t survive. The second was the day I buried the man I once believed would be my forever. Two heartbreaks. One from love that chose to leave. One from love that had to.

There’s no manual for that kind of pain. Not for a Black woman taught to be strong, to keep going, to “handle it.” Not for a mother expected to hold everyone together while she’s falling apart. Not even for a life coach trained to guide others through transformation—because this wasn’t just transformation.

It was survival.

But let me tell you something I never expected to say:
Being single in the aftermath of that double grief saved my life.

We’re often taught that we heal better and faster in relationship and in community and while I believe that there’s some truth to that, I think what is also true is that there’s a special kind of surrender in solitude and its required too.

When Your Life Splits in Two

Divorce is its own kind of death. You don’t just lose a person—you lose the dreams, the routines, the shared language of “we.” It wasn’t just that he left—it was that the version of me who believed in “us” no longer existed. I questioned everything. Was I not enough? Did I miss the signs? How do I raise children when my own foundation has cracked? I had already navigated life as a single mama, but it was never something I expected to navigate again, with younger children, following marriage. But in reflecting on that process and all it held for me, I had to face my own truth. While I never planned to divorce, I knew in the depths of my heart and the pit of my stomach, that the man I married was not the man I should marry. That fact had more to do with me and what I felt and believed than it did him. But I did what a lot of women do and I intellectualized love by using the same reasoning I would in academia. True love doesn’t require academic reasoning. It is felt. It is sure. It is incomparable. Still, the separation and divorce felt like yet another failure and the pain associated with a split life rippled through each area of my life: work, home, friendships, faith, parenting, etc.

Then, just when I started rebuilding from that storm, grief came knocking again—this time, permanent, unrelenting. Death has no answers. There’s no conversation, no reconciliation, no closure. I lost someone I still loved deeply, someone who saw me—flaws and all. Losing him was like losing air. The grief swallowed me whole.

Two different kinds of heartbreak. One chose absence, the other imposed it.

And I was left in the silence between them, raw and alone.

Singlehood: Not a Sentence, But a Sanctuary

At first, being single felt like failure. The world often paints single, Black women as incomplete—as if our worth rises and falls with our relationship status. Add children to the mix, and suddenly we’re “baggage,” “too much,” or “in need of saving.”

But the truth? I didn’t need saving. I needed space.
Space to cry, rage, remember.
Space to breathe.
Space to rebuild a version of myself I hadn’t seen in years.

Singlehood gave me that. It became sacred.

I wasn’t waiting for someone to fill the empty bed. I was learning how to rest in it without fear.
I wasn’t desperate to be chosen. I was learning how to choose me—every single day.

Girls are often taught to commit, while boys are taught to explore. Our loyalty is rewarded, as is their curiosity. It’s no wonder that 84% of women aspire to be married at some point or another. As a mother to a young girl, one of my goals is to encourage and empower her to commit to herself first and to develop a deep knowing of who she is and what she is worth before she relinquishes some of that power to be a wife. I am not implying that wives are powerless, but that by submitting to her husband, she gives and gains. Both can be and are true.

Doing the Work—From the Inside Out

This season of solitude became my mirror. And mirrors don’t lie. I saw the parts of me I had abandoned trying to be everything for everyone. I saw how often I ignored my own intuition for the sake of peace. I saw how I confused loyalty with self-neglect.

So I went inward.

Therapy wasn’t just helpful—it was non-negotiable. I asked the hard questions. I sat in the uncomfortable truths. I forgave myself for what I didn’t know then. And I began, gently and slowly, to mother myself.

I rested. I healed.
I created rituals of self-care that weren’t performative, but soul-deep.
I stopped shrinking in rooms that couldn’t hold all of me.

I disconnected from people who only accepted certain parts of me.

I disregarded everything that misaligned with my being well, even when it hurt. And then, I forgave. I made space for the grace we all so desperately need and allowed myself to rebuild a life that aligned with what I needed. I leaned into co-parenting from a space of abundance, setting boundaries that honored my own needs and wants first, and spent more time taking care of myself in the way that I had for so long wanted others to.

And somewhere along the way, joy returned—not loud or showy, but steady and sure. Like a sunrise after a long, sleepless night.

A Different Kind of Love Story

Today, I’m still single. And I’m not in a rush to change that. John Kim’s book Single on Purpose, became an early favorite of mine. It placed words where there was once worry, and clarity where there was once confusion. The book itself feels like a blend of challenge, calm, and a call to action. I owe him many thanks for the ways it helped to heal me. The sooner I was reminded of the importance of purpose, positioning, and all that I deserve, the more patient and intentional I became with waiting because this version of me—the one who’s whole, aware, grounded—is worth knowing, worth protecting, worth celebrating. She’s also worth savoring, and so, I will.

I no longer measure love by longevity, but by alignment.
I no longer chase relationships—I attract peace.
I no longer fear solitude—I honor it.

As a mother, I show my children what resilience looks like, not as a mask, but as truth.
As an administrator and coach, I lead from lived wisdom, not just theory.
As a Black woman, I reclaim softness as my birthright—not a privilege, but a necessity.

As I approach my 36th birthday, I have found myself experiencing a crisis of calm. The joy really is in the journey. I am learning to crave its complexity the same way I used to desire the destination. I don’t have all of the answers. I never imagined that my life would look the way it does today. I can admit there were days when that reality made me sad, but more than anything today, it makes me proud. I am proud that my life is real. It reflects the hard choices I made and the ones made for me. It reflects that I am still learning, trying, failing, and rising. Singlehood is a reminder to me that I have finally, chosen myself. Not a man. Not social acceptance. Not people pleasing. But peace. I’ve spent much of my adulthood searching for the peace, joy, and security my childhood afforded me. It’s here now. I can’t think of a better birthday gift. . .

If you’re reading this & find yourself in a similar season, keep reading. . . .

If you feel like life as you knew it is gone—you’re right. It is. But that doesn’t mean you’re gone.

You are not broken. You are becoming.

Let singlehood be the chrysalis—not the cage. Let grief be the teacher, not the tormentor. Let your silence be where your soul speaks.

I’m not who I used to be. I am different. I am more. I am whole. I am free.

And that freedom?
It saved my life. It can save yours too.

Keep praying. Keep trying. Keep trusting God. Keep going!