During my divorce, good friends became a parachute

When my marriage ended a few years ago, I tried everything I could think of to get over it, to get back to myself. I started with traditional talk therapy and then “tricked” my regular therapist by seeing an intuitive ‌one – because when your life is painfully uncertain, the promise of a little foresight is comforting.

I have also tried meditation, yoga, reiki‌ and acupuncture. I started running even though I’m not athletic so that only took about a year. (I call this current phase of my life the “5K to Couch” era.) I enjoyed every possible moment with my kids. I fell in love again. I traveled. I wrote, and wrote, and wrote.

These things helped, I felt more centered and whole. But nothing has been more healing than my friendships with women.

We don’t talk enough about how terrifying divorce can be. For years it felt like I was skydiving with someone; we were ‘in it together’. Suddenly I was in the clear blue sky, untethered, free-falling alone.

My friends were a parachute. Because when you lose “your person,” it’s critical to have “your people.”

That first year, when I was sad and underweight and sleep deprived, my people showed up. They made my life more than stress and sadness; more than heartwarming emails and invoices from lawyers; raising more than two children alone through grief and upheaval.

Thanks to my friends, there was roller skating in parking lots and vinyl-only dance parties at a local concert venue. There were happy hours and countless meals (“Yes, we want to see the dessert menu, thanks”), and loud, unconscious laughter.

There were also adventures I wouldn’t have had when I was married‌. Then the only solo trip I allowed myself was for work because that felt like “justified” time away from my family. As painful and disorienting as joint custody was, there was some breathing room.

One August, I took a two-night train ride ‌from Chicago to Seattle‌ with my friend Wendy, whom I had met‌ because our husbands had worked together. When we got on the train, almost 20 years after our friendship, my husband lived across town and the divorce was almost final. Her husband had taken up a temporary position with the Peace Corps abroad. We were both on our own, even though the circumstances were different.

I woke up in the top bunk of the sleeping car and watched the plain roll past the window like a filmstrip through a projector. I had no idea what state I was in, and what did it matter? I had escaped the weight of life at home—the pressures of divorce and custody proceedings, the severity of grieving as I pressured myself to stay productive.

Looking back at photos — selfies of me and Wendy smiling at the train station, at Pike Place Market in Seattle, windswept on the ferry to Bainbridge Island — I see light in my eyes. I look carefree. I look happy.

That year had been the hardest of my life. Working and parenting through a divorce required performance. I assured my children that it would be all right. I told colleagues and acquaintances that I was ‘holding it up’. I smiled, though I doubt that smile reached my eyes. But with my friends I didn’t have to act. They knew what I was going through and kept showing up.

“Anyone up for a walk?‌” I ask Jen and Lisa on our group text, and they know it’s code for “I need to vent” or “I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“I’m going out in a few,” one of them replies without fail‌. Regardless of the weather, she will leave her house to walk to mine.

“Thanks, I’m leaving now,” I text back. We see each other waving and laughing from a distance. When we reach each other, we hug. Her arms wrap around me and my body relaxes. A hug from a friend you know who sees the weight of what you’re carrying? It feels like home.

We are often socialized to focus on our romantic partnerships and let our friendships fizz‌. But I’m lucky. I kept in touch with people. I still live in my hometown; if I walk one block in any direction, I’m on the doorstep of someone who’s known me for over 20 years. They don’t just know the Maggie in survival mode, the divorced Maggie, or Maggie the writer. They know and love me to my core: sensitive, funny, a worrier.

I’ve always known that close friendships are not a consolation prize and should not rank lower than romantic partnerships. When my husband and I separated, my friends reminded me that I was not only older than the divorce, but also before the marriage. I existed before the relationship, and I would survive.

Whether I have a ‘person’ or not, I need my ‘people’. They give me something I can’t give myself. When I walk in their direction, they walk in mine – and we raise our hands to wave.

Maggie Smith is the author of The New York Times Best Seller, “You Could Make This Place Beautiful” (One Signal/Atria) and several other poetry and prose books.