Lost and Found: How I Rediscovered Myself After Divorce, Motherhood, Perimenopause, Full-Time Work, and the Dumpster Fire That Is Dating (And Lived to Tell About It)

Listen. If you had told me five years ago that I’d be out here, pushing 60 (okay, 42 and still fine), raising a tiny human, sweating for no reason, working full-time, and trying to figure out if I’m single, divorced, "talking," "situationshipping," or accidentally in a polyamorous relationship because somebody forgot to disclose that part upfront, I would’ve laughed in your face. But here we are.

Divorce will humble you in ways you never saw coming. One minute, you're somebody's wife with matching towels, and the next, you're trying to figure out how to assemble IKEA furniture alone at 1 AM while your toddler yells, "Mommy, juice!" from the other room. Spoiler alert: The furniture won.

Step One: Accept the Chaos

You know that scene in every disaster movie where people are running in circles, screaming, and the hero stands in the middle like, "How did we get here?" That was me. Except there was no hero—just me, a stressed-out toddler, a mountain of laundry that multiplied like rabbits, and a hot flash that felt like my body was personally being preheated to 450 degrees.

For a while, I thought I had to hold it all together—never let them see you sweat, right? WRONG. First of all, perimenopause said, “Oh, you’ll sweat. Everywhere. Randomly. Enjoy.” And if my son sees me cry, he just pats my face with his sticky little hands and asks, "You need a Band-Aid?" Sir, I need a nap, an ice pack, and for people to text back in a timely manner.

Step Two: Remember Who the Heck You Are

Somewhere between "Mommy, I want a snack!", "Did you finish submitting grades yet?", and waking up at 3 AM because my body just… does that now, I forgot I was a whole person with interests outside of survival mode.

So, I started small—dusted off my old playlist (because I refuse to believe the only music in my life is Baby Shark), got myself some real clothes (not just leggings with mysterious stains), and did things just for me. Like sitting in my car alone after grocery shopping. Pure bliss.

And then there’s dating.

Step Three: Dating… HAHAHAHA. Help.

Let me tell you something: these men are confused.

I thought dating would be fun, a little nerve-wracking, maybe even exciting. Instead, I found myself in conversations like:

Me: "So, are you looking for a relationship?"

Him: "Well, I mean… I don’t really believe in labels. I just think love is free, and people shouldn’t be boxed in."

Me: "Sir, are you single or do you have a Tuesday/Thursday girlfriend I need to know about?"

Or worse:

Him: "I’m ethically non-monogamous."

Me: "Oh okay, so you’re poly?"

Him: "Not really. I just don’t believe in traditional relationships, but if we vibe, we vibe."

Me: "So you want a free pass to cheat?"

Him: "Why do we have to define everything?"

Me: "Because I have a child, a job, and perimenopause mood swings, and I need to know if I’m gonna key your car now or later."

And let’s not forget the ghosters, the 'wyd' texters, the ones who claim they want a relationship but can’t commit to plans next weekend, and the ones who only text after 10 PM like they’re working night shifts at Bad Decision Industries.

Between raising my son, fighting for my life against these hot flashes, and dealing with modern dating, I don’t know how I haven’t been on the news yet.

Step Four: Give Yourself Some Grace (And Maybe a Drink)

I still don’t have it all figured out. Some days, I feel like a superhero in a cape, and other days, I’m just glad no one called CPS over my son eating Goldfish crackers for breakfast. Balance.

But I love this version of me—the one who laughs at the chaos, finds joy in the little things, and remembers that I am more than just a mom, an employee, a woman battling surprise hot flashes, or someone trying to decode modern relationship labels like they’re a math problem.

So, if you’re out here trying to find yourself after a divorce, just know you’re not alone. You’re still you—just with more life experience, better jokes, and a kid who thinks you’re a superhero (even when you step on a Lego and scream like a banshee).

And if all else fails? Sit in you

r car for five extra minutes. I promise, it helps.