The Anniversary That Still Punches Me in the Gut

September 4th is the date that won’t let go of me. Every year it shows up like clockwork, dragging everything I thought I wanted, everything I lost, and everything I should’ve walked away from sooner.

On September 4th, 1999, I stood in the church I grew up in and said “I do.” I was twenty-one. Too young, too naïve, and too stubborn to know what was waiting for me. I was a full-time student, working full-time, and convinced that love could conquer all. We got married across from the farm where I grew up, rolled into the reception in my in-laws’ convertible like we were something special, and cut into a cake with a water fountain in the middle. My family made the whole thing happen. I tied ribbons on the invitations myself to make the printed stationary pretty. My grandpa paid for my dress. I thought I was building forever.

Instead, I built 18 years of holding on when I should’ve let go.

He was my “high school sweetheart” even with being two years older. We had two boys together. There were highs, lows, heartbreaks, and plenty of ugly moments I tried to paint over. The truth is, the red flags were everywhere. But I was stubborn as hell. I don’t quit. I was determined not to “fail” at marriage, even if it meant losing myself.

When I finally asked for a divorce, his first words to me weren’t about love or family or even anger. They were: “I stayed with you when you were fat.” That was my worth to him. My body. My size. As if he deserved a medal for tolerating me. Eighteen years, and that’s what he had to say.

We divorced in 2017. Don’t ask me the date. I couldn’t tell you. Endings don’t come with anniversaries. They come slowly, one crack at a time, until the whole thing collapses.

This year would’ve been 26 years. And every year, September 4th stings. Not because I miss him—I don’t. Not because I want him back—hell no. What I miss is the idea of us. The family I thought we were. The bond I thought we’d grow. That’s what hurts: the death of a dream I held on to longer than I should have.

Now I get why couples wait until the kids are grown. It’s not because divorce gets easier because it doesn’t. It’s because at least the family part isn’t ripped apart in the middle of raising them. When you divorce with young kids, you don’t just end a marriage—you start a second life, whether you’re ready or not.

So this September 4th, I did what I do every year. I ate my feelings. I let myself grieve bite by bite. I sat with the truth: that my old marriage was over long before the papers were signed, that the dream had already died, and that I was too damn stubborn to quit sooner.

September 4th is my day to remember the good, the bad, the fattening truth. My day to admit out loud that I should’ve walked away when my gut told me to.

The day I say that I should’ve quit.

And the cruelest part?

I have learned that not quitting sooner was the real failure all along.