Divorce, once rare and stigmatised, has become mainstream – 42 per cent of marriages now end this way, meaning nearly half of us who get married can expect to experience it in our lifetime. Just as every marriage is different, so is every divorce. In this column, divorcees reflect on their life-changing experience. Helped by the benefit of hindsight, they share advice and reflections. Here, Lara* shares how her marriage was impacted by miscarriages and affairs.
My husband, George*, and I have been together for 30 years. We met when I was in my twenties and had just finished university. George was 10 years older and pursuing a music career. Back then, life felt – and undoubtedly was – easier. We had adventures, travelled a lot and revelled in our lack of responsibilities. But in 2007, I bought a house in London. I was earning good money and I wanted to start a family, so we happily settled down.
Fast forward to today, and we still live in the same modest house, and we have two terrific boys, aged 15 and eight. Over the years, we’ve navigated challenges like all couples do – I was made redundant from my job in PR and had to go freelance, George abandoned his music and re-trained as a secondary school teacher. We went through seven rounds of gruelling IVF when I was in my late thirties and forties.
Nobody tells you the impact trying to conceive has on your relationship. We were trying for babies for years before IVF and our sex life never really recovered. And while I’d say we get on better than other couples, the intimate part of our relationship finally limped to a close three years ago.
We’ve had an honest conversation about it – in fact, a few conversations – and we just don’t find each other attractive anymore. And once you’ve told your husband that you don’t desire him, well, you can’t take it back. It’s not about buying some new underwear and going on a diet.
On the face of it, the easiest solution would be for us to split but the practical considerations can’t be ignored. The main problem is we can’t afford a second property. I’m the main earner and neither of us can stump up the money to rent a London flat so that George can stay close to the boys. Plus, I love him and don’t want to see him struggling in a house-share in his mid-sixties, especially as 10 years ago we discovered he’s autistic; he experiences a lot of social anxiety and finds it hard to make new friends. Furthermore, our eldest son is very close to him and I think he would want to live with George if he left. So this would divide our family. I also worry that the children would blame me as they know that I own the property and pay most of the bills. Aside from all of that, I simply can’t imagine us not living together.
We still have intimate gestures, despite not having sex. We hold hands after a bad day; George offers me a lot of physical comfort as he’s pragmatic, whereas I tend to catastrophise; we go out for dinner sometimes or out to a gig or the cinema.
And I’m realistic about the alternative. I have friends who have recently divorced and while initially they felt euphoric, imagining wild dates, child-free weekends and a future unshackled by the everyday gripes of modern marriage, the elation didn’t last. Dodgy men on apps. Terrible loneliness at weekends. Unhappy and resentful kids. I’m not saying that divorce is wrong, but I just know that some of my female friends regret it.
Some people may think not getting divorced is a cop out, and that a no-sex relationship is a failure, and I’d say, don’t judge until you’ve walked in our shoes. One friend did comment, “I just feel like you’re sacrificing your own happiness for the sake of him”. But our relationship is stable. We are good parents – not perfect – but we do our best. My parents split up when I was five and the impact on me was detrimental. I didn’t want to do that to my kids. My parents were always travelling (both worked in academia), and my sisters and I had an everchanging roll call of step-parents. My mum married four times. I’ve craved stability all my life and I feel like we’ve created that at home.
Admittedly, there was a period when George and I argued, but that has calmed. We’ve agreed to reassess things regularly. If one of us meets someone new, then things will change. We had a conversation a month ago and I said, “I don’t want to go through the rest of my life never having sex”. George is a decade older than me and had slept around when he was young (being the guitarist in a band meant he had no shortage of women chasing him). In contrast, I’d only had a couple of relationships before we met. I don’t have a rampant libido but the idea of never having sex again makes me sad. I’m 53 and not ready for a life of celibacy.
He clearly misses sex, too, particularly the closeness and he is generally quite tactile. We have joked about one of us having an affair but it feels too complicated to navigate. I did have a couple of flirtations at work, they gave me a new lease of life and one even turned into a text affair. However, I quickly realised that it was just escapism. I’d never raise children with the guy I was texting. I’d never choose to live with him.
The reality is that George and I are both tired and are often just surviving. Five years ago, when I thought about us trying to reignite our love life, I read articles and advice columns and listened to podcasts by relationship therapist Esther Perel. I suggested date nights. The whole thing was like having another job.
I work hard as a freelance marketing consultant. At work, George is dealing with kids who are often quite difficult. He leaves the house at dawn. At the end of a typical workday, we collapse on the sofa, and cuddle. We talk about our days. We cook something delicious. Have a couple of drinks. The only awkward moments are when we’re watching TV, and a sex scene comes on, then I get this guilt, a sense that we’re “not normal” because we’re not intimate anymore.
However, since we agreed to “live together as friends”, this awkwardness has eased because we’re not trying to regain something we’ve lost. We laugh a lot. We share so much history.
The boys don’t know about our new situation because we don’t need to tell them. In their eyes, we’re just fighting less. But it does feel like George and I are doing the relationship equivalent of a “holding pattern” – like a plane circling around, not ready to land, and not even sure at which airport it will end up. I am aware that we can’t live like this forever.
*Names have been changed