A Case for Committed Relationships

made by a divorced, single mother

My grandmother and grandfather on their wedding day

This morning I woke up to a heartwarming message from my friend Jeri whose son is getting married tomorrow. She sent me a picture from the civil wedding ceremony, and there he stood, “little Bill,” who was six years old when I babysat him, now as a handsome young man, dressed in an elegant blue suit, looking radiant beside his beautiful bride. My eyes welled with tears. I was so proud of little Bill, and proud of the exceptional parents who raised him - whom I was fortunate enough to live with in London for four months.

I was a young twenty year old then who knew little about children, and even less about the nuts and bolts of what makes a family a family. My own family had been broken up when I was too young to remember it, and I don’t recall a single family outing, or something as simple as a family sitting down together for dinner. I don’t recall seeing in my parents’ eyes the kind of joy that I now derive as a mother from seeing my own daughters enter the room. I don’t recall laughter. My brother and I were sent to live in a kibbutz at the age of twelve. I still recall those nights when we went hunting for ripe avocadoes in the groves to make ourselves some avocado toast when there was nothing to be found in the fridge. And the night we tried to scare away a horde of cocroaches by blasting Samantha Fox’s famous/infamous 80’s anthem Touch me will continue to live in my memory as the day my brother and I became each other’s family. Already then, on the abandoned beach chairs on Gordon beach at the age of ten, I was planning my great escape - la dolce vita in Italy. But I wasn’t some helpless cindarella who needed a knight in a shining armour to come and save me. Especially not if this knight was anything like my father. No, I wasn’t going to repeat my parents’ mistake. I was going to stand on my own two feet, thank you very much, and never marry.

That was the plan anyway. The plan before I fell for an English boy and moved to London, and the plan before I married a Canadian I had met in India and followed him to Montréal. Again, Jeri was there at my Budapest wedding, sitting in the front row of the church, while my mother kept to the back. Jeri was also the one who had packed my backpack with homeopathic remedies and maleria tablets when I was preparing to leave for India. And it was in Jeri and Bill’s London home that I first saw a family sit together for dinner, crack jokes, and take care of each other.

I was flooded with these memories as I watched a photo of little Bill’s euphoric joy behind a rain of confettis, and my heart was filled with gratitude. Thanks to Bill’s family and another American family I lived with in London for years, I was fortunate to witness the healthy functioning of a family - a family that one day I was hoping to create for myself. What I witnessed in their homes was not a family without conflicts or hardships, but a deep rooted respect for each other and an unwavering commitment to work through the challenges, whatever they may be. Although I was caring for their sons - whom I loved as I would one day love my own children - these two families played an important parent-like role in my own life. They watched me fall in love and have my heart broken, supported my artistic path and even sponsored my first staged play in London. I still communicate with them regularly (Substack being a wonderful weekly excuse).

Although I have aspired to create a similar family environment for my own family, my journey has taken me on a different path. In an attempt to destigmatize divorce and the inherent feelings of failure associated with it, I have written much about the positive aspects of a divorce, and how it can help reshape the unhealthy dynamics in your family into something a little less conventional, but a hell a lot healthier. My own separation was far from a walk in the park. It felt more like a walk through an obscure, dark tunnel while continuing to receive punches from all directions. But then, the light that I thought would never appear appeared, and somewhow, I was still standing. Looking back on that journey now, yes, I do feel sadness, but I am also very proud of my ex husband and I that despite everything, and against all odds, we have managed to keep an amicable relationship and put our daughters’ interest first. My divorce has been my greatest spiritual teacher. But so can be a long-lasting marriage. It is not a small achievement to walk side by side with another human being on the same path as you keep evolving and changing, subject to life’s various challenges, and then, if you so choose, also raise children.

Marriage gets a bad rap these days. Perhaps because there seem to be so few marriages that are “happy” (whatever that means). In our current progressive age of online dating when our options to find ‘the one’ seem limitless, and polyamorous relationships are not only more acceptable, but increasingly more popular, it is tempting to write off monogamous relationships as too conventional and boring, and marriage as passé - an institution that is only repressing the individual’s full potential.

I understand where this criticism/ thought comes from. As mentioned above, once upon a time I too subscribed to this religion. But seeing the wide spread of discontent amongst my friends who are seeking ‘something more’ I can’t help reading the signs of another cautionary tale.

Marriage is hard. Single life is hard. Single parenthood is mighty hard. No solution is perfect, whatever model you choose, and you will expect to make many compromises along the way. But as the popular saying goes: don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater. While some compromises should never be tolerated, some compromises can be character building. There is something healthy about not always getting what you want, and having another human being nearby who can challenge you, and yes, sometimes really, really irritate you. As philosopher/writer Alain de Botton says, we are all crazy.

For now, my teenage daughters challenge me plenty, but I must admit that the image that moves me the most these days is seeing an elderly couple walking down the street, holding hands. I imagine that they have had their fair share of fights - some over really stupid things, and some over bigger, more meaningful things - but despite it all, they have found a way to walk down the street together. And there is something admirable about that; something that I personally long for amidst the endless choice of suitors, even if I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.

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An afterthought / disclaimer:

This post was written in a bit of a rush, as I am reeling from a particularly challenging week. This topic deserves a much deeper exploration and I realize that there are many nuances I haven’t been able to cover here. But as my main goal with Substack is to practice letting go of perfectionism, I am going to hit the ‘publish’ button anyway and let go of my imperfect post.

If you are so inspired, you are welcome to share your thoughts/ experiences in the comment section below.

Please know that this post - as all the posts I publish here - are written in the spirit of self-reflection and are never meant to judge anyone’s preferred choice of being / loving. Whatever makes you happy, I am happy for you!

May we continue to learn from each other…

Have a wonderful week. Imola