Divorce didn’t break me; it gave me a passport to the world and the courage to explore it. At first, I thought it might destroy me. There’s something about seeing the end of a marriage that feels like watching the collapse of a home you spent years building—brick by brick, memory by memory. But then I realized something: I’d been living in a house that no longer felt like mine.

The day the divorce was finalized, I felt an unexpected lightness. It wasn’t joy—not yet—but it was the absence of weight, the shedding of something heavy. I’d spent so long grieving the life I thought I was supposed to have that I forgot about the one I could still create. I booked my first solo trip that very week.

Paris was my first stop, a city I had dreamed of visiting since I was a little girl. Wandering the cobblestone streets, sipping coffee at sidewalk cafes, and watching the Eiffel Tower light up at night, I found pieces of myself I thought were gone forever. From there, I went to Thailand, where the turquoise waters and vibrant markets reminded me how colorful life could be. In the mountains of Peru, I learned how strong I was, climbing to heights I never thought possible—literally and emotionally.

Divorce didn’t break me; it rebuilt me. Every stamp in my passport is a reminder that I’m not just surviving—I’m thriving. My story isn’t about endings; it’s about beginnings.