After my divorce, I was broke. Like, “checking under couch cushions for gas money” broke. I didn’t know what I’d do, and stress became my full-time side hustle.
My marriage had its comforts—or at least I thought it did. The love was real, but most of it was aimed at our child instead of each other. Still, marriage gave me chances I wouldn’t have had otherwise. I got to see life outside of Texas, and during the early years of my ex’s career, I was the one cheering her on as she traveled for work.
The trade-off? I handled the bills, mostly with credit cards. I never told her just how bad it got—I figured I could carry it alone. Spoiler: I couldn’t. Things fell apart: house, cars, relationship. And still, I thought overspending made me look strong. Instead, it just made me broke and single.
Then came the rebound. I met someone new, thought she was “the one,” and fell hard. She struggled with mental illness, and I wanted to build a life with her, but deep down I knew it wasn’t possible. I even got a vasectomy to stop myself from making reckless choices. I poured everything into us—time, money, trips, gifts. And when it ended, so did my finances.
I dated more. More debt. Then the pandemic hit—and oddly, that was my reset button. I met someone amazing, and together we learned to make dinner out of whatever was left in the pantry. She didn’t just improvise—she improved me. Within a year, I closed my Discover card with a zero balance and brought my debt down to something manageable.
The moral? Debt feels impossible until it isn’t. I was $30,000 under, and five years later, I dug out. My advice: call your credit card companies, cut up your cards, be honest with your partner, and above all, stay hopeful. If I can do it, anyone can.
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