Being Divorced Doesn’t Mean I Failed, but that I Endured

 There was a time when I looked at my divorce and felt shame. Not because I had hurt anyone or acted dishonourably, but because I believed the lie society tells men like me: that a failed marriage is a failed man. That if your relationship didn’t last, you must not have tried hard enough, loved deeply enough, or been man enough to hold it all together.

But that’s not the truth. Not for me.

Divorce, in many ways, wasn’t my failure. It was my endurance. It was me surviving years of emotional pressure, unspoken expectations, and a relationship that slowly became more about staying afloat than truly living.

Redefining What “Failure” Looks Like

Marriage, by design, is supposed to be forever, or so we’re told. It’s measured in years, anniversaries, and societal approval. So when it ends, people naturally assume something went wrong. They usually assume it’s someone’s fault.

But here’s the reality: not every marriage is built to last. Some marriages come to teach you, to challenge you, or even to break you open so that a better version of you can emerge. My marriage ended not because I didn’t try, but because I stopped sacrificing myself to maintain something that had already collapsed inside.

Endurance Looks Different for Everyone

Enduring in a toxic or one-sided marriage is not strength, it’s survival. And yes, I endured. I stayed longer than I should have. I hoped harder than was healthy. I tolerated things I now know I should have walked away from much sooner.

But I also endured the loneliness after she left. The silence. The questioning. The whispers. The looks from married friends who suddenly didn’t know where to place me in their social settings. I endured the grief that came not just from losing a partner, but from losing the future I once imagined.

And I’m still here. Still healing. Still growing.

The Real Work Began After She Left

Strangely, the moment I signed those divorce papers wasn’t the real turning point. The real moment came weeks later, when I looked in the mirror and asked, “Now what?”

That was the beginning of a different kind of endurance. The kind that required me to be honest with myself. To let go of pride. To forgive myself for what I didn’t see earlier. To grieve without shame, and eventually, to rebuild.

Divorce didn’t make me weak. It tested my strength in ways marriage never did. I learned to sit with pain without numbing it. I learned to sleep alone without fear. I learned to be responsible for my peace in a way I had never been before.

There’s No Medal for Staying Unhappy

One of the biggest lies I told myself in my marriage was that endurance equals success. That if I just stayed, things would get better. That leaving would make me a failure. But now, I see that staying in a place where you’re no longer growing is not strength, it’s stagnation.

Walking away, on the other hand, takes courage. It takes a painful kind of self-respect to say, “This isn’t love anymore. This isn’t who I want to be.” And that’s not quitting, that’s choosing to live.

Final Thoughts

I didn’t fail. I endured.

I endured the loss, the loneliness, the judgment, and the silence. I endured the breaking and the rebuilding. And through it all, I found a version of myself I never would’ve known had I stayed in a dying marriage.

So no, being divorced doesn’t make me a failure. It makes me a man who survived. A man who chose peace over pretence. A man who finally chose himself.

And if that’s what failure looks like, then maybe failure isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Joseph Abdalla