It was Sunday, May 22, 2005, and my parents sat my sisters and me down to tell us they were getting a divorce. To say this was unexpected is an understatement.
I was eighteen years old.
Let’s back up a bit and create some context for this moment.
I had a fantastic childhood. Both of my parents were attentive, loving, disciplinary, listened, and they treated my sisters and me, as you’d wish all parents would treat their kids. We weren’t wealthy, both of my parents worked and worked hard, and my sisters and I learned that if there was something we wanted, we needed to first initiate and follow through ourselves. However, despite all this, we lived comfortably, went on grand adventures, grew healthy, and learned from two wonderful parents that life is not one or two dimensional.
They showed us that we don’t get to judge people for what they choose to do, but we also don’t have to passively put up with what happens around us. There’s a time to act, a time to listen, a time to collaborate, and times for raw reactions. Our home was built on discipline, conservative religion, liberal experience, and that love is available and free to all.
My parents both shared the same religion, but where my mother was devout, my dad hasn’t been active since before I was born. My mother worked in the regulatory department for an incredible dental equipment development company, and my father owned his own flooring business.
One was the second oldest in their family, and the other the youngest, but both born in the same years. Their respective families stand about as opposite as two families can get, but my parents were able to balance and live so well together.
Or so I thought.