Last June, my husband came back from a long surfing trip and asked me for a divorce. I was stunned. Confused. Heartbroken.
By then, we’d been married for nearly seven years — June 15th would’ve been our seventh wedding anniversary. To celebrate it, I had organized a short getaway.
We’d stay in a five-star hotel in Cascais, a gorgeous seaside just outside of Lisbon. Our schedule was packed with fun stuff like a helicopter tour, high-end massages, and lunch at a Michelin-starred restaurant by the beach.
Everything was locked in, and it felt far too late to cancel. So, a few days after the bombshell request, we went.
Our ‘perfect’ getaway felt confusing, tense, and awkward
As we embarked on the three-and-a-half-hour drive to our hotel, I brought up all the exciting activities awaiting us whenever the silence became uncomfortable.
I had pictured our anniversary getaway completely differently. I thought we’d be in a happy cloud of not having seen each other for weeks, ready for a little romantic adventure.
Instead, we were stuck in this weird place. I didn’t fully understand what was going on between us, and he wasn’t fully able to communicate his feelings. Although he seemed to have made up his mind about splitting, I still believed we could work things out.
For most of our four-day trip, I tried to pretend that everything was fine, but, of course, I felt it wasn’t.
The usual silly banter between us felt forced. When we sat in a restaurant after a full day of activities, we giddily chatted about the fancy dishes being served to us, but when we walked back to our hotel post-meal, we were mostly silent.
To put a cherry on top of this awkwardness, the hotel surprised us with a bottle of Champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries on the date of our anniversary. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as a staff member wheeled these goodies into our room.
The connection between us still felt undeniable — there were still the inside jokes we’d curated over the years, that familiarity, and a feeling of safety that I’d taken for granted over the years.
We both seemed to cycle through a bunch of emotions, ping-ponging between feeling like strangers wildly attracted to each other (especially after a few cocktails) and a couple grappling with the fact that their relationship was broken.
By the time we got home, it was clear that we’d take some time apart. He moved out and stayed with friends, while I remained in our home looking after our cats.
Looking back, I don’t regret going on the trip
A few months after our vacation, we finally sat down together and really talked.
Having had more time to let everything settle, I reflected on our vacation during this turbulent time. I realized it was OK for me to feel confused in the middle of a breakup.
I could acknowledge that although we laughed and had romantic moments, I felt disillusioned. I felt nostalgic, but I also noticed a rift between us that made me incredibly sad.
He’d lost himself along the way as our relationship progressed, and whenever I noticed him withdrawing I wouldn’t dig too deep because I was afraid he’d tell me something I didn’t want to hear.
The pressure built up, and this lack of communication led to the very issues we were trying to avoid: Me, being left, and him, having to deal with all of these emotions instead of running from them.
Going on this trip was weird and uncomfortable; a desperate attempt to “fix” us. It didn’t. Instead, it provided the confined space away from home we needed to be confronted with issues we most likely would’ve kept avoiding.
In Cascais, I didn’t know where our relationship would end up. Now, we’re working on finalizing our divorce, and believe it or not, we’re on good terms.
I’m glad we went on the trip.
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