This isn’t about the movie. And it’s neither romantic nor a comedy. If only.
Exactly one week after admitting to myself that I’m transgender, I worked up the courage to tell someone else. I came out to my wife on February 2, 2023. Yes, on Groundhog Day.
For all the joy in finally being my true self that day, it did not end well. Shortly after having that conversation, it was clear my wife wanted a divorce.
I hoped she would change her mind. But I suspect my betrayal—hiding who I really was for so, so many years—created too wide of a chasm for her to cross back over.
To be honest, I could understand her feelings. I wasn’t happy, but I could understand. So, I acquiesced to her wishes. And we began our separation that day.
While not simple or easy, untangling two lives after thirty-three years of marriage is at least possible. We committed to making our split amicable. We still talk and text. Whether we’re friends or not, we continue to be friendly with each other. That counts for something.
Our divorce was final on the first of this year, new beginnings on New Years Day it seems. And I feel so many different things about it. Failure, loneliness, anger, relief, joy and even wonder. At what comes next, mostly. My therapist tells me that’s both normal and healthy. I hope that’s true.
Anyway, I don’t think about Bill Murray, Andie MacDowell or Punxsutawney Phil today. I think about something else.
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