Many years ago, I wrote that a modern marriage can sometimes resemble a practical arrangement—one shaped as much by structure and convenience as by love or desire. At the time, I didn’t fully understand the weight of what I was saying. It’s only now, going through the process of untangling a legal marriage, that I understand how binding that structure truly is.
I entered marriage at a time when I believed I had done enough work on myself to be ready to show up as a present partner. I was emerging from a period of recovery and rebuilding, and there was a strong desire to belong—to create something stable and whole. Looking back, I can see that while I had made progress, there were still patterns I didn’t yet recognise.
The relationship began with a sense of ease and attentiveness that felt reassuring at the time. There were also moments that, in hindsight, pointed to deeper differences in temperament and how we related to the world. At the time, I chose to focus on the parts that felt good, believing that they represented the foundation we could build on.
Maya Angelou once said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” It’s a quote that has taken on new meaning for me. I’ve come to understand that behaviour communicates far more clearly than intention, and that what we choose to overlook early on often returns later, amplified.
The pace of the relationship was quick, and decisions were made without much pause for reflection. At the time, it felt like momentum. Now, I see it more as a lack of space to fully understand what we were stepping into.
Over the years, the relationship moved through different phases. There were periods of conflict, followed by periods of adjustment and compromise. I learned to prioritise harmony, sometimes at the expense of my own clarity. Life continued—work, responsibilities, family—and gradually, the relationship became more functional than connected.
At some point, we began living parallel lives within the same structure. Shared logistics remained, but much of the emotional connection had faded. In Japan, there is a term sometimes used to describe this state—Kateinai Rikon - where a couple remains legally married, but functionally separate. That description resonated with me.
I digress.
Living in Japan, I’ve also come to understand the structure of divorce here more clearly. Broadly speaking, there are three main pathways:
1) Divorce by mutual agreement, where both parties come to terms independently and file jointly.
2) Divorce through mediation, where a third party helps facilitate agreement.
3) Divorce through the courts, where decisions are made when agreement cannot be reached.
Each path reflects not just a legal process, but the degree of alignment—or lack of it—between two people trying to separate.
What I’ve come to realise is that the ease of entering a legal bond is not matched by the ease of leaving it. The process of disentanglement requires not just paperwork, but alignment, cooperation, and time.
When that alignment isn’t present, the process becomes slower and more complex. It requires patience, resilience, and a willingness to move forward even when resolution is not immediate.
If marriage is the act of weaving two lives together, then divorce is the careful—and sometimes prolonged—process of separating those threads.
And like anything tightly woven, it doesn’t come apart all at once.
It loosens gradually, over time.
And eventually, it does release.
