Tag: divorce

Happy

Kristine Binder

“The best gift you can give your children is them seeing you happy.”
Jeremiah Brent

I’ve spent the better part of the last eleven years being angry. At first, I thought anger was what I needed to survive. It felt active, protective, justified. But the truth is, I’m tired of anger. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired in a way that no amount of rest ever really touches.
What I know now is that beneath the anger has always been sadness.
I’m sad that I lost my immediate family. I’m sad that my children and the people who love me carry anger on my behalf. I’m sad because this is not how I imagined things ending. And I’m sad that people can be cruel in moments when kindness would cost them nothing. My heart has carried all of that for a long time.
The last thirteen months intensified everything. Loss piled on top of loss, and grief was complicated by disappointment, distance, and coldness I wasn’t prepared for. Grief alone is heavy. Grief mixed with betrayal and unkindness settles into the body in ways that change how you move through the world.
I’m tired of living there.
I’ve always been someone who looks for joy. It’s instinctive for me. I’m the helper, the caretaker, the one who holds things together. I know how to create light for others even when I’m running on empty. What I didn’t know how to do – and am learning now – is to choose joy for myself without guilt.
Somewhere along the way, I built walls meant to protect me, but they also kept happiness at arm’s length. I stayed in motion because slowing down felt dangerous. I told myself I was coping, that I was managing, that I was fine. But treading water isn’t the same as swimming, and survival isn’t the same as living.
What shifted for me was realizing how much my kids see.
I don’t want them to see a mother who is always bracing, always exhausted, always carrying the weight of what happened. I don’t want them worrying about me or feeling like they need to protect me. I want them to see what it looks like to choose happiness – not as denial, not as a performance, but as a deliberate act of self-care after years of putting everyone else first.
The gift that keeps on giving isn’t perfection or strength or sacrifice. It’s allowing my children to see me genuinely happy. To see me laugh without restraint. To see me rest without apology. To see me live a life that isn’t defined by grief, even though grief will always be part of my story.
Choosing happiness doesn’t mean the pain disappears. It means it no longer gets to lead. It means I’m allowed to step toward joy even while carrying loss. It means I can honor what I’ve been through without staying stuck there.
I don’t have a dramatic ending or a sudden transformation to offer. What I have is a choice I’m making – again and again – to move toward happiness instead of anger, toward living instead of surviving.
Because Jeremiah Brent is right. The greatest gift I can give my children is letting them see me happy.
I’m still learning how to do that.
But I’m choosing it.
And that choice matters.
For today
and for what comes next
that’s enough.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Here

Kristine Binder

I’ve spent most of my life living everywhere except the present.
If I’m honest, being here has always felt unfamiliar — even unsafe. My mind learned early that it was better to stay busy traveling through time: backward into analysis, forward into fear. If I wasn’t replaying what already happened, I was scanning the horizon for what might go wrong next.
I told myself that was responsibility.
That it was preparation.
That it was being smart.
It wasn’t.
It didn’t protect me.
It didn’t prevent pain.
It didn’t make me safer.
All it did was keep me from actually living the life that was happening right in front of me.
Not being present has not served me well. It has cost me peace, softened moments, and entire stretches of time I can’t get back. It has kept me braced instead of open, vigilant instead of curious, exhausted instead of grounded.
Part of presence, for me, is letting go of control.
I’ve wanted to control everything — outcomes, conversations, relationships, timing — because control felt like safety. If I could anticipate every possible problem, maybe I could avoid the worst of it. But when I can’t control something — and so much of life can’t be controlled — my brain jumps straight to catastrophe. I rehearse disasters that haven’t happened and may never happen, as if fear itself is a form of armor.
It isn’t.
Being here means trusting that worry is not preparedness.
It means understanding that anxiety doesn’t equal foresight.
It means choosing intention over survival mode.
Presence asks something different of me. It asks me to notice instead of anticipate. To respond instead of brace. To breathe instead of grip tighter.
I want to wake up and feel the morning instead of immediately reviewing the past or forecasting the future. I want to notice the way light moves across a room, the sound of a laugh, the quiet moments that pass unnoticed when I’m stuck in my head.
I don’t want to live in hindsight or hypotheticals anymore.
I want to be here.
Right now.
In the tiny details that actually make up a life.
Presence is not something I’ve mastered. It feels like a muscle I never learned how to use and am now strengthening one small moment at a time. Some days I catch myself drifting back into old patterns — analyzing, worrying, controlling — and other days I manage to stay.
But I know this much: the present moment is the only place I can actually live. It’s the only place joy exists. It’s the only place connection happens. And it’s the only place I get to choose how I show up.
For the rest of my life — however long it is, however it unfolds — I want to be present for it.
Not perfect.
Not fearless
Just here.
And for the first time, that feels like enough.

Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

60

Kristine Binder

Sixty Trips Around the Sun:
Notes From A Life Well Lived.

I showed up in 1966, the Sound of Silence by Simon & Garfunkel was number one the day I was born in the year of the Horse and the moon landing was on the horizon. Childhood was Sesame Street, school lunches, and learning how the world worked, vinyl spinning in the background.
’76 to ’86 was adolescence: Aqua Net bangs, Swisher Sweets, Miller Ki11ers, and the Rumors album became my soundtrack. Walkmans and MTV changing music forever. Prince and Glam/Hair Metal ruled the radio while I learned that growing up means experimenting, messing up, and somehow still making it home by curfew(most of the time!).
From ’86 to ’96, college faded in the rearview and Chicago became home. I followed the Dead and found U2. I taught kindergarten by day, cocktail waitressed by night, met a guy, got married, and welcomed my first baby as the world shifted from landlines to dial-up.
’96 to ’06 was all babies, teaching, minivans, and birthday parties, with Barney and Disney tunes as the soundtrack of family life. Love multiplied even when energy(and coffee) didn’t.
’06 to ’16 was a decade of becoming. The housing bubble burst, iPhones arrived, Gaga pushed the edges, Adele nailed heartbreak, and I quietly dismantled then began to rebuild a life. Freedom took time, strength, and came with new adventures
’16 to ’26 has been all about reinvention. New jobs, new keys, new losses, new joys. I buried both parents, said goodbye to friends, advocated for causes I care about, Everybody suddenly had eras, playlists replaced CDs, and I kept showing up for the music — back to live music, Dead shows, Stevie Nicks, and connecting at concerts with my kids. All while I began to figure out who I am on my own.
If there’s one lesson after 60 years, it’s this: every decade has its own rhythm. The music shifts and the beat changes, but the soundtrack connects it all. It’s the thing that bridges eras and generations, stitching the story together while the world keeps moving forward. Freedom takes courage, joy takes intention, and peace is worth protecting.
Here’s to 60 years behind me—it’s been a long strange trip. “Time makes you bolder… and I’m gettin’ older too.” The music keeps evolving, and so do I. Here’s to all the wild, beautiful, ordinary, extraordinary days ahead. 

Divorcery

Kristine Binder

Today is my divorcery—the anniversary of the day I signed those papers, officially ending a marriage of over 20 years. It’s been eight years, and I’m finally at a place where I can look back, reflect, and truly celebrate the strength, freedom, and lessons I’ve gained from this journey.
Eight years ago, I stood in a courtroom, signing papers that I never imagined would mark the end of my marriage. Looking back now, I see all the things I did right, all the mistakes I made, and the immense personal growth that came from it.
I made mistakes—lots of them. During the marriage, and after. But one thing I’ve always done is take accountability for my actions. It took 748 days for our divorce to be finalized. Yes, you read that correctly … 748 days of struggle, of darkness, and of uncertainty. There were days when I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. I was drowning in overwhelm, anxiety, and depression. Some days, I could barely keep my head above water, just treading in the deep end. And on others, a wave would crash over me, pushing me under. I had to fight just to find the surface again.
Someone asked me recently about love, and I told them that love takes many forms. When they asked if I still loved my ex-husband, I answered, “It depends.” I love the gifts that came from our marriage—the beautiful children we created together, the family we built, and the lessons we learned. I love the person I was when I got married, and the good things we did. But do I love him? Absolutely not. The man he became, and the woman I grew into, are no longer the same people we were over 20 years ago. I have a deep respect for the past and the gifts it gave me, but in terms of romantic love? That’s not something I feel for him anymore.
Am I grateful for my divorce? Absolutely. A resounding HELL YES (I will say it loud and proud!). But is there still love? Yes, because love was there in the beginning, and it lives on in the family we built. For that, I’ll always be grateful.
Forgiveness has been a crucial part of this journey and is a daily process for me. I’ve forgiven myself for not knowing better. But once I knew better, I tried to do better. And I will continue to grow, change, and evolve into the woman I was meant to be. Looking back at this picture of me standing outside that courthouse eight years ago (taken my my attorney no less – Shoutout! You know who you are!), I see the woman who was a shell of herself. I didn’t even recognize her. But over time, I’ve filled her up. Slowly, but surely, I am rebuilding her. Expanding her.
Today, to celebrate, I took a long walk, no music, no puppy—just me, my thoughts, and the rhythm of my footsteps and breath. Running and walking meditation has been one of the most healing things I’ve done during these eight years. If you’d told me 10 years ago when it all started that this is where I’d be at the end of my divorce—celebrating eight years of reclaiming my name, my life, and my sense of self—I would’ve laughed. I would’ve said, “No way! I’m done.” But I didn’t give up. I kept going. One foot in front of the other. Sometimes in giant steps, sometimes in small ones, but always moving forward.
Now, after all these years, I get to live my life on my terms. Watching my kids grow into amazing humans has been the greatest gift of all—they are my pride and joy. Everything I did was to give them the freedom to live their best lives, making their own choices along the way.
And now, I get to build the life I always dreamed of, without compromise. The woman I am today carries the peace that comes from learning to trust myself again, from taking back control over my life and my future. Every day, I get to choose how I move forward, how I take up space, and how I show up for myself. This is my time. This is my life, and I’m finally living it on my terms.
Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace

Eight

Kristine Binder

Eight years ago today, I signed my divorce papers, walked out of that building, and took my name back. It wasn’t just the end of a marriage—it was the beginning of a whole new life. Divorce is often painted as tragedy or failure, but for me, it became the doorway to freedom, healing, and becoming my truest self. Here are eight things I’ve learned since that day.
1. Freedom has a price—but it’s worth paying.
The road to my freedom wasn’t easy or cheap, in dollars or in emotional cost. There were lawyer bills, sleepless nights, and moments when I thought I might break. But the peace I have now, the ability to live authentically without walking on eggshells, is priceless. Sometimes freedom means losing things you thought you couldn’t live without—and realizing you can. And then realizing it is so much better!
2. Karma has its own clock.
I used to want to see instant justice, for people to “get what’s coming” the moment they hurt me. But I’ve learned karma doesn’t work on my timeline. It works quietly, steadily, and with perfect timing. You don’t have to seek revenge—life has a way of balancing the scales when you focus on your own growth instead.
3. Strength isn’t built in the easy seasons.
I didn’t realize how strong I was until I had no choice but to be. The days I thought would destroy me were the ones that built my backbone. Strength doesn’t mean you never cry or break down—it means you find the courage to stand back up every single time….and say, “ try again….” 
4. Resilience is a muscle.
I’ve had to start over more than once since my divorce—financially, emotionally, even in how I saw myself. Every time I rebuilt, I found I could do it better, smarter, and stronger than before. Resilience grows with each challenge, and now I trust myself to survive whatever comes next.
5. Shame loses its power when you speak it aloud.
Divorce carries a shadow of shame in our culture, as if ending something that’s hurting you is a failure. I carried that weight for a while, worried about what people thought, until I learned this: shame grows in silence, but it shrinks in the light of truth. Telling my story not only freed me—it helped others feel less alone in theirs.
6. Taking your name back is more than paperwork.
Changing my name wasn’t just about identification—it was about reclaiming my identity. It was a reminder that I belong to myself. My name is a symbol of every step I’ve taken away from who I was told to be, and toward who I truly am.
7. You can fall in love again—in all sorts of ways.
Love after divorce isn’t just about another person. It’s about falling in love with joy and with life itself. It’s about my rescue dog, Lucky, who reminds me daily what unconditional love looks like. It’s about my people—the friends and family who show up, lift me up, and make me laugh until my face hurts. It’s about sunsets, music, and mornings where I wake up grateful for the quiet peace of my own company(which I rather enjoy!).
8. Divorce no longer defines me..
The things we go through can define us if we let them, or they can simply be one chapter in the book of our lives. For a long time, my divorce felt like the headline of my story. Now, it’s just one part of it—important, yes, but surrounded by so many other chapters filled with joy, love, growth, and possibility. I get to decide what defines me, and I choose everything I’ve built since that day.
Eight years later, I can say this: I didn’t just survive my divorce. I thrived because of it. Every step forward, baby step or giant leap, carried me here. Forward has been and always will be my pace.
Peace,
#tutulady
#forwardisapace