With a bit of trepidation, I admit that I do not know how to be a divorcee. I have no roll model – my parents are still together after 44 years of marriage. I don’t have any close friends that are divorced. There are no easily accessible clubs or groups to join. It’s not like when I became a first time mom and glommed on to other new moms, formed our own tribe, and shared in the experience of raising kids, husbands and growing as women and parents together. No, quite the contrary. It’s very isolating – like searching for a new tribe, but one that does not seem to exist.

Months before my marriage was officially over, I stopped wearing my wedding ring. Initially, my story was that it on occasion had caused a rash on my skin (which is true). I am now willing to admit that on some deeply painful level it was a symbolic stab at Keith. But truly, more than either reason, it was my way of making an “I belong to no one but me” statement. Eventually, I found a personal power in my naked left ring finger and, through many triumphs and as many failures, a desperately needed new sense of self.

Moments of ease and awkwardness seemed to accompany the absence of rings on that ring finger. Unwelcome insinuations, advances, and questions as to my marital status by complete strangers were commonplace. Being the odd woman out by not wearing one was blatant – if only to me. And choosing on occasion to wear another type of ring altogether on that finger and having that observed, commented on, and judged made me feel, personal power or not, that I just could not win.

But when I was ready, new people, new opportunities and yes, new rings started showing up in my life. Kamden, my son, found a darling little ring on the soccer field and gallantly presented it to me (yes, we tried to find the rightful owner but could not). Andrea, a friend of a friend, had sent rings to be sold at a gold party and when she was not offered what she wanted for them, gave them to me as a gift simply because I had greatly admired them. And a brief visit to a little store while on vacation prompted the purchase of a little ring by me for me – one guaranteed not to give me a rash. Suddenly, I had four rings representing the love of my child, of my friends, and yes, of myself.

In a moment of personal solidarity, I put all four on my naked left ring finger. I wore them all that day. And the next. And the next. I witnessed some from my tribes old and new noticing them. New people I meet still glance at my finger and see that it is full – this is such an odd social ritual, really. But none of it matters anymore. I love them. I love what they represent. I love who gave them to me. And I finally love myself enough not to care what my ring finger status means to anyone but me.

I am now committed to that which is most important in my life – my kids, my friends and family, and me. With these rings, I wed me, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, I will honor and love myself all the days of my life. I do know how to love. And, it’s not like I can ever divorce myself.