My parents divorced when I was ten years old, and it was easily the most displacing, unpleasant experiences of my entire life. It’s doubtful that that comes as a surprise to anyone reading this, whether they can directly relate to it or not. When you grow up living with two parents and then one day you’re suddenly separated from one of them, it’s tremendously disorienting. When you're younger, it’s difficult to understand how things like this can happen, or if it ever gets better, but it only takes time to figure it out.

For the first five years or so afterward, my parents had joint custody, so I lived with my mom and spent time with my dad, mostly on weekends but sometimes for part of the week, as well. This concept wasn’t completely foreign to me, but hearing about it and going through it were two very different things. I felt like a ping-pong ball, going from my mother’s house to my father’s house and back. As soon as I got situated in one place, I would have to pack up my things and go back to the other. After a while, my father’s house, which used to be the home we’d all shared, didn’t feel like “home” anymore, just a place that I would visit for a few days before going back to where I lived. At first, my parents interacted fairly amicably with one another. That didn’t last, though, which only lengthened the divide between my mom’s and my dad’s. They lived less than a mile from one another, but the metaphorical distance was greater.

Over time, I noticed that I didn’t understand regular nuclear families. It was a mystery to me how other families could share a meal without tension, or spend a weekend together without worrying about a fight breaking out. I found that growing up between two houses had made me sort of detached from the idea of the traditional family, and I didn't mind at all. I didn't want it any other way. This was the way my family was, and it was better for everyone in the same way that staying together is better for other people.

The amount of time that my parents were married to each other (during my life) and the amount of time they’ve been split up is about the same at this point. Even so, I rarely think about the years when we were all a family. Truth be told, I don’t want to remember them. One night when I was over at a friend’s house, we were talking about our respective experiences with our divorced parents. My friend said something along the lines of, “Your parents could still get back together, there’s still hope for that.” I remember laughing out loud at this, not only because I knew that there wasn’t any hope for that, but also because I realised that I didn’t want that. My parents had split up for a reason, and although it took me a while to come to that conclusion, I knew that it was for the better.

It’s not that I love the fact that my parents’ marriage didn’t work out. It removed a certain amount of stability from my life for a while. But the truth is, I don't have any strong feelings about it one way or the other anymore. It doesn't do any good to wish that it hadn't happened, or envy other people whose parents are still married. What's more important is to move forward with my new definition of family and learn from it as a stronger and more independent person.