I am trying to help my son zip his winter coat. We are running late again, and if I don’t get to his preschool in ten minutes then there will be no one to teach my first section of seventh grade English.

“I do it myself,” my son says.

I have no buffer. I have no backup. When I was married, my husband took my son to preschool, but I am not married anymore, so I have to become two people. I have to learn how to be in two places at once.

I fail every day.

I stand back and watch my son. He is struggling with the zipper, but determined. He tries again and again.

He fails each time.

He doesn’t stop trying.

“I do it myself,” my son says.

He succeeds. The coat is zipped. He looks up at me and smiles, his dimples mine, his upper lip, his dad’s. I realize I am jealous of my son. 

Divorce is a slow drag, and then an abrupt transition. While you are going through the process it is a lot like sitting in the waiting room at the dentist’s office. Your appointment was scheduled for thirty minutes ago, and while you are tired of waiting, you know what is coming for you when you sit down in that chair, and it isn’t pretty.

Divorce is a lot like a root canal or a filling. I lay back, powerless, unable to move, and a stranger (your lawyer, the judge) is asking me to open my mouth wider, picking and pulling at my teeth, yet saying nothing. Often, they talk about me as if I am not standing in front of them. They quickly scan documents that they obviously haven’t read and their clerk hurries to get them up to speed.

 Am I going to be ok? I want to ask, but I can’t because gloved hands are in my mouth. Hey, this is my life, I try to say. This is my family. But then my lawyer grabs my shoulder and reminds me that I am not allowed to speak unless spoken to.

Then, all the sudden, just when I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life in that waiting room, my name is called. Then it is over. My teeth hurt, but the dentist is gone. I walk out of the courtroom, and I am no longer married.

Then the changes begin and they come so quickly that I have to confront them. After all, I can’t stop coming home after work. I can’t leave the snow on the car. I have to walk through the door. I have to shovel because if I don’t, I might get buried alive, and there is a long winter ahead.

I do it myself. I write it on Post It notes and stick them inside the medicine cabinet, on my computer, and next to my bed. If I see it enough maybe it will be true.

I have never shoveled snow.

This is embarrassing: a privileged confession that makes me seem like a suburban princess. It sounds like something one of those moms on Big Little Lies would say. You know, those moms who have time to get coffee and a muffin and go to yoga. Those women who have backup. Those women who don’t have to be in two places at once.

It doesn’t snow in California.

The truth is I have never shoveled snow because my husband always shoveled snow.

Yet here I am.

It is 2015 in New England, and the year I get divorced is the worst winter Boston has ever seen. By March over 108 inches of snow have fallen. Blizzard after blizzard have shut down schools, and public transportation.

Shoveling snow has become necessary for survival. It sounds hyperbolic, but it’s a fact.

When I get divorced, we divide up our stuff. Turns out that I don’t get the shovel. So, I order one on Amazon, and hope that it somehow makes it to my house despite the blizzards, the road closures, and the power outages.

When the shovel arrives, it is nearly the same size as me.

I do it myself, I say. I repeat it again and again with every lift of the shovel. My arms burn and my back starts to hurt, and meanwhile the snow is still falling. It keeps coming, and I keep shoveling.

I finish the top of the car, and go inside for a break. I am breathing heavy and suddenly, I feel so tired that I could go to sleep. It’s 4 p.m. on a Tuesday.

I am crying. I don’t want to do this myself. I want my husband to shovel the snow off the car, while I make hot chocolate in the kitchen. I want to bring him a cup and thank him for cleaning off the car so I didn’t have to. I want the snow to stop falling so I can leave the house, and I want to come back to a home where someone has turned on the front porch light because they are anticipating my arrival.

Instead, when I turn my key in the door, I am greeted with the cold, darkness of an empty house.

My son is with my ex-husband.

I am out of hot chocolate, and it is time to shovel again.

So, I do it myself. And while it doesn’t get easier, with each lift of the shovel, I begin to build new muscles. My efforts make me stronger. The snow keeps falling. It will fall all night, and I will get up in the morning, and shovel again.

Guest essay written by Julie T. Mason. Julie lives in Boston with her husband and three sons. She is a former English teacher who loves slow writing, good coffee, and all things fitness related. Divorced at 30, remarried, and part of a blended family, Julie writes about her experience with hope that others will feel less alone. You can find her and her writing on Instagram.