The First Touch After Divorce
At first, I missed it. Then I was afraid and forgot what it was like. To touch. To be close. Until one day someone reached out a hand… and my skin remembered.
Divorce is the end of a story that was supposed to last forever. But sometimes, it's also the end of the body.
My divorce was quiet. Civilized. We agreed. We split the furniture, the care of the children, and the dog. I was left with keys, solitude, and a body I stopped noticing.
Long after the divorce, I didn’t touch anyone, and no one touched me.
Maybe out of shame. Maybe out of distrust. Maybe because I didn’t feel real enough for a new beginning. My hands were closed, as if carrying my own vulnerability, and I didn’t want to show it to anyone.
And then… it was such an ordinary moment.
I was on a trip with friends. We were laughing, sitting by the fire, someone offered me a blanket because it had gotten cold. He reached out his hand. Just like that, without expectation, and my body froze. A small movement, fingers on my forearm, yet I felt like time stopped.
It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t passion.
It was a touch that said: "I see you. I noticed you're cold."
And in that simple act, something broke open.
Later at home, I touched that spot on my forearm, right where he had touched me.
Not to recreate the feeling, but because I realized, I felt something. For the first time in a long time. It was a mix of panic, tenderness, surprise. But most of all, it was mine.
It didn’t come from my head, but from my body. It couldn’t be planned or suppressed. Only felt.
Memories started to return. Not of my ex-husband, but of me. Of what it was like to be young, in love, free. How I used to laugh so hard I’d fall backward. How I would lie in the grass and let the sun stroke my belly. How I used to just be, without the need to control, protect, or run.
After the divorce, I promised myself I would be strong. And for me, strength meant independence. No crying. No wanting. No needing.
But the more I repeated it, the more I lost myself. My body wasn’t protected, it was abandoned. I didn’t want anyone to touch me, and at the same time, I longed for it so much I felt ashamed. Everything I had ever felt, I locked in a deep box labeled “later.” But later never came, until that moment.
I started changing things, slowly. Not with a leap. I didn’t jump into a new relationship. But in the morning after my shower, I gave myself a few seconds to rub lotion onto my skin, not to make it beautiful, but to make it felt. I paused in the sun, and instead of moving to the next task on my to-do list, I simply placed my hands on my chest or stroked my face and hair… I wanted to remind myself: I’m here. Alive. Breathing. Sensitive.
The hardest part was allowing closeness. Not physical, but emotional. To be in someone else’s presence and not feel threatened. To accept that even if I had been abandoned, I didn’t have to abandon myself. That a touch isn’t a promise, and not the beginning of something that must end. It’s just a moment. And that moment can be safe, if I allow it. And even though I’ve been through a divorce, I’m not broken. I’m still whole. Maybe just in a different way.
Calmory:
Breakups or divorces often leave not only emotional, but also physical imprints. The body may “switch off touch memory” for a while, out of pain, protection, or shame.
What can help?
• A mindful return to the body. Not through a relationship, but through awareness. A warm shower, self-massage, gentle stretching.
• Touch without sexual context. Hugging a close person. Touching a tree. Sitting in the sun and feeling its warmth.
• Small mindful rituals. In the morning, placing a hand on your chest and feeling your breath. In the evening, gently stroking your legs before slipping under the covers.
Affirmations that can help heal:
Just breathe and say out loud…
“My body deserves to be felt, not hidden.”
“Touch can be tender, safe, and healing.”
“I allow myself to slowly return to closeness.”
Calmory’s word:
Maybe you’ve felt this too. Maybe your body is still on guard. Maybe you wonder whether you’ll ever let someone close again.
But the body remembers. And when it’s ready, it will ask, not with pressure, not with desire, but with gentleness.
A tender shiver under the skin that whispers: Now is the time.
Maybe someone else needs to hear this, too.
Share.
A Woman Who Writes About Life As It Really Is
Antonie is a woman who knows the power of human stories and isn’t afraid to write about them. She has gone through burnout, loneliness, and the search for a balance between caring for others and herself. She is a mother who shares custody of her children, a partner, a friend, and a woman who sometimes doesn’t know what comes next. But it is this authenticity that gives her the courage to address topics that others often hide behind smiles. She herself says that writing is her way of naming things aloud and perhaps helping others feel less alone. In Antonie’s writings, you will find honesty, perspective, and motivation that you can rise again, even from rock bottom. She believes in the power of friendship, love, and simple rituals that help manage everyday reality.
