On Separation: A Note for the Midlife Man

This feels like a tricky one to write, partly because it's something I've been through myself, and partly because it's so layered, personal and nuanced.

Separation of two individuals has two perspectives, two versions, two sets of emotions and needs. Two childhoods that have taught those two people different versions of what is true in the world. And with that, it can be messy.

So I want to start off by saying that I don't know what you are going through right now, and I cannot guess how you have landed here. Perhaps you've left because you were deeply unhappy. Perhaps they've left you, and you're in a state of disbelief and shock. Perhaps it's somewhere in between.

Regardless, if your relationship (the one you thought was forever) has ended, or is in the process of ending, I want to give you something to hold as true, and helpful. I really hope this note does just that.

Everything is going to change

I think one of the hardest parts of separation is the sense that everything you knew as true is about to change, and most of the time, you don't know what that change is going to look, and crucially, feel like. "Where am I going to live? What about the kids? How will my parents feel? Will those people still be my friends? How will finances work? What does my week look like? What about Christmas?"

It's entirely disorientating, and it's supposed to be. This is a characteristic of any change. It's unsettling, unformed, muddy.

I think it's helpful to remind yourself that any ending has an element of grief. The life you thought was certain has changed, maybe you've changed. And so even if this is the right thing, there's an inevitable period of loss, rollercoaster emotions, perhaps a wavering sense of self.

And for the men I work with who have left, I still see this playing out. Guilt, regret, anger, sadness. Some leave confidently, with assurance, then hit a period of feeling completely empty. For some, I hear "have I done the right thing?" after months have already passed.

All this is part of knowing what you once had, and that sliding door being shut.

Look up the Kübler-Ross model. It'll likely feel familiar to you: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. It was built for bereavement, but it maps onto any major loss, including this one. In my experience, humans rarely move through it neatly, in order, once. You'll loop back and round again, or dive back into the same section time and time again. Months in, you'll have a good week and then a terrible Tuesday. It's a process, and one that, despite feeling uncomfortable, we all have to move through. Trust it.

How you want to show up

If there's one practical tool I can give you at this point, it's this. PAUSE.

Don't make big decisions from inside the rollercoaster. Don't send the text, sign the lease, quit the job, or say the thing that can't be unsaid while you're still in the acute stage. Your nervous system, and the emotions attached to it, will be everywhere, and that prefrontal cortex of yours is currently hijacked, resulting in a depletion of rational thought, reasoning, impulse control and regulation.

Instead, that little chimp in your head has firmly moved in and is currently dressed in armour, playing Celine Dion / Adele / Rage Against the Machine hits (other artists are available). It's very hard to have clarity, to feel rooted and composed, when everything is in flux.

Left unchecked, it's also how separations turn corrosive. One defensive message begets another. Armour meets armour. Small misunderstandings calcify into the "story" of what happened, and that story is the thing you both end up living inside for years, sometimes through your kids, if you have them.

So, pause.

Give yourself time before anything irreversible. Trust that the process moves, even when it doesn't feel like it.

Before you respond to a message, a call or a request, pause and breathe. Just a few seconds is enough to put a gap between the trigger and the reaction. Then ask yourself one question: how do I want to show up here, in a way that aligns with my values?

Not "how do I want to win this." Not "how do I make them feel what I feel." Just this: who do you want to be able to look at in the mirror in six months? That question, asked consistently, changes the tone of an entire separation.

Control the controllables

There's a lot right now that isn't yours to control: how the other person feels, what they say to their friends or family, how fast or slow this all moves, what the lawyers say, what other people think.

What is in your hands: how you sleep. What you eat. Whether you move your body. Who you spend time with. What you say, and how you say it. Whether you show up on time for your kids, or for yourself. These sound small against the scale of what's happening, but they're not small, they're the scaffolding that holds you up while the rest is in flux. Put your energy there.

Tool: draw a huge circle on a piece of paper, then a much smaller circle inside that.

In your outer, bigger circle, write down everything you're worried or anxious about: your to-dos, other people's reactions, money, kids, health, etc. Get it all out.

Now, in the smaller circle, write down everything that is in your control. Who you speak to. Going for runs. Pausing before reacting. How you will show up for your kids, if you have any. How you will aim to treat your ex-partner. That kind of thing.

Next step, scribble over or score out everything in the outer circle. That, my friends, is just noise, noise, noise. Control the controllables, that's all any of us can do.

Tell a couple of people

Going through a separation or divorce is emotionally, mentally and physically exhausting. I remember feeling like I was treading through superglue. Your head rarely switches off, your body likely feels heavy, and you may be tempted to curl into a ball and hide in bed for days on end. I think all of that is understandable.

The very thought of then having to explain what's happening to other people, to dredge up the pain or angst, and then be reminded of it each time you see them, can make a lot of men run for the hills and say nothing at all.

But here's the thing: going through a separation is one of the most emotionally taxing experiences you'll have in your life. And to expect yourself to navigate that alone feels deeply unfair.

My invitation to you: find one or two people (a close friend, a brother, someone who won't try to fix it or take sides, who'll just let you say the true thing out loud) and tell them what's happening.

Men are often taught to metabolise this stuff silently, to "handle it." That instinct will cost you. Isolation doesn't make you stronger through this, it just makes the weight heavier and the thinking foggier. Let a couple of people in. You'll need them, and honestly, they'll probably want to be needed. If you still feel you can't, ask yourself this: if your best mate was going through this, feeling the way you're feeling, would you want to be there for him? Would you want him to lean on you? There's your answer.

Showing up at work

With all of this going on, how do you sit in a meeting, run a team, hit a deadline, when your personal life is quietly falling apart in the background?

From my own experience, and from what I've heard from clients, work can be both a healthy distraction and, at times, the hardest thing to do.

For some of you, throwing yourself into your work can give your head a break from ruminating on the reality of life outside it. Some find themselves more efficient than ever, sometimes over-performing. That has its own complexity, as it can quickly become avoidance for some and morph into burnout.

For others, just getting out of bed can feel like an ultra marathon. With the inevitable lows that come from most separations, you may find your motivation evaporates and you aren't functioning at work as you usually would.

Again, both versions are understandable and normal. But either way, I'd encourage any client to communicate something to at least one person at work.

Your boss. A peer. HR. Anyone.

You don't owe anyone the full story, and you're in control of what you say. But one trusted person knowing the full story can ensure they keep a check on you, and are aware that this huge life change may impact your performance for a while. In that way, this move is crucial and really sensible. It's minimising risk.

Lower the bar on yourself where you can. This isn't the season to also chase a promotion or take on the stretch project. Steady and present is a completely legitimate standard right now. And build in small resets through the day (five minutes outside, a walk between calls) because the reality is, you're doing two full-time jobs at once: the one you're paid for, and the one of holding yourself together.

Before I go

I want to end by saying that what you're feeling is valid. All of it. The anger, the relief, the grief, the guilt, the numbness, the days you feel nothing and the days you feel everything at once. None of it means you're broken or doing this wrong.

You are allowed to fall apart, and you are allowed to still be a good man while you do.

This chapter doesn't get the final word on who you are. Be patient with yourself.

You're doing better than you think.

If you feel like you could do with some coaching support to navigate this transition, drop me a note: caroline@themidlifeman.co.uk