Cycle Breakers or Escape Artists?

Modern relationships—and the concept of marriage as one partner for life—were introduced to humanity alongside the rise of monotheism. When the idea of one true god emerged, so did the idea of one sanctioned union. Love became contractual. Partnership became property. And somewhere between devotion and dogma, we lost the art of relating and replaced it with the theology of permanence. Fast-forward a few thousand years, and modern relationships now love to call divorce breaking the cycle. Maybe. Sometimes.

But what if the rise in divorce rates isn’t proof of collective awakening—what if it’s evidence of collapse? We’re not just leaving bad marriages. We’re leaving the muscle memory of endurance. We’ve become weak—weak in communication, weak in self-reflection, weak in the art of staying when it’s time to grow instead of run. We’ve mistaken protecting our peace for avoiding discomfort. We’ve confused self-preservation with spiritual progress.

The Myth of the Cycle Breaker

The internet loves a redemption arc. Every woman who leaves a man is breaking a generational curse. Every man who goes to therapy once is ending toxic cycles.

But breaking the cycle isn’t about leaving—it’s about learning. It’s not about walking away from pain; it’s about metabolizing it differently. Otherwise, you’re just changing partners while keeping the same pattern. Breaking the cycle isn’t about leaving—it’s about learning.

My Lineage of Leaving

The records of my parents’ divorce are redacted—just a line of black ink where answers should be. All I’ve pieced together is that my father drank, and my mother—raised in a Southern holiness cult of thou shalt not sin—didn’t have the tools to meet addiction with compassion or boundaries. They didn’t know how to heal together, only how to hide separately. That was my blueprint. 

In my first marriage, we were both toxic. Alcohol ran through our veins during pivotal moments, and neither of us were in our right minds to take sensible action or review our own dysfunction. It was a recipe of two unhealed humans colliding.

My second marriage started out the same way. But about midway through, I made a shift. I altered my personality. Where I was once drugged and complicit, my newly sober self began standing up in repeatedly derogatory situations. I wasn’t running—I was dismantling the disassociated characters of mine that had previously run the show. A new sheriff was in town, and her authority was presence. I wasn’t running—I was dismantling disassociated characters of mine that had previously run the show.

My first divorce came with a restraining order. The court didn’t care about nuance—just about evidence. There was physical abuse, and that was enough. That separation was survival. Cycle-breaking, yes—but through fire. The kind that burns everything, not just the pattern.

My second divorce was different. No violence. No villain. Just paperwork stamped irreconcilable differences. A tidy euphemism for emotional surrender. Change was required; neither of us delivered. That one could have been healing. But two must play that game. Change was required; neither of us delivered.

The Addiction to Starting Over

We call it freedom. But often, it’s avoidance wearing a halo. The dopamine of a clean slate feels holy when you’re drowning in dysfunction. But when every new chapter starts with escape, what you’re building isn’t evolution—it’s amnesia. We’ve become addicted to the reset. Delete the texts. Start the healing playlist. Buy a new journal. Post the phoenix emoji. We don’t process—we perform. We don’t integrate—we intellectualize. We don’t rebuild—we rebrand. When every new chapter starts with escape, what you’re building isn’t evolution—it’s amnesia.

Healing Requires Witness

Staying isn’t always safety. Leaving isn’t always bravery. But neither means much without introspection. Healing doesn’t happen in isolation—it happens in reflection. Someone must mirror you back to yourself. And often, that mirror is the relationship you’re trying to escape. The real work begins when the honeymoon dies— when the triggers arrive, when old wounds whisper under new skin. That’s when you decide whether you’re a cycle breaker or just another runner.

Why Divorce Still Matters

I’m not anti-divorce. Sometimes it’s the only sane option left. But I am anti-delusion— the delusion that separation alone equals healing, that leaving a broken system without learning from it makes you free. It doesn’t. It makes you unintegrated. The true cycle breaker doesn’t run from pain; they integrate it. They become fluent in their triggers. They turn conflict into curriculum. They alchemize endings into initiation. The true cycle breaker doesn’t run from pain; they integrate it.

The New Definition of Strength

Strength isn’t staying no matter what. Strength is staying long enough to understand why you want to leave— and then deciding with consciousness, not reaction. Perseverance isn’t punishment. It’s participation. It’s holding reverence for the parts of someone that first cracked your heart open, even as you close the door for the last time. To truly break a cycle, you must bless what built it.

Leaving Last

I’ve been the runner. I’ve been the survivor. And now I’m the student—learning that healing doesn’t always mean walking away. Sometimes it means standing still long enough to watch the shadow move through you—and not bolt. Maybe the real revolution isn’t leaving fast—it’s staying awake. Maybe the next evolution of love isn’t about choosing the right partner—it’s about becoming one. Not the fantasy version, but the regulated one. The honest one. The one who doesn’t need constant rescuing from their own emotions. Partnership is a mirror, not a medal. It’s not there to validate you—it’s there to reveal you. And every time you shatter that mirror before seeing your reflection clearly, you lose another chance to integrate the parts of yourself still begging to be loved. Love isn’t supposed to be easy—it’s supposed to be alchemical. It melts the ego. It exposes the projection. It demands humility and inner architecture. When we mistake friction for failure, we interrupt the very process designed to evolve us. Maybe divorce is sometimes cycle-breaking. But sometimes, it’s just another unfinished lesson wearing designer closure. Growth doesn’t happen when you start over— it happens when you stay present with what the pattern tried to teach you. To be a true cycle breaker is to look at the wreckage of your lineage and say: I will not repeat this—but I will understand it. That’s the difference between rebellion and evolution. So no, I’m not anti-divorce. I’m pro-consciousness. I’m pro-clarity. I’m pro staying long enough to know if it’s truth pulling you apart—or trauma. The revolution isn’t in leaving first. It’s in leaving last— after you’ve met every version of yourself that showed up to the battlefield. Then, you can finally walk away— not as the victim of your story, but as the author of its ending.