My Triumphant Return
Hello friends, Brooke Standifer is back after nearly a decade and boy howdy does it feel good to be back!
Let me give you some insight into how I got here and what inspired my triumphant return. This story starts a long time ago but my life really started to implode between 2018 and 2019 when my dad died, my marriage ended, I lost my job, and I lost myself. But what doesn’t kill you makes you… oh yeah, and then there was a global pandemic.
As each major life event and the torrent of change swept over me, I felt an erosion of self that left me raw and vulnerable, but open in a way that allowed me to think critically, reflect, and learn. It took me several years to make meaningful progress on what I now call “my triumphant return” but I am finally starting to feel more like myself again.
When I was in the thick of it, I told myself to just keep moving forward. That seemed like the only way to survive. I thought I could work through the grief of losing my father, but I understand now that grief is circular and something you have to embrace and learn to live with and appreciate. I missed my dad even more as my marriage unraveled and it felt like every important male relationship in my life was being taken from me.
Going through a divorce is horrible, I don’t recommend it. Well, I definitely recommend it if you’re in an unhappy marriage, but it still sucks. I thought the dust would settle on the divorce within 12-18 months and we’d all be able to move forward into better, happier lives. I was wrong. It all took a lot longer than I thought it would. As it turns out, I was wrong about a lot of things.
I learned that, when you have children with someone, “‘til death do us part” holds true long after irreconcilable differences cause the irremediable breakdown of the marriage. I also learned that the communication challenges that plagued our marriage would continue to haunt us as we struggled to successfully balance co-parenting through a global pandemic, disruptive climate-related weather events, and other crises neither of us could have anticipated. It’s been almost three years since we separated and co-parenting has gotten easier; we’ve found a rhythm and have even begun to communicate more effectively.
I’ve rebuilt my life over the past few years the way I always thought it could be. I’ve been working for a mission-driven B-Corporation with some of the most passionate people I’ve ever met; I made sacrifices and rented a small place and saved up enough to buy a duplex in the South Hills, the first step in a long-term plan to build a real-estate empire and house the middle-class. I’ve built a community around me and the kids, amidst a global pandemic. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I emerged stronger and more resilient.
By April of 2021, my triumphant return was nearly complete. The final piece was my name, my actual identity. I was no longer Brooke Mittermann and I was tired of seeing, saying, spelling, and signing a name that wasn’t mine. It was his name. He’d kept the house, the bank accounts, our Amazon Prime account and credit card, all of our media subscriptions, and our primary vehicle. Everything in my life changed all at once and it felt like if I also changed my name I might simply disappear.
I told myself that keeping his name wasn’t a big deal; I’d been Brooke Mittermann for almost a decade. I told myself that it would be easier for the kids, somehow, if my last name was the same as theirs. I told myself that I’d find love again; that I’d get married again when I was forty (more happily this time), and change my name then. Forty would mark five years post-divorce; something about five years felt significant. I told myself a lot of things. It’s the stories we tell ourselves that allow us to keep moving forward, or pull us into the depths of despair. I chose to move forward, but there was a lot of darkness and sadness in there too. I used to think of it as an oscillating sine wave with peaks of joy and valleys of complete and utter despair, but the general trend was positive.
I turned 37 in April, and although I hadn’t found a partner, I had collected a loving and supportive group of wonderful human beings, friends, to share my life with. Now that I could see 40 on the horizon, I realized that I didn’t need to get married again to change my name. In fact, I didn’t need to get married again at all. I was happily divorced, with a good job, a beautiful home, and two wonderful children. I was emotionally and financially stable. I didn’t need a husband, and although I still wanted a partner to share my life with, I was okay on my own.
I did a Google search, filled out a few forms, and went down to the courthouse with a check. Two weeks later, I got a court certified document addressed to “Brooke Standifer.” That single piece of mail was more powerful and more meaningful than the seemingly endless pages detailing the terms of our messy divorce that I’d spent countless hours reviewing, editing, and ultimately signing. The divorce marked the brutal end of something tragic but returning to my maiden name—a strong name that was my family name, my father’s name (a nod to Guy Standifer); the final step in my triumphant return—marks the beginning of something powerful and beautiful: my triumphant return… to me.
I’m back.
