3 Things My Divorce Taught Me About Co-Dependency

What do you even call a divorce anniversary? There really should be a name for it. People don’t typically celebrate these things—and I’m certainly not planning to—but the date is coming up. Two years. And as much as I don’t want to honor it, I can’t ignore it either. It carries weight. It marks something. It asks to be noticed.

I’m supposed to be working on my third book right now (and no, it’s not about divorce). So it feels a bit like I’m cheating on my manuscript every time I sit down and this is what flows out instead. But I’ve learned not to fight what wants to be written. I don’t always choose what pours out of me when I open my laptop—unless there’s a looming deadline. Writing writes me. I don’t write it. And the beautiful thing about that? My therapy—my healing—tends to become someone else’s too. That makes the detour worth it.

So here I am, sitting with this fast-approaching date. Like most anniversaries, it’s brought with it a flood of reflection. Have I grown? What have I actually learned? Am I repeating old patterns? The vulnerable answer: sometimes.

I talk a lot about co-dependency and complex shame—professionally and personally. They’re more than just topics I explore; they’ve been my lived experience. I’ve studied them, named them, and helped others walk through them. But nothing teaches you quite like your own heartbreak.

As I navigate a new relationship, I find myself bumping up against the same old places—those familiar inner tugs. I catch myself spiraling and analyzing and dissecting every feeling, every silence, every shift in tone. That’s the hazard of doing this work for a living: you can’t always turn it off. But if I’ve learned anything in the last two years, it’s this—I can grow. I have grown. And I’m learning to hold my wisdom with gentleness, not perfectionism.

My relationship with my ex-husband started when I was just 18—long before I understood anything about co-dependency or had even coined the term “complex shame.” There were mistakes on both sides, and I’ve made peace with that. But now, in this next chapter, I’m doing my best to show up differently. Not perfectly—just differently.

If you’ve ever stepped into a new relationship after coming out of a dysfunctional one, you know the overwhelming desire to “get it right.” You want to bring all your therapy and books and hard-earned clarity to the table and say, “See? I’ve done the work.” But real-life love isn’t a laboratory. It’s messy and human and beautiful—and we all show up with history (can we retire the word baggage?).

So as I sit with this two-year milestone, I want to share three truths divorce has taught me about co-dependency. These are lessons I’m still practicing—because healing isn’t a one-time thing. It’s a daily walk. And if you’re walking it too, I hope this encourages you.

1. I Have to Self-Regulate Before I Co-Regulate

I didn’t realize it at the time, but early in my marriage—even in our most tumultuous seasons—I constantly sought co-regulation. If my husband was calm, I could breathe. If he reassured me, I could relax. When he didn’t (which became more and more common), I spiraled. And back then, I didn’t know how to self-regulate. So I’d either let the anxiety burn itself out—leaving me emotionally scorched—or I’d keep pressing for some external reassurance until I could settle.

This is what co-dependency looks like on the ground: when your internal stability depends entirely on someone else’s emotional state.
Now, I’m learning a new way. In my current relationship, I make a conscious effort not to seek co-regulation until I’ve done the work to regulate myself. Co-regulation is a beautiful, necessary part of a healthy, interdependent relationship—but only after you’ve done your part. The danger comes when we skip that first step and make someone else responsible for our calm.

So what does self-regulation actually look like?

Here’s how I practice it:

• I name the feeling. (No vague “I’m off.” I get specific. What am I feeling?)
• I give myself grace for feeling it. No shame allowed.
• I move my body—walk, stretch, dance, cry.
• I write it out. The messy truth.
• I separate what’s present from what’s a past trigger.
• I remind myself: I cannot change the past, but I can stop reliving it.
• I say to myself: “I am not too much. I’m not too sensitive. My feelings matter.”
• Once I’ve found my footing, I speak my truth— most often to my partner, sometimes to a trusted friend—and allow space for healthy co-regulation.

This is how we stop outsourcing our emotional survival. This is how we heal.

2. Alone is Not the Same as Lonely

I knew divorce would mean the end of my built-in “plus one.” My children will grow up and eventually leave home, and I’ll be—just me. I feared that in a deep, primal way. Maybe because I married at 19 and had never really lived alone. And if you’ve never been alone, it’s easy to believe that being alone is dangerous. Society tells us as much every day: Alone equals failure. Alone equals emptiness.

But that’s a lie.

Today, I’m sitting in my backyard on a lounge chair, listening to the waterfall I recently figured out how to turn up myself (a small triumph, but a triumphant one). I am alone, and it is lovely. Sometimes it’s even marvelous. Not always, but more often than I expected. And when it’s not lovely or marvelous, it’s still peaceful.

Being alone and feeling lonely are two very different things. I rarely feel lonely anymore. I have my thoughts, my journal, my breath. I have friends who are just a phone call away. And most importantly—I have me.

I’ve learned that when you’re rooted in your own presence, solitude becomes sacred. And when you’ve spent years abandoning yourself to care for others, reclaiming your own company can feel revolutionary.

So if you’re afraid of being alone, I want you to know: it’s not as scary as it seems. And you are stronger than your loneliness.

3. Boundaries Give Me Freedom

Let’s talk about boundaries.

If you struggle with co-dependency and shame, then boundaries probably feel like a foreign language. Or worse—like betrayal. When you’ve spent your life keeping the peace and tending to everyone else’s emotions, the idea of saying no, or I can’t, or this doesn’t work for me feels dangerous. You worry: What if they leave? What if they think I’m too much? What if I’m just being difficult?

These are the shame scripts that play in the background for many of us. They’re sneaky, and they’re powerful.

But here’s the truth: boundaries aren’t rejection. They’re protection. They’re not walls; they’re doors with handles—handles you control. And they don’t push people away. They invite the right people in.

When I started creating boundaries in my marriage, it was the beginning of the end. And it needed to be. Because a relationship that only works when you betray yourself to maintain it—isn’t actually working.

Since then, I haven’t stopped setting boundaries. It’s been messy. It’s been hard. But it’s also been the most freeing thing I’ve ever done. Boundaries gave me back me. They allowed me to show up fully, without shapeshifting or shrinking to keep the peace.

The best part? When someone loves you within the boundaries you’ve set, you can trust that they are loving the real you. Not the version of you you’ve edited to be palatable or pleasing—but the true, whole, untamed version of you.

That is freedom. That is healing. And that is what you deserve.

These past two years have stretched me. Broken me. Healed me. And they’ve taught me this: I don’t have to lose myself in love. I don’t have to be afraid of being alone. I don’t have to silence myself to keep the peace.

If you’re walking through the rubble of a relationship, or stepping into a new one with shaky legs and a hopeful heart—know that you’re not alone.

You’re not broken. And you’re not too much.
You’re learning how to live from the inside out. And that, my friend, is everything.

You’ve got this!

Dr. Zoe

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