There’s a moment in every major transition when you realize you’ve already left—mentally, emotionally, and spiritually—even if you’re still physically there. That’s exactly where I am with Georgia.

I’ve been decluttering my life, both literally and figuratively. The house is almost empty, the last 10% of my stuff lingering like a ghost of a life I no longer want. But I don’t even care enough to sell it. Christmas decorations? Leaving them for the next tenant. Extra clothes and shoes? Donating. Random household things? Just leaving them behind. I’m already gone.

The logistics—renting out the house, selling my Escalade—are just technicalities at this point. My handyman will finish the last of the repairs within the next three months, and then I’m out. I’m going. I’m finally living the life I was meant to live.

Seeing Mark yesterday was a gift. Not because I wanted to see him—not really—but because it gave me absolute, undeniable closure.

There was no longing, no sadness, no regret. I saw his life for what it is: empty. He works. He comes home. He eats. He watches TV. He watches porn. That’s it. No family, no friends, no passion, no adventure. Just a monotonous loop of work and escapism.

And when I told him I was leaving for Latin America, suddenly he didn’t want to be my friend anymore.

For months, he insisted on friendship. He wanted to “coexist” in each other’s lives. He wanted a safe emotional cushion, a way to transition out of our marriage without actually feeling the weight of his loss. He wanted to ensure he was the one in control, the one doing the leaving.

But the moment he realized that I was actually moving on—that I was no longer tethered to him, no longer in pain, no longer his safety net—he flipped the script.

Now, suddenly, he’s the one rejecting me. It’s so transparent, so predictable. Mark can’t handle the idea that I might be “winning” the divorce. He needs to frame it as his decision, his control, his narrative. But the truth is simple:

I was always going to leave.

I was always going to move forward, to build a life of freedom, adventure, and love. And he was always going to stay exactly where he is, stuck in his routine, choosing pornography over real connection, choosing stagnation over growth, choosing an empty life over a full one.

Mark misses the family life, he told me. And I believe him. He misses the warmth, the love, the meaning that comes with being part of something bigger than himself. But he was never willing to show up for it. He was never willing to do the work to keep it.

And after seeing what he chose instead—a lonely, porn-fueled, isolated existence—I don’t feel sad for myself. I feel sad for him.

I’m done waiting for Mark to become someone he will never be. I see him clearly now, and what I see is ridiculous. A man who let go of a life of love, purpose, and family because he was too afraid to face himself.

I’ve mentally detached from this house, from this city, from this old version of myself. In three months, I’ll be physically gone too.

I’m moving on to a life of adventure, of meaningful experiences, of deep connections. A life where I wake up every morning excited for what’s ahead. A life where I’m fully alive.

Mark? He’ll continue his predictable, empty existence. He can reframe things however he wants, but he knows the truth:

He lost something real. I did not.