I Got Divorced & Lost Everything — Then I Rebuilt My Life, One Thrift Haul at a Time

In After the Split: Apartment Therapy’s Divorce Issue, we’re spotlighting stories that explore what life at home after divorce can look like, whether it’s reclaiming your space or beginning again somewhere new. Read along here.

In March 2020, I was sitting cross-legged on the white shag carpet in my childhood bedroom in New York City making phone calls to various divorce lawyers after scouring my alma mater Facebook group for referrals. I had grown up dreaming of my future life and home right in this very spot, but, suffice to say, things were not going according to plan. I knew what lay ahead as soon as I filed for divorce was one big mess — I’d lose friends, personal items, our dog. I was imagining a new life and home all over again, but this time it felt especially difficult. I had to replace every meaningful thing I owned, from sheets to clothes to tchotchkes.

A few months after filing for divorce, I walked into the apartment I formerly shared with my ex in Allston, Massachusetts, for the last time. Our lease was ending and, although neither of us had lived in the home for several months, it was time to officially move out. 

The leaves were changing outside; one of my favorite times of year. I was also shedding in my own way — a layer of a life lived together over four years. As I opened the apartment door, I saw most of my things were gone — thrifted clothes, antique jewelry, specially gifted bags, books I’d lugged from apartment to apartment, furniture salvaged from thrift stores and Facebook Marketplace — and what was left of my curated and well-loved items were strewn all over the ground. 

I didn’t have time to prepare for this type of loss. I didn’t expect so much to be gone. When I left, I took what clothing could fit into my suitcase and a stack of books, and left behind some valuable and priceless items, like my wedding rings, a picture my dad gifted me on my 21st birthday, and a locket from my late grandfather. I couldn’t have imagined our old home would look like this, and yet I knew that this marked a turning point for me: There was no coming back from the end of our relationship. All I could do was pack up the few things that were left: that aforementioned picture my dad gave me, a first edition of Brideshead Revisited (now with a torn cover), and a purple puffer vest.

I spent the afternoon cleaning. When I was done, I sat out on our first-floor patio and had takeout sushi. When I lived here, I didn’t sit in the spot — under a red, semi-naked tree — often enough. I called my mom and talked to her about the space I was leaving, what I lost, and what I’d miss: the screened-in “porch” that let me see all over Allston and beyond; the bookshelves and art I loved, including a thrifted Japanese robot postcard; the luxurious-feeling bathtub and the rustic barn doors of the bedroom; the small trinkets, like the mortar and pestle we got as a wedding gift and my favorite, since discontinued, candle that I’ve never been able to find elsewhere.

I slept at the apartment on just a top sheet for a few nights. It was the only bedding that had been left behind. I wanted to spend just a little bit more time in our shared home. I do think that no matter how things felt between me and my ex-wife in the moment, we’d shared something beautiful — and I was so sad that it had ended so messily. 

Five months after clearing out my old place, I moved into a new shared home in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts. I hadn’t had roommates since college, but I craved the company now. The home was big, and my room felt huge compared to the snug one-bedroom I had moved out of. I felt lucky that I had a few books and items of clothing to unpack, but that was it. I had to completely start over.  

But I was ready. Even before I officially moved in, I started imagining my new space. On my first day off from work, I sprinted to my favorite Goodwill in the city. The person who lived in my room before me had left a few of her belongings behind (a bookcase, desk, bed frame, and mattress), so I was excited to build on them. 

Recently, Facebook Memories reminded me of that first sweet space I moved into post-divorce. I saw the little pieces of artwork I picked up from a local bookstore and thrifted, the textile I put over the left-behind bookshelf, the cozy rug, and the soft pillow. I ordered my bedding from Target, but for the most part I tried to score my new items secondhand.

I knew that thrifting would be a way I could once again step inside of myself, holding tight to the parts of me that felt like they had gotten lost in the shuffle of places, people, and things. It was super easy to find bright pieces that would fill my space with the joy and color I needed. I focused on smaller trinkets — like a dish to hold rings on my bedside table, a colorful tote that doubled as wall art, a chair that fit perfectly at my desk by the window. 

My favorite purchase during this time in my life was a blue lamp with a white shade. There was nothing outwardly special about it, but it felt so much like me, so much like home, that Today Haley wishes she had held onto it.

Eventually, I moved out of that space and into something new. I added more chapters to my story, and my divorce faded into the background of a rich life. I still struggled and had hard relationships, but I kept thrifting. Whenever I needed a moment to catch my breath, take my mind off of something, or simply smile, I found myself at a thrift store.

I now live in a home in Rhode Island with my partner. We have filled our space with thrifted items. My favorites are the ones that hold space for both of our things, like a tchotchke shelf I picked up at a Goodwill in Boston, a coffee table with a glass top that displays our more delicate finds (seashells from trips to the beach, vintage books and matchbooks) from Facebook Marketplace, a large photograph of a mountainscape found spontaneously at the thrift shop and held onto until we found a place for it in our kitchen. 

I will never be the girl I was in my marriage. It was scary and oftentimes disorienting. But I will be a girl who built herself back up. Each trip to thrift was a way for me to figure out exactly who I was without someone else. Each item I brought home and placed was a way for me to distinguish my style. 

As the tattoo on my wrist reads, “go,” I hope to never stop collecting. I hope to always find comfort in the stuff in my space, and that in this next chapter I continue to build my confidence — one tchotchke, one trinket, one forgotten ex at a time.