'My marriage was perfectly fine, but there was one thing I just couldn't ignore.'

The lighthouse beam sweeps across my windshield, matching the rhythm of waves crashing below. I've chosen this spot carefully — 90 minutes from home, location services disabled on my phone, cash withdrawn so my credit cards won't give me away. My husband thinks I'm at a conference in another city.

At 44, I've become the kind of woman who runs away from her own life.

From the outside, my marriage looked perfect. Twenty years, two teenage sons, a successful career, a beautiful home, regular adventures travelling the world. I'd ticked all the 'good girl' boxes: loving wife, devoted mother, high achiever. But underneath that carefully curated facade, I was drowning.

Watch: Not sure how to navigate your divorce? Here are some ideas. Post continues below.

Every day had become an exercise in emotional acrobatics. Would this be a moment of tenderness or tension? Would my request for time alone be met with understanding or accusations? My shoulders lived in a permanent guard position, a knot sat constantly in my chest, my body keeping score of every compromise, every swallowed truth.

I knew if I'd asked for space, there would have been days of arguments about how selfish I was being, accusations about my ingratitude, and silent treatment until I relented. The fact that I — someone who had never lied or snuck around — felt safer running away than asking for what I needed was the wake-up call I couldn't ignore.

When I returned home, I told my husband the truth about where I'd been. He was hurt and angry, but the shock of realising I'd become someone who needed to lie to find peace shook us both.

When I suggested divorce, he asked me to try again. We spent three years trying to make it work, but the same challenges kept resurfacing, only worse.

Finally, three years later, we both agreed it was time.

Here's what nobody tells you about leaving a 'perfectly fine' marriage: it's not about hating your partner or not loving them anymore. Sometimes, it's about finally loving yourself enough to stop pretending.

We made an unconventional decision. We both continued living in our family home — me in an apartment at the back — alternating weeks caring for our sons. This meant their lives didn't have to change overnight, and we could all adjust gradually. Most importantly, it gave us space to stop pretending and start healing.

We were clear with family and friends: while we would no longer be husband and wife, we were still a family. Our north star throughout the divorce was simple: Would this choice make it easier or harder to joyfully share a meal together with our kids in the future?

Now, at 51, my life looks nothing like I imagined — and everything like I needed.

I'm proudly grey, openly queer, and happily single. But the biggest change?

Freedom.

A year after our divorce was finalised, I still get a thrill from being able to get in my car — with no one yelling about me taking it — and drive wherever I want, for as long as I want, without being in trouble when I get home.

Most Sunday nights, we alternate between my ex-husband's home or mine for pizza and cards with our boys. His new partner and her daughters are always invited. Our family looks different now, but the care and love remain.

People often ask how we managed to stay a family while ending our marriage. The answer is simple: we had a shared goal for what we wanted our new lives to look like. While there were days I was desperately ready for the divorce to be done, taking it slowly gave everyone space to adapt and heal.

Have I questioned my choice? Of course. The voice of doubt has sometimes whispered, 'Couldn't you have just put up with it for the boys?' But then I ask myself, 'What lesson would I have been teaching them about love?' That it's okay to stay in relationships where you feel unseen, unappreciated, unable to be yourself? I want my sons to grow up knowing they never have to settle for being anything less than being loved for who they truly are.

Breaking free from my 'good girl' conditioning didn't mean becoming 'bad' — it meant becoming real. It meant learning that love never requires self-abandonment. That being 'good' at the cost of being yourself isn't actually good at all.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is stop trying to be everything to everyone else and start being true to yourself.

Yes, it's terrifying. Yes, it's hard. But on the other side of that fear? That's where you finally find yourself.

Dr. Michelle McQuaid is a wellbeing researcher and author of The Perfectly Imperfect Little Girl, and The Perfectly Imperfect Women's Journal. For more, click here.

Feature image: Supplied.