I’ve often felt like I’ve lived three lives in this one.
Today what would have been my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary brings back memories
At times, I feel three hundred years old — tired, so, so tired — from all the ups and downs, the endless lessons this life keeps teaching me.
My first life seems so long ago. I was born on another continent, in a country that no longer exists. As an only child, I was spoiled by my parents and grandparents. I had everything a child could wish for.
I loved going to school, spending time with friends, and dreaming big. Still, I often felt lonely — I wished for a sibling, someone to share secrets with. To fill the quiet, I’d create imaginary worlds in my head, inventing stories and writing them down.
Then, when I was fourteen / fifteen, my country exploded — quite literally. What had once been a single nation suddenly fractured. Former states wanted to be independent countries, free from the communist regime. And just like that, all hell broke loose.
I won’t depress you with the details of that time — if you want to know more, you can read or listen to my book Remember Me.
Life Two: The Love That Built — and Broke — Me
My second life began twenty-five years ago today, October 7th of 2000. I was twenty-three, getting married to the love of my life. I was happy — truly happy — even though nightmares from my first life still visited me every night.
We met a year before. I was rushing out of work one day when I heard a quiet voice behind me:
“Are you from Europe?”
I was wearing a black coat, my hair cut in a long black bob — I was in my goth era. I was in a hurry to go home and finish homework. I had just started a credit program at Truman College after several years of ESL. Between school and a full-time job, there wasn’t much time for romance.
“Yes, why?” I asked, slightly irritated.
He hesitated. “Uh, you look English.”
“But I’m not,” I mumbled. “Europe is not just England, you know.”
“Oh, yeah? So where are you from?”
“You wouldn’t know even if I told you,” I said, rolling my eyes. He had no accent — just a Chicago boy with blond hair, blue eyes, and an easy grin.
“Try me,” he said.
“Yugoslavia,” I answered, quietly, certain he’d have no clue where that was.
“Huh!” he exclaimed. “Me too!”
“Yeah, right.” I rolled my eyes again and headed for the door.
“No, really,” he said, jumping in front of me, pointing to his name tag.
“Jurich,” it read.
“Yurich,” I whispered, pronouncing it in perfect Croatian.
“See? Told you we’re from the same country,” he said, grinning ear to ear.
The next time I saw him, I greeted him with a cheerful “Dobar dan.”
He looked puzzled — had no idea what it meant. And in that moment, I knew he wasn’t really “from my country.”
Later, he explained his ancestors — on his father’s side — had come to America in 1902. Each generation had one son, so the last name lived on. He was born and raised in Chicago, proudly calling himself “a mutt.”
I loved him. I loved everything about him.
Within a year, we were married.
Two kids and twenty years later, we divorced.
My entire adult life had been spent with this man. He filled every empty space in my heart — the sibling I never had, my best friend, my confidant, my therapist. He held me through the nightmares. For twenty years, he was my world. Together, we built our little empire.
While he started his own business, I got laid off and became a stay-at-home mom. I was happy — with my two beautiful boys and a husband I adored. I thanked God every day for that little world we built.
But life has a way of shifting beneath your feet.
He developed an addiction — a disease he couldn’t shake. We tried. I tried. But I couldn’t save him, and he didn’t want to be saved.
Addiction took everything. Every possession, every piece of peace.
When life was done chewing me up, it spit me out — broken, alone, with two young boys depending on me to save them.
They were my reason to break free.
The divorce dragged on for over a year, and by the time it was final, I was left standing in the ruins of what once was us. — and $25,000 in debt from legal fees.
Starting from scratch, I found a job close to home so I could be there for my kids. The first offer that came, I took it. Minimum wage. I thought I’d move up quickly, but finding a better job means taking time off to interview — time I couldn’t afford. Two years later, I was still making that same amount of money, so I got myself second job. Working two jobs, never being home with my sons.
Life, it seemed, had it out for me.
Life Three: The Now
And that brings me to life number three — the now.
No husband. My sons are grown, working, and paying their own way through college. I started a new career — the best gig I’ve ever had — but sometimes I wonder if I’m too old for new beginnings. Still, I’m surrounded by kind people who are willing to help, and that makes the journey a little easier.
I feel three hundred years old, and yet, the world still rests on my shoulders. I am exhausted.
I’m still learning to live without him. Still learning how to let my sons go. Still learning how to trust life again.
But I’m here. I’m still standing. And I’m still learning.
Today what would have been my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary brings back memories — the good ones, the kind that hurt a little more than the bad ones do. Because when something was once beautiful, its absence aches in a special way.
The other day, a friend who’s contemplating divorce asked if I had any advice.
“No,” I said. “I have no right to give advice to anyone. The only person I have a right to advise is my younger self.”
And if I could go back, I would still marry the same man. Because that marriage gave me the two greatest gifts of my life — my sons.
The only difference?
I probably wouldn’t get married legally. I’d just live in sin.
(But don’t tell my parents I said that, haha.)
Because then, maybe, I wouldn’t have ended up $25,000 in debt.
What Hurt the Most
Of all the pain life has thrown my way — the war, the years as a refugee, the loneliness of starting over in a foreign country, being bullied for my accent until I learned to stay quiet — nothing, nothing cut as deep as the betrayal of my husband. No pain comes close. And believe me, I know pain. His betrayal shattered me in a way that no bomb, no border, no cruel word ever could. Because this wasn’t a war outside of me — it was a war inside my home, inside my heart.
But here’s the part I want you to remember: even after all that, I’m still here. I still laugh. I still love. I still believe that life, despite all its heartbreak, can be beautiful again. Every scar I carry reminds me that I survived. Every tear I’ve shed watered something inside me that now blooms quietly — strength, compassion, peace.
So if you’re reading this and you’re in the middle of your own storm, please know this: one day, you’ll breathe again. You’ll laugh again. You’ll wake up and realize that the pain that once threatened to destroy you has become the very reason you stand taller.
Because even after three lives and three hundred years of lessons, I’m still learning that the heart — no matter how many times it breaks — never stops trying to love again.
With all my love,
Sanela
Author Sanela Ramic Jurich