If you look on social media, it's all love stories and no divorce. But that's not life

I have not deleted every picture of us. And that is fine. Divorce means that a relationship has ended, not that it has been erased.

I sometimes feel awkward about the pictures, memories, and poetic birthday posts that I shared online for years. Every time I think about changing my last name, rocks fill the bottom of my belly. In pre-marital counseling, I was discouraged from using a hyphen. I was 18 and desperately wanted to be a good Christian and submissive wife. Now my passport, degrees, social security card, children, and even this writing all possess a name that feels more like an artifact. Its presence serves as a fact of my past life.

My last relationship, like many, ended more quietly than it began. Many of our friends watched two good people get married, start a family, move to three different cities, start and finish school, and so much more. We didn’t tell anyone for almost a year because we were afraid of what people might think. My main focus at the time was not flunking law school or failing the bar exam because of all the emotional stress. When it ended, people demanded the “what happened” story. “See girl,” a dear friend told me, “this is why I don’t post anything about my relationships online.” Once your relationship has an online audience, that has consequences.

I understand that. Curating a seemingly seamless life online invites in friends, family, and strangers to create a stake in the outcome of the relationship. After breakups, I have seen people delete their entire social media presence, reemerging later as a phoenix rising from the virtual ashes.

But underneath the surface, I also sense a deep fear and caution against sharing publicly about a relationship that may not last forever. So many of my friends and family, including myself at one point, use longevity to measure a relationship’s success. Our religions, traditions, and culture all reinforce this idea. As children, we were told “happily ever after” love stories. As teens, we prepared “promposals.” And as adults, we now watch HGTV shows about finding our Forever Home.

I experienced the embarrassment and shame off and online. Nobody told me what to do about the physical remains - the art, pictures, and former in-laws that I still loved. Sharing the news was hard enough, and explaining it individually was a new, special pain. Because I kept the details private, I was often blamed for being too curious and too ambitious. After a therapy session, I decided to publish a short paragraph about the separation. I was surprised by how many messages and calls I received from friends and strangers who were separated or divorcing. They shared their stories and felt some relief. Some of them wanted to escape abusive relationships; others had fallen in love with other people. One couple knew they would be better parents if they were not in a relationship with each other.

What I learned from those conversations is this: we deserve to be free from the pressures of an everlasting love. Short lived relationships can make us more beautiful and long-term relationships can turn us ugly. Neither length should be romanticized. Both should be critically entered. A law school friend told me that on her wedding day, her dad said, “This may be your only marriage, or your first marriage. Give yourself room to love yourself and figure it out as you grow in life.”

I wished I had similar advice.

When I told my family about the divorce, I heard desires for “forever” that were not bound in romance, but rather in critiques of society. When my mother said, “it’s hard being a single mother,” I heard, “Single motherhood is a proxy for poverty and Black women are stigmatized.” When my grandmother and aunts explained, “it’s hard finding a good man,” I heard, “Patriarchy does not require men to equally parent their own children,” and “Black men your age are being locked up and killed at high rates, so finding a partner will be difficult.” So much is at stake for black marriages and preserving families because for centuries, we have fought to maintain our families under conditions of oppression: capitalism, patriarchy, racism, slavery, Jim Crow, violence from neighbors and police, inequality, and preventable premature death.

In a more just society, people would not have to stay married or in long term relationships for status, fear of loneliness, income, shelter, tax breaks, children, and health insurance. They could actually afford to just be in love.

Even though I am happy, I still have much to learn and struggle through as a co-parent, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and lover. In all of those roles, I do not simply wish for longevity; I wish to be made more beautiful, more caring, and more free, and pray that I can do the same for others. And if I am in a romantic relationship, and happy, and I want to say something about it online, I will. Plus, Instagram now has stories that only last for 24 hours.

• Derecka Purnell is a social movement lawyer and writer based in Washington, DC