The Art of the Collaborative Divorce

When respect, effort, and a shared goal are enough to rewrite the ending

Can you have a collaborative divorce?

It seems it’s possible—because I’ve done it. (At least so far)

My mother had a history of chaotic divorces: long, expensive, and emotionally brutal. My ex-husband grew up watching a father who failed to do right by his family in just about every way. So even before we got married, we had a conversation: if this ever ends, let’s promise to do it differently. And remarkably, we meant it.

In many ways, I’m lucky. Collaboration only works if both people are willing. Some divorces come from betrayals so deep—infidelity, abuse, manipulation—that working together isn’t safe or possible. Ours didn’t involve any of that. There were disappointments. Resentments. A sense of drifting apart. But no truly dark blowups. No cheating. No completely unforgivable moments.

So when the decision was made, and the hardest conversations had been had, we stepped into a new kind of relationship: one rooted in a goal for mutual respect, shared responsibility, and the quiet agreement to just be decent.

We split everything equally: bills, debts, we paid it all off. Whatever was left over, shared down the middle. We divided our belongings with a fairness I still find surprising. He kept the car, and we split its value. I stayed in the house—he knew I needed the stability, and it helped him lower his own costs. He took his kitchen gear and his record player. I kept the art I’d spent years collecting. We even sat down and divided our liquor collection. He got the fancy Armagnacs. I prefer cocktails anyway.

The property we co-own became something we’ll manage together for our son’s future. Same with business interests—whatever financial value was at play, we put most of it in our son's name and divided the rest equally.

Yes, there were some tense moments. A small fight over a KitchenAid mixer, a brief dip into trying to compare the value of watches and jewelry. But we pulled ourselves back each time, reminding ourselves of the goal: to create two decent lives, not burn one down for the sake of the other.

We both agreed on 50/50 custody. We tested weekly and biweekly switches. We now do two weeks on, two weeks off—not perfect, but it works. We coordinate. We communicate. We help each other. He drops me at the airport when he can. I let him park his car in my spot. When it’s not a huge inconvenience, we make life easier for each other. Because why wouldn’t we?

We do this not just for ourselves but for our son. We check in on rules, behavior, habits. We care about continuity. We care about protecting who he is and who he’s becoming. One of the rules I hold firm: I never speak badly about my ex to our son. Ever. That doesn’t mean my son can’t complain to me about something his dad did or said—but when he does, I talk about it with him, and then I talk to my ex. Not to blame, but to help. To keep communication flowing. To make sure our son feels supported and heard in both homes. My ex does the same for me.

And it may sound wild, but we’ve thanked each other a lot throughout this experience. On different occasions, both of us have recognized that it would’ve been easy to mess with each other—to make a point, to score a win, to fight it out. But we didn’t. We stepped back, chose fairness, chose not to escalate. Even when one of us could’ve made a case for being slightly more "right," we prioritized balance. That takes effort. That takes self-control. And honestly, it deserves gratitude. I think we both hope this is the path we’ll stay on. Maybe we’ll have hiccups—if, or most likely when one of us decides to leave this tiny town, there could be chaos. But I hope that’s not what we do. I hope we keep choosing collaboration.

After we told our son about the divorce, we had a pre-booked holiday to Barcelona. Canceling wasn’t an option—he was excited to see his friends, and we had just promised him we’d remain a team. So we went. Separate bedrooms, joint activities, alternating solo days, and even a couple of nights out using a nanny. We survived. We even managed a family art therapy experience together. We kept our word.

Christmas came next. Another pre-arranged trip. Four hours in a car, five days in a country house. We held it together for three days. On the eve of day 3, we both agreed—time to go in the morning before the illusion cracked. But we did it.

Since then, we’ve slowly reintroduced casual family time. Aperitivo together. Ice cream strolls. A round of croquet. A few hours at the pool. A group drink with another family. No tension. No hurt. Just... effort. We’re trying.

We even said, early on, that maybe one day we could be the kind of exes who do the occasional family holiday with future partners. And honestly? I believe we could. It depends on who we each meet, of course. But we mean it.

The trauma of divorce, in my view, doesn’t come from the divorce itself—it comes from how people handle it. From children being put in the middle. From hearing one parent bash the other. From watching grown-ups fail to manage themselves.

Our son may still end up in therapy one day with things to unpack—that’s life. But I don’t think our divorce will be his trauma. I think we gave him the best version of a very hard thing.

I don’t hate my ex, I’m disappointed in some ways still. But I genuinely want his life to go well. Because that’s good for our son. And in some ways, still good for me.

I know this gets more complicated when one of us is dating seriously. But I don’t think either of us would bring someone around who isn't reasonably polite and normal.

So yes, it can be done. A collaborative divorce. A new era. Low drama. High effort.

But it’s not easy. I was heartbroken. My world was collapsing around me. I compartmentalized. I found what strength I had left and used all of it to protect my relationship with my ex, so we could protect our son. There was a whole other side of this where I was barely holding it together. I don’t want to make it sound simple. It wasn’t (it still isn’t.) I swallowed my pride, accepted that this was our future now, and did what I could not to fuck it up.

You just have to put all that past aside, shove it in a box, let go of the bad moments, and decide it's something new now. You're not exes anymore. You're two people raising a child—the most important person in both of your lives—and that’s how you treat each other.

And I’m so grateful that even in my teens, I chose a partner who, when it matters most, I can work with and trust to show up for what's important.

And yes, I had some drama to burn off afterward. Some spirals. Some fun. Some chasing. But I kept that away from my parenting life. I held the line.

I still might have a bit more to burn... but I’m getting closer to settling into this new normal of my life.