She begins obsessing about her space.
Every item of furniture, every picture on the wall, every throw pillow becomes important. Every piece feels like a huge part of her identity, and the home she builds from the aftermath becomes a self-portrait.
She always has fresh flowers.
It’s inexplicable, but they become a crucial part of her existence. Sometimes they fill vases, sometimes they just exist on her Instagram feed, but living flowers become a new fascination, and life feels weird without them.
She spends time examining her closet and redefining her fashion sense.
Maybe not a lot of time, and maybe nothing changes, but she starts to wonder how much of her fashion was chosen by her and how much was a product of her marriage.
She reads a lot more nonfiction, particularly memoirs of other women.
Self-help isn’t where it stops, but the genre suddenly doesn’t seem so pointless. Reading the writings of other women feels like an anchor point in the chaos.
She adopts a scorched earth policy when it comes to friends, both real and virtual.
A liberal and unapologetic use of the “unfriend” button becomes a surprising stress-reliever.
She sets her standards for life and relationships extremely high.
For better or for ill, she now knows what she deserves and what she will not put up with. Future relationships are held to a high bar.