When the Ring Comes Off

Matt's Take: “Wow, I didn’t know we were taking the rings off?!?!”

Seeing my ex without her ring was like an unspoken declaration: this chapter of our lives was ending. That was my initial shock. I didn’t know if it was a feeling of guilt, shame, sadness, happiness, if it was cause for celebration or cause for tears. When I saw my ex with her ring off for the first time, it was a moment that stuck with me for a long time. I’m not sure exactly where we were in the separation process—I may have moved out “temporarily” by then—but it was in the kitchen of our old house. I remember wondering what had changed. What was the final straw that made her decide it was time? It seemed so final.

Leading up to it, there had been some suspicion on my part, maybe even some accusations and questioning as to where she had been that day. She didn’t know she had shared her location with me, and she told me she was somewhere she clearly wasn’t. Man, what a shitty feeling, knowing your wife is lying straight to your face, but also feeling guilty for “spying” and not trusting her. When I doubted her, it felt like I was betraying us, even though she had already crossed that line. That guilt was like a weight I carried, almost like the ring itself. This was a struggle I dealt with internally quite often when I was questioning our relationship. We had been through so much, and here I was feeling guilty, knowing that I was right the entire time. I wanted to be the one responsible, I wanted to feel all the blame and take it on like this entire disaster over the previous few months was somehow my fault. It wasn’t.

So, then my ring came off. I didn’t know at the time it was really the end, but it was a moment of realization that all these different feelings I had felt were coming to a head; a culmination of the tangled mix of suspicion, guilt, a feeling of failure, and a sense of loss to finally end. The ring held so much history—the promises, the fights, the years of memories wrapped around my finger. Taking it off felt like unbinding myself from that past. The physical act of removing it symbolized how much we had been through—the ups, the downs, the highs, the lows, the love, the hate, the happiness, anger, and sadness—all coming to a close and leading me to realize it was time for the next chapter of my life, of our life. We were no longer going to be husband and wife, but now we were shifting to something new, something unexpected and unknown. It was scary; I didn’t know what was next, but I did know it was time for a change.

Looking back now, I realize that the moment the ring came off, it was bittersweet. It forced me to face the reality of an ending. Not only was it about the feelings of guilt and shame and the reality that we failed, but it was a moment of grieving something that was so meaningful a decade prior. Now, it was the recognition of a complicated ending and the acceptance of a new beginning. At the time, I couldn’t see the happy ending or the new beginning, but I know now that all of those feelings were meant for something better in my life. Removing the ring was the first step toward rebuilding me. I deserved to be happy, I deserved to have the relationship with a partner that made me feel the way I wanted to. It obviously took a while to get there, but I am so grateful now that I took the ring off and created a happier, stronger me in the process.

Ashlee’s Take: "The Ring Didn't Mean a Thing...Until it Did"

Why is it that when a woman announces her engagement, the first question is always, "Let me see the ring?" As if the size of the diamond somehow measures her happiness. Like the sparkle on her finger is supposed to tell the whole story of her love life.

I’ve always thought jewelry was pretty on other people, but on me? It felt... cumbersome. I used to joke that the bigger the ring, the bigger the marital problems. Which made me wonder, why do we need a shiny symbol to prove we're “spoken for”? It felt less like love and more like a silent performance.

Sure, I love a good sparkle. Who doesn’t? But my day-to-day style is pretty laid-back—think cozy, oversized pajama pants, with just a dash of mascara for spice. Back in high school, my friends called me the Undercover Hottie—because I knew when to dress up, accentuate the essentials, and still keep it chill. But picking out an engagement ring in my 20s? That was a whole different kind of “getting ready.” It felt like putting on lip liner and a push-up bra.

Don’t get me wrong, I like nice things—just ones with meaning. So, when my ex-husband and I started talking about getting engaged, I had this vision: a cushion-cut diamond with a double band, maybe a few little stones for some flair. I knew that a ring wasn’t going to make me happy. But his dad kept saying, “One day, she’ll want a bigger ring.” And all I could think was, “No, I don’t even want this one.” But, maybe I should’ve been concerned that the only reason I wanted it was because people kept telling me I should.

The ring came, I got the congratulations, and, of course, everyone had to inspect it. It was beautiful—custom-made by an expensive designer (thanks to my ex’s parents). My best friend took one look and asked, “Oh, did he get you the ‘She Has to Say Yes’ package?”

Every time I slipped that ring on, it felt like I had to adjust to it—like that awkward first date with someone your mom set you up with, who sounds perfect on paper but just isn’t doing it for you. I'd wash my hands, take it off, and feel a wave of relief. And, let me tell you, everything—from lotion to last night’s taco—got stuck between those two bands. It was so high-maintenance, I could practically feel it collecting dirt by the hour.

One time, I left it in Florida, and didn’t realize it was missing until I got to the airport. I was light as air, and it hit me—I was happier without it. Getting it back was a hassle. After that, it mostly stayed off. I even bought a silicone workout ring, and for a while, it felt like a relief.

As quickly as it had appeared, it was time to let it go. I never thought something I didn’t even care about would end up being the thing that unraveled me. The discovery of my ex-husband’s indiscretion was what started it all—the decision to divorce was made, but the rings, they hadn’t disappeared just yet.

When we officially separated—him moving into the basement—it was time to part with the ring. But how? Was I just supposed to slip it off and move on like nothing had happened?

You’d think it would have been easy, considering how hard I fought to get used to wearing it in the first place—and the fact that I felt more attached to my Costco membership than that shiny piece of jewelry. But there was something oddly unsettling about simply choosing not to wear it anymore. I even wondered if I should gather a séance circle and sing Kumbaya.

Before I could figure out what to do with it, the decision was made for me.

I came home from a girls’ night out and noticed he had taken his off. That hit differently. There his ring was, sitting on the nightstand, practically screaming, Look at me! So, I took his ring, slid mine off, and tucked them both away. Should’ve known then just how strong his passive-aggressive game really was.

As soon as my hand was bare, I became hyper-aware of rings everywhere. Grocery stores, gas stations, school drop-offs. It was like I had joined some secret club. I couldn’t help but stare at the magician’s hand during my son’s school talent show, wondering if his bare finger was a sign of a separation. I was probably judging myself more than anyone else.

My phone, being the spy that it is, started throwing ads my way—one said, "Divorce is hard. Selling your ring shouldn’t be." Facebook ads got in on it too, offering to make selling the ring “easy, empowering, and hassle-free.” I went to a few places and finally took it to a jeweler my friend recommended. The appraiser came back with a number that made me question if they were appraising the ring or my dignity. I left feeling like I couldn’t even get what this symbol of love was “worth.”

But then it hit me: the ring, once a symbol of someone else’s promise, no longer had any power over me. The promise had already crumbled. Selling it wasn’t just about letting go of an object—it was an act of reclaiming my self-worth. I was choosing to invest in myself, in something that would restore me emotionally and physically, rather than holding on to something that reminded me of a past I no longer wanted to define me.

In the end, I sold it back to the designer and used the money for reconstructive surgery on my nose—a procedure I’d needed for years. A trade-up, if you ask me. But before letting it go, I gave the ring a proper photoshoot.

Occasionally, I scroll through the pictures, marveling at its excellence—like an ex-boyfriend you know you’ll never miss but still stalk on Instagram from time to time. You forget about the times he pissed the bed and made you wake up in it, and instead, you romanticize the good lighting and well-filtered angles. The sparkle, the craftsmanship.

I remember it fondly. Funny how I don’t recall the flaws, the fights, or the heartache of selling it. Just the way it caught the light.

Sometimes, I wonder if my daughters would’ve wanted the ring. Maybe to repurpose it, to turn it into something new—or maybe to fund their own nose jobs. One of them is definitely inheriting my old nose.

Maybe they’d have wanted to keep it. Or maybe, like me, they’ll realize that some things just aren’t meant to be carried forward—no matter how much they shine.