I got married at 18 to my boyfriend of 6 months to help pay for college. It was the worst decision I ever made.

My boyfriend and I had been dating for three months at the time when he initially suggested the idea: Why don’t we get married?

He proposed that I focus on school, and he would work full-time to support us. Plus, being married could qualify me for financial aid. It wasn’t the proposal I’d hoped for, but it made sense. My dad also thought it was a great idea, so it was decided. We bought rings within our budget, applied for a marriage license, and were married in a courthouse after six months of dating.

No one asked me if I was in love or if this was what I really wanted. It just made sense — financially.

My college experience was different as a wife

Initially, being a wife at 18 felt like an accomplishment. It felt like I had met a goal others could only dream of. It felt like I had somehow become wiser now that I was married. I could use words like “husband” and “my marriage” while proudly displaying my ring.

The novelty wore off quickly, however, and I began to feel like an outsider among my peers. Due to my wifely obligations, invitations to parties naturally became scarce throughout college. I had to keep house and work part-time as a caregiver to help pay bills. My husband also expected me to be home by a certain time.

My college experience was unlike that of my peers, leaving me to feel isolated while in college.

Eventually, my family also encouraged me to stop studying literature, which had been my goal, and instead pursue nursing because it was the right decision financially.

I started to see the cracks in our marriage

At no point was the gravity of marrying so young explained to me; I thought I was being responsible. As an 18-year-old kid, I had no notion of permanence. An idea suggested by an older boy and encouraged by my dad — someone I consider a god — had resulted in the complete loss of my autonomy.

Ironically, the field I was encouraged to pursue by both my dad and husband — nursing — relies heavily on self-reliance and autonomy. After I became a nurse, the sense of self I had lost during the first six years of my marriage began to flourish.

The practice of being a nurse translated into my personal life in the form of defiance. I no longer let my husband handle all the money. I didn’t let him stop me from hanging out with nurse friends after work. I also didn’t let him make every financial decision for our future based on his obsession with money. I voiced my opinions on where money should go and began pursuing my passions.

I finally decided to leave

Wanting more freedom, I suggested travel nursing. I told my husband it would help us save money for a house and pay off debts. But secretly, it was a way for me to gain some independence. At the mention of anything financially beneficial, my husband was for it.

We eventually bought our first house together — in a state 2,000 miles away. I hoped beyond logic that my travel nursing and our new home could bring us closer. I hoped we would find happiness together. But nothing changed.

The decision to leave was not a sudden one. Did I try to make it work? Yes. I suggested couples counseling, but he said no. I tried to make a life that I would be proud of, one where I followed my passions and was encouraged to strive for more than just the consistency of a “9-5” job. Did I receive that? No. Instead, my husband recognized my growing independence and tried to bring me down. I was done. I had had enough of this contract with hidden terms.

My decision to leave terrified me beyond belief, but I knew I would regret it if I didn’t do it. I just wanted to have a life on my own terms.

May marks two years since we separated, and while I’m still sad about the split, I know it was best for both of us. Each of us has come into our own, on our own terms, separately. Growth still happens. No matter how hard we hold onto the hurt, the wound heals.