Janelle was in free fall. Her long-term boyfriend left without warning, and she unraveled fast — panicked texts, endless loops of what-ifs, forgotten meals.
I brought over tea and a notepad. We made a plan. It was less about feelings and more about function.
Who to avoid. What to say. Where to put the grief when it showed up in public. We color-coded emotional triggers like they were project risks.
Janelle started sleeping again. She stopped rereading the old text threads.
Two weeks later, she said I’d pulled her out of the quicksand. That was the first time I realized people might need someone like me for this exact phase of their lives.
Not a therapist. Not a life coach. Just someone who could walk them through the mess without flinching.
How I got here
I’ve been married for over twenty years now, but this is my second marriage — for both of us. My journey to becoming the person people call in the midst of relationship collapse didn’t begin in a picture-perfect union.
I once endured an awful divorce when my first husband decided he no longer wanted to be married to me after a head injury changed his personality completely.
That breakup was a devastating unraveling of my life, one that forced me to learn how to rebuild from the wreckage.
Through that trial, I discovered the power of strategic, measured responses to emotional chaos. Stability doesn’t come from avoiding pain — it comes from navigating it with precision.
The resilience I forged in that divorce, coupled with the lessons from my current, enduring marriage, became the foundation for the work I do now.
I learned how to fight clean, how to stay honest when everything was falling apart, and how to find clarity in the middle of emotional collapse.
Word got around. Friends told friends. Then coworkers. Then people I barely knew started reaching out “just to talk.”
They’d heard what I’d done for someone else. They wanted that kind of clarity too. And the phone started ringing.
The shift
Then came Rich. His marriage of seven years collapsed under resentment that had calcified into routine. No screaming matches. No cheating scandals. Just silence. The dead kind.
He didn’t need comfort. He needed strategy.
We mapped out an exit plan that didn’t torch his identity in the process. Created a shared custody calendar.
Wrote scripts for hard conversations. Built daily routines to give him structure during the worst of the grief.
He called me once from a grocery store parking lot. Couldn’t make it inside. The idea of shopping for one broke him.
I stayed on the line until he walked in.
That was the last time he needed me. I knew he was okay when his texts got boring.
What I actually do
I’m not a therapist. I’m not a coach. I’m not your best friend with a pint of ice cream.
I’m the person people call when they’re falling apart and need to function anyway.
My work is practical. Communication scripts for high-conflict interactions. Boundary frameworks. Referrals to professionals who can do what I can’t — lawyers, mediators, child specialists.
Post-separation logistical plans. Grief protocols that don’t rely on toxic positivity or dated self-help clichés.
Most people don’t know what they need until we start. That’s fine. I do. I listen. I assess. I lay out options.
I say things like, “This is likely to escalate,” and “You need to stop texting them back.”
When they push back, I don’t argue. I wait. They usually come around.
Why people call me
Because I don’t panic when the crying starts. Because I don’t say “just follow your heart.” Because I can sit in the wreckage without pretending it’s a blessing in disguise.
People trust me with the ugliest parts. The shame. The ambivalence. They know what they need to do. They just can’t.
They don’t want closure. They want clarity. They want someone to name what’s happening, out loud, without dressing it up in metaphors or moralizing.
I do that. Gently. Directly. And always without judgment.
The work itself
Breakup consulting is emotional logistics. It’s mapping grief onto a calendar. Breaking apart cohabitation into discrete tasks. Creating a plan that keeps the wheels turning without overwhelming.
Sometimes it’s tactical: who keeps the dog, how to update emergency contacts, what to say when mutual friends ask invasive questions.
Sometimes it’s existential: who am I now, what was I ignoring, what patterns am I dragging into every relationship?
Breakups aren’t failures. They’re negotiated exits from agreements that no longer work.
But unlike business deals, they come with sobbing in bathrooms and bruised egos. That’s where I come in.
Rules of engagement
No manipulation. No legal advice. No contact with the other party. Complete confidentiality.
I work one side only. I don’t mediate. I guide.
I charge when people can afford it. I don’t when they can’t.
The work stays the same. Some clients need one call. Some need ten.
Some just want to know someone is tracking the train wreck and cataloging the debris.
This isn’t entertainment. This is labor. Strategic, ethical, emotionally intimate labor.
The cost of doing this work
Helping other people unspool their relationships changed how I move in mine. My own partnerships are structured, deliberate.
I ask hard questions early. I don’t do chaos. I don’t pretend I’m not collecting data from the first conversation.
I’ve had to explain what I do on dates. Reactions vary. Some people are fascinated. Others are threatened.
A few think it’s romantic. It’s not. I don’t believe in fairytales.
But I believe in building relationships that don’t require self-abandonment. I’ve seen too much to accept anything less.
What comes next
Breakup consulting isn’t an industry — yet. But it’s coming.
The therapy room doesn’t always have the right tools. The legal system doesn’t care about emotional nuance. And most friends are out of their depth.
People need something else. They need someone who understands that love can end, and when it does, the cleanup matters. That endings deserve strategy, not just survival.
I’m building that. Quietly. Carefully. One exit plan at a time.
When someone’s life is falling apart, I don’t offer platitudes or healing crystals. I don’t reframe their pain as a “lesson.” I don’t pretend it’s noble.
I offer containment. Direction. Language. I offer a way through.
Let the therapists mend. Let the lawyers divide. I handle the middle.
And I’m damn good at it.
