In the past two years, I’ve changed my pronouns twice. But I’m not talking about my gender identity. I’ve always been a cis she/her/hers woman. I’ve also, for most of my life, been single, an I in a sea of coupled we’s.

The world prefers a we to an I, especially if you’re a woman. If someone casually asks what you did this weekend, responding “I bought a Christmas tree” is a sad, lonely statement to most listeners. Responding “We bought a Christmas tree” is a happy, cozy statement, reflecting that you will not be spending Christmas alone, or, one can infer, most likely dying alone too.

I, like many women, was raised on the myth of marriage. Growing up in the San Fernando Valley in the ’70s and ’80s, it was a foregone conclusion I’d get married one day and have a family. My mom often would say, “Just wait until you have kids of your own,” when she thought I was being difficult. She continued to say this into my 40s, at which point I’d respond, with sadness and self-pity, that, at my age, I was probably never going to have kids or get married.

Finally, well into middle age, I stopped caring about getting married and focused on how good my life as a single woman was. I lived in an ocean-view apartment in Santa Monica. I’d built a successful small business. I had great friends. I’d adopted a dog, Fofo, the best decision of my life.

Then I met the love of my life. Vagner was tall, unbearably handsome and disarmingly charming.

We found each other on an app and met up for the first time at my community garden plot on Main Street, then got ramen at Jinya. From that moment on, we were together. Vagner loved the Santa Monica Pier, which he’d seen in a video game he’d played with his teenage son in Rio. The pier was a short stroll from my apartment, and when we walked Fofo at sunset, Vagner always wanted to climb the wooden stairs and take in the glorious view from the pier. He was like a kid experiencing something from a movie in real life, and seeing the city through his eyes gave it a new sense of wonder.

When I broke my shoulder six weeks into our romance and needed surgery, he stayed with me in the hospital and moved in to care for me. Only an amazing guy would do that. One evening Vagner got down on one knee and proposed. We were in love. He was in the U.S. on a six-month tourist visa, and to stay together, we had to get married before his visa expired. Vagner was the most loving, caring man I’d ever known, so I said yes.

We got married three months after meeting, and Vagner turned into a different person 24 hours after we said, “I do.”

The toothpaste he bought at Costco lasted longer than our marriage.

But for the 11 months we were married, I experienced the glory of being a we instead of an I. Suddenly I was part of a giant club, the Partnered People. While it wasn’t an exclusive club, it still felt wonderful to finally get in.

I relished speaking in the plural. I loved talking to my married friends about us, our marriage, our life. I was no longer left out.

If I could find love and get married for the first time at 51 — in L.A., a city notoriously difficult for dating, especially for women over 40 — anyone could.

When I began to confide in married girlfriends about our problems, they unfailingly shared their own marital struggles, things they’d never mentioned when I was single. Over sushi and spicy margaritas at Wabi on Rose, a longtime friend advised me about how to give your husband wins, build up his self-esteem and keep from overwhelming him with perceived demands. I was grateful for her advice, and though I tried the strategies she’d suggested, nothing I did made any difference. Vagner was shut down, emotionally absent and prone to walking out every time we had a disagreement.

Still, I clung to my newfound identity as a we, even though there was very little us in the marriage. Even being unhappily married, I was still part of the club.

“It doesn’t matter if you date for 10 weeks or 10 years, people change after they get married,” I heard from more than one sympathetic soul. I took some comfort in this since I was beginning to blame myself for getting married too quickly.

The truth of the matter was, we had a far bigger problem than adjusting to being married. Believing we were simply two good people who’d rushed to the altar under the influence of euphoric new love and the pressure of an expiring visa was far less painful than the truth.

In our first conversation, he told me he was a lawyer. In reality, he was an ex-military police officer who’d been dismissed for misconduct. But his biggest omission was neglecting to tell me about his second child, a 13-year-old son who bore his full name, whose existence I discovered three months into our marriage when he disclosed it on an immigration form. He claimed the child wasn’t his but the product of his ex-wife’s infidelity.

Also, Vagner rarely wanted to spend time together. The moment he got his employment authorization, he announced a plan to take a job in Florida as a long-haul truck driver. On Christmas Eve. That was the beginning of the end.

The reality, which I only began to absorb bit by bit after I ended it, is that my husband was not only a prolific storyteller but also a master manipulator. I was lucky to get out with only a broken heart, not a broken life.

As good as it had felt — at least briefly — to finally be a we, there was no denying that I had been far happier as an I. As I walked Fofo by the beach, cuddled with him on the couch and threw his ball at Hotchkiss Park, I realized he was a superior companion to my ex-husband.

Fortunately, I hadn’t changed my name, so the only thing I had to change back were my pronouns. There was not even one tiny part of me that missed being able to refer to myself as we, so immense was the relief of freeing myself of Vagner.

Although I forfeited my membership in the Partnered People club, I became a member of another, equally nonexclusive-but-far-less-touted club, the Happily Divorced Women.

The author is the founder of Inner Genius Prep, a boutique educational and career consulting company. She lives in Santa Monica, holds an MFA in creative writing from Brooklyn College and is working on a memoir about having a mystery illness. She’s on Instagram: @smgardengirl.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.

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When Steven Lewis volunteered to co-chair a renovation committee in 2022 for his Pacific Palisades synagogue, he had no idea that the project would become his emotional anchor when his home burned three years later.

“It was something positive that I could focus on,” Lewis said. “I don’t know how I would have gotten through the past year and a half without this project.”

On Friday, the synagogue reopened after being closed since Jan. 7, 2025, following the devastating fire. Kehillat Israel didn’t burn but suffered significant smoke damage. What had begun years ago as a revitalization project added a layer of remediation. It’s now one of the first religious spaces to reopen in the Pacific Palisades since the fire swept through the neighborhood where more than 70% of its members lived.

Lewis and his family are among the 230 Kehillat Israel (KI) families who lost their homes in the Palisades fire, including the congregation’s three rabbis, with an additional 250 families who were displaced. Most, including Lewis, are in various stages of grappling with insurance, permits and construction, whether they have to rebuild from the ground up or salvage their homes by remediating damage caused by toxic smoke.

As part of its opening reception, the synagogue hosted Shabbat services. The 400-person capacity sanctuary was stuffed. Neighbors embraced and caught up in the courtyard and social hall, kids zoomed around with friends, and, when it was time for services to begin, attendees clamored in a clump of joyful chaos as they attempted to enter the newly remodeled sanctuary. Services were full of singing and speeches as congregants filled the rows, lined the walls, and spilled into the aisles. With a full band accompanying the Reconstructionist congregation’s services, the tone was one of joy, reunion and celebration.

“It was a monumental moment, which we were so grateful for,” said Meredith Kaplan, a multigenerational temple member who lost her home in the fire. “But it also just felt so normal and good. Back in the synagogue, almost, in a weird way, like no time had passed.”

A new ark, which houses the temple’s Torahs, was dedicated to the ebullient Cantor Chayim Frenkel and his wife Marcy Frenkel.

Cantor Chayim Frenkel and daughter Mandi Frenkel sing together in front of the new Torah ark.

(Robin Aronson Photography)

“The Torahs are always the first things we rescue from the sanctuary when there are fires,” said Frenkel, who has been with the synagogue for 40 years. “Knowing that our story is safe and surrounded by this beautiful design, and to have it dedicated in honor of me and my wife, Marcy, is extremely powerful.”

The clergy specifically placed the handles of the tall ark at the bottom, so that even preschoolers would be able to open it. As the congregation stood before the ark within the bowl-shaped sanctuary for the first time since the fires, Rabbi Amy Bernstein performed the blessing used to dedicate the first Jewish temple in Jerusalem 3,000 years prior.

“May it be a place where all who enter find inspiration, affirmation and connection,” Bernstein said.

While many faith institutions had to close because of the Palisades and Eaton fires, Kehillat Israel was uniquely positioned to be among the first to reopen. At least 14 sanctuaries burned to the ground last January.

In 2022, the temple staff began a limited revitalization project. Handles were falling off and fabrics were showing their wear since a major remodel 31 years prior. Technology needs had also long been eclipsed; Kehillat Israel has been live-streaming its services since the pandemic. So the committee hired architects and builders, made plans, got permits, and — crucially — raised funds all prior to the Palisades fire. The plan was to retain the beloved sanctuary’s original design, while making technical and some aesthetic upgrades. Originally slated for completion in fall 2024, project delays allowed KI to start work on the building quickly after the fire — albeit with the new work of smoke damage remediation — and the decision to stay faithful to the sanctuary’s look became even more salient. For many, it was one of the last few remaining familiar spaces.

Hugs and selfies abounded at Shabbat services.

(Robin Aronson Photography)

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Other synagogues, churches and mosques are on the path to rebuilding, but they are facing the same hurdles as many of their congregants and members, and then some. L.A. City Councilmember Traci Park, who represents the Palisades, says she has been working closely with faith institutions, but that insurance disputes and fundraising have been a challenge.

“Their ability to rebuild is very much tied to their active membership,” said Park, who attended the reopening. “But their own members have lost their homes and are mired in their own uncertainty and financial challenges.”

Despite differences in rebuilding efforts, the faith community celebrated the win of a congregation, even if it was not theirs. Rabbi Daniel Sher, also of Kehillat Israel, said he received texts from rabbis across the city encouraging him to bask in the moment. Rabbi Bernstein is close friends with Rev. Grace Park of the Palisades Presbyterian Church, which burned in the fire, and they are excited about what this reopening means for forging ties between their congregations in ways only the fire made possible.

“It sounds cliche, but the walls between our communities literally burned to the ground,” Bernstein said. “We are both aware that we’d like to start doing more things together — not just for Grace’s congregation and my congregation — but bringing people of the Palisades, or those who want to come to the Palisades, together.”

The congregation gathers for a Shabbat meal, packing a temple hall.

(Robin Aronson Photography)

The synagogue’s reopening signals that the wheels of Palisades recovery are in motion. Carole and David White, who lost their Palisades townhome, had been eagerly anticipating the reopening services.

“It means the world,” said Carole White. “It’s truly one day at a time, and some days are better than others.”

“And today is a good one,” said David White. “It’s the closest we’ve been to coming home.”