Strategic Decoupling
On corporate speech, failed marriages, and the words we can’t say anymore
The arbitrator asked us to start by identifying our primary areas of misalignment.
That’s not what she said. What she said was: “What are you two fighting about?”
But Sarah was quick to translate it. Because Sarah’s been in corporate for seventeen years and her brain doesn’t process direct questions anymore.
“I think we’re seeing some friction around resource allocation,” Sarah said. “Specifically pertaining to shared asset optimization.”
The arbitrator—Linda, her name was Linda—looked at Sarah the way you’d look at someone who just started speaking Esperanto in the middle of a Wendy’s.
“I’m sorry?”
“The house,” I said. “She wants the house.”
“That’s not—” Sarah did this thing with her face. The thing she does in meetings when someone says the quiet part out loud. “I think what I’m trying to articulate is that we need to explore alternative custody arrangements for our primary real estate asset in a way that creates equitable value distribution for both stakeholders.”
Linda put down her pen.
“Do you want the house or not?”
Sarah blinked. Twice. Like her brain was buffering.
“I think there’s an opportunity for me to retain occupancy while we explore creative solutions for equity rebalancing.”
“She wants the house,” I said.
“You’re over-simplifying,” Sarah said.
“You literally just said you want to keep living there.”
“I said I think there’s an opportunity for—”
“That means you want the house.”
“It means I’m open to a scenario where—”
Linda held up her hand.
“I’m going to ask you both a question, and I need you to answer it directly. Yes or no. Can you do that?”
We both nodded.
“Do you,” she pointed at Sarah, “want to keep the house?”
Sarah opened her mouth.
I watched it happen. The word “yes” was right there. You could see it forming. Four letters. One syllable. One of the easiest words in the English language.
Her eyes flicked up and to the right.
“I think what makes sense from a strategic perspective is to maintain the current living arrangement while we transition to a more optimized ownership structure that—”
“That’s not a yes or no,” Linda said.
“I’m trying to provide context—”
“Yes. Or no.”
Sarah looked like Linda had asked her to solve a differential equation in her head.
“It’s… nuanced,” she finally said.
Linda looked at me.
“Do you want the house?”
I opened my mouth to say no.
What came out was: “I think we should explore all available options and remain flexible as we navigate this transition period.”
Fuck.
Here’s what you need to understand about me and Sarah:
We met at BrandCo. Same onboarding cohort. We sat next to each other in the “Welcome to BrandCo Culture!” seminar where they taught us the seven BrandCo core values and the difference between “problems” (bad) and “challenges” (opportunities for growth).
We bonded over how insane it all was.
After the week of onboarding, we got drinks. She did this perfect impression of the onboarding leader from HR: “There are no problems at BrandCo, only chances to demonstrate our commitment to continuous improvement!”
We laughed. We made fun of it. We thought we were immune.
That was eleven years ago.
Five years ago, we got married.
Three years ago, we bought the house.
Last year, I asked her if she was happy.
She said: “I think we’re in a refinement phase relationship-wise, but I’m optimistic about our ability to pivot toward a more aligned partnership model.”
I said: “That’s not what I asked.”
She said: “I’m being honest.”
She genuinely thought that’s what honesty sounded like.
The thing is, I was no better.
Two months ago, I tried to tell my brother I was getting divorced.
We were having beer in his garage. He asked how Sarah was doing.
I said: “We’re actually going through a strategic decoupling process.”
He stared at me.
“A what?”
“We’re dissolving the partnership. Transitioning to independent operating models.”
“Are you getting divorced?”
“That’s… that’s what I said.”
“No it isn’t.”
I tried again.
“We’ve mutually agreed to sunset the marriage and explore alternative relationship frameworks.”
My brother put down his beer.
“What is wrong with you?”
Back in the mediation:
Linda was asking about the dog.
We have a dog. Had a dog. Have a dog. I don’t even know what tense to use anymore.
His name is Tubby. He’s a golden retriever. He’s eight years old. He’s a good boy. These are simple facts.
“Who’s been the primary caregiver for the dog?” Linda asked.
“I think we’ve both contributed to the caregiving responsibilities in different but equally valuable ways,” Sarah said.
“Who feeds him?”
“We’ve established a collaborative feeding framework—”
“Who physically puts food in the dog’s bowl?”
Sarah’s face did the thing again.
“It’s more of a shared responsibility where we each bring different strengths to the pet management process—”
“She feeds him,” I said.
“That’s reductive,” Sarah said.
“You literally feed him every morning.”
“I handle the morning feeding cadence, yes, but you manage the evening nutrition delivery and the overall strategic direction of his dietary roadmap—”
“I put food in his bowl at night.”
“See?” Sarah turned to Linda. “He’s acknowledging his role in the feeding framework.”
Linda rubbed her temples.
“I’m going to be very direct with you both. In twenty years of doing this, I have never—and I mean never—heard two people work this hard to avoid saying basic facts about their own lives.”
Sarah looked offended.
“I think we’re just trying to provide comprehensive context—”
“The dog needs to eat,” Linda said. “Someone feeds him. That’s not context. That’s a fact. Who feeds the dog?”
Silence.
“We both do,” I finally said. “Kind of. We have a system.”
“What’s the system?”
“It’s fluid,” Sarah said.
“Fluid.”
“We remain flexible based on evolving household dynamics and individual bandwidth constraints.”
Linda closed her laptop.
“I’m going to need you to translate that into English.”
“That is English,” Sarah said.
And that’s when I realized: she wasn’t being difficult.
The worst part of the mediation was the infidelity section.
Linda had it on her list. Standard divorce question. She asked it matter-of-factly, the way you’d ask about joint bank accounts.
“Was there infidelity in the marriage?”
Sarah looked at me.
I looked at Sarah.
“I think we experienced some challenges around relationship boundaries,” Sarah said.
Linda waited.
“Meaning?”
“There were some… alignment issues. Regarding emotional resource allocation.”
“Did someone cheat?”
The word hung there.
Cheat. Four letters. One syllable. Just a tad longer than “yes.”
Sarah couldn’t say it.
“I developed a connection with a colleague that may have extended beyond traditional partnership parameters.”
Linda turned to me.
“Is she saying she had an affair?”
I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to say: Yes, she humped someone from work, and then she told me about it using a deck she made in PowerPoint titled “Relationship Optimization Opportunities,” as I sat on our couch watching her present our marriage like a quarterly business review.
But what came out was:
“We identified some gaps in our intimacy framework that led to external stakeholder engagement.”
Linda stared at me.
“You’re the one who got cheated on, and you can’t say it?”
I tried.
I really tried.
The words were right there. Simple. Direct. True.
She cheated on me.
But my mouth wouldn’t form it.
“The situation was more complex than traditional infidelity models would suggest—”
“Stop,” Linda said.
We stopped.
“I need both of you to do something for me. I need you to say one true thing. One completely direct sentence. No jargon. No corporate speak. No ‘alignment’ or ‘stakeholders’ or ‘optimization.’ Just say what happened.”
Sarah went first.
“I… I had a relationship with someone at work while we were married.”
It came out like she was pulling glass out of her throat.
Linda looked at me.
“Your turn.”
I opened my mouth.
She had an affair and it destroyed our marriage and I’m so fucking angry I can barely breathe.
That’s what I wanted to say.
That’s what I needed to say.
But the pathway wasn’t there.
I sat there, in that beige mediation office, trying to say I was angry, and I literally could not access the sentence.
Finally: “The breach of trust created significant challenges for the ongoing viability of the partnership.”
Linda closed her folder.
“We’re done for today.”
In the parking lot after, Sarah caught up with me.
“I think that went well,” she said.
“Well?”
“We made progress on several key issues. Established some baseline frameworks for moving forward.”
“Sarah.”
“What?”
“We couldn’t even say we’re getting divorced. We spent two hours talking about our marriage ending and we couldn’t say a single true thing about it.”
She looked confused.
“I thought I was being honest.”
“You weren’t.”
“I told her about the affair.”
“You told her you ‘developed a connection with a colleague.’ That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s—”
“It’s not.”
She was quiet for a minute.
Then: “I don’t know how else to say it.”
And I believed her.
Here’s what I think happened to us:
We learned to speak this way at work because it was safe. You’re not divisive for saying “we’re experiencing some headwinds.” You are divisive—and on track to get fired—for saying “this product is shit and we all know it.”
So we learned the safe language. And we got good at it. And eventually, we brought it home.
Because how do you turn it off? How do you speak one way for forty hours a week and then switch back to being a person who says what they mean?
You don’t.
The safe language spreads. First it’s just when you’re talking about work stuff. Then it’s when you’re talking about anything stressful. Then it’s when you’re talking about anything that might lead to conflict.
Then it’s everything. Eventually it’s the only language you speak.
And one day you’re sitting in a mediation trying to explain why your marriage ended, and you literally cannot say “she cheated on me and I’m angry.”
You can only say “we experienced challenges around relationship boundaries.”
After a while, you don’t even know you’re doing it. The translation happens so fast you lose access to what you actually feel.
You don’t feel angry anymore.
You feel “negative emotional outputs.”
The fence isn’t between you and what you’re allowed to say.
It’s between you and what you’re able to feel.
I saw Sarah one more time after that.
We were signing the final papers. Making it official.
The lawyer had us initial every page. Dozens of pages. All this legal language about “dissolution of marriage” and “equitable distribution of assets” and “termination of spousal rights.”
We got to the last page.
The lawyer said: “Do you both agree to these terms?”
We both said yes.
He said: “Okay then. That’s it. You’re divorced.”
Sarah looked at me.
I looked at Sarah.
We’d been married for five years. Together for eleven.
And the only thing either of us could think to say was:
“I think this creates some exciting opportunities for personal growth and independent strategic development.”
The lawyer stared at us.
Then he just… left the room.
I called my brother the next day.
“It’s done,” I said. “The divorce is finalized.”
“Shit, man. I’m sorry. How are you doing?”
I opened my mouth.
I’m devastated. I’m angry. I’m relieved. I don’t know what I feel but it’s big and overwhelming and I need help.
What came out:
“I’m navigating the transition effectively. Optimistic about the path forward.”
My brother was quiet for a second.
Then: “Do you need me to come over?”
“That would be…” I tried. Really tried. “That would be great.”
Great.
Not “I need you.” Not “I’m falling apart.” Not “Please come.”
Great.
It was the best I could do.
This should be made into a TV series! So funny
"We identified some gaps in our intimacy framework that led to external stakeholder engagement.” Bravo sir!