I used to believe the rings on my left hand were a tangible representation of my value. I was locked down quickly and for a very long period of time. I thought Ryan Leslie’s “Diamond Girl” was my personal anthem. Sure, I had to deal with plenty of commentary about how young I was when I got engaged and married, but I didn’t have any doubts.

I wore the rock on my finger feeling validated. A man out there loved me enough to put down money on a precious stone set in platinum, to symbolically take me off the market for what was meant to be “forever.” (Note: Monetary value is nothing, my ring wasn’t worth that much. I was solely interested in the meaning behind it all.)

Well… That didn’t work out.

I kept the rings on for as long as I could, as long as I hoped we could work it out. I wore them through our worst times, cause we were still keeping up the facade. I was praying we’d make it. I needed to show face, cause I have too much pride. I was born with too much pride. I stopped wearing the rings shortly after I purchased a ticket to NY and asked to separate. He never asked me to stay and for a while I gave the rings back to him:

“YOU hold onto these.”

I figured if they were in his possession they would haunt him. Later I realized he didn’t need any type of physical object to feel guilty, he felt that regardless, but I wanted to hurt him for everything he did—for making vows and breaking them.

Eventually when I asked for the full divorce I requested them back. I was strong enough to keep them knowing very well that I would never wear them again.

For a long time I questioned my worth. I hated not wearing my rings, but I learned—their absence from my finger doesn’t subtract from my value, by any means. I will always be wifey-status. I will always be worth everything I was promised in the first place. I will always be a diamond girl, despite my divorcé title. When I finally figured all of this out I bought myself a permanent diamond—its tattooed on my left bicep.

You know… In case I ever need a reminder.