Finding Home Again: The Fair After Divorce

There was a season in my life when everything I thought was steady fell apart. Divorce has a way of leaving you raw and untethered, as if you’ve been pushed out into the middle of a lake with no oars. It’s lonely, disorienting, and you wonder if you’ll ever feel anchored again.

I met my husband at the fair in 1988. And the fair was a special kind of home for us because it’s where it all began.

Another new beginning…when the fair called me back.

I remember walking through the gates that first year after my marriage ended. The crowd was thick, the air sticky with the smell of fried food, the sounds of laughter and music swirling around me. But what struck me most wasn’t the noise or the spectacle; it was the familiar faces.

Friends I had known for decades, people who had been part of my fair life long before social media, were still here. Some of them had been working the fair even longer than I had. When they saw me, they didn’t look at me with pity or hesitation. They just smiled, hugged me, and said, “Welcome back.”

It was like stepping into a family reunion where nothing had changed. In a time when so much of my personal life felt broken, the fair was the one place that stayed the same.

The fair became more than just a job or tradition. It became my saving grace. It gave me something steady to come back to every year, a rhythm that reminded me life could still move forward.

And as much as the fair itself was grounding, it was the people who made it healing. Those friendships weren’t seasonal; they carried into the rest of the year, thanks to phone calls, emails, and later, social media. I got to see their kids grow up, celebrate milestones, and even lean on each other in hard times. The fair gave us the spark, but the community carried us through.

Looking back, I realize that healing rarely comes from grand gestures or dramatic

changes. More often, it comes from ordinary rituals, the things we can count on when the rest of life feels uncertain. For me, the fair was one of those rituals. Walking through the gates each summer, smelling the corn dogs, hearing the midway call out, it reminded me that I could keep going too.

When life unravels, we all need a place, or a practice, that reminds us who we are. For some, it’s church. For others, it’s family dinners or morning walks. For me, it was the Minnesota State Fair.

The fair gave me a sense of home when home itself was gone. It reminded me that community is one of the greatest healers, and that even when one chapter ends, there are still places and people who will welcome you back with open arms.

Now, every year when I return, I don’t just see the rides, the food, and the

crowds. I see resilience. I see continuity. And I see proof that sometimes, the things that save us are the ones that have been waiting for us all along.