I am not married anymore. I hate marriage... but it's okay now.

Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt’s words strike with the rawness of confession: “I am not married anymore. I hate marriage… but it’s okay now.” In these few lines, there is both sorrow and release, both bitterness and peace. He speaks as one who has walked through the fire of disappointment, whose faith in the institution has been scorched, yet who emerges not broken but reconciled to his own truth. It is the voice of a man who has tasted the weight of union, found it wanting, and yet made peace with the ashes left behind.

To say “I hate marriage” is not simply to curse love, but to cry out against the institution that too often twists love into obligation, passion into prison, companionship into control. Throughout history, marriage has been both celebrated as sacred and denounced as a cage. In Schmitt’s lament, we hear echoes of ancient philosophers who warned that social structures, when corrupted, may betray the spirit they were meant to protect. He does not renounce love, but he condemns the chains forged by expectation and tradition, which suffocate the heart’s freedom.

Yet his words turn unexpectedly: “…but it’s okay now.” This small phrase is a torch of resilience. It tells us that even after disillusionment, there is still healing; even after bitterness, there can be calm. To say “it’s okay now” is to reclaim sovereignty over one’s life, to accept that the end of one path is not the end of the journey. In this we hear the ancient wisdom of the Stoics, who taught that suffering is not the final word, but a teacher. Loss is bitter, but through acceptance, the soul discovers peace.

Consider the story of Henry VIII of England, whose many marriages became a storm of politics, betrayal, and blood. His unions, meant to secure love and heirs, instead left kingdoms divided and wives destroyed. He too might have said he hated marriage—not because of love itself, but because the institution, bent under power and ambition, devoured peace. His tale shows us how fragile the promise of marriage can be when it is bound not by the spirit of love but by external weight. Schmitt’s own rejection of marriage may not carry the violence of Henry’s reign, but it reflects the same truth: when an institution becomes a torment, it is right to release oneself from it.

The deeper meaning here is the distinction between marriage and love. Marriage is a structure built by society, with rules, customs, and contracts. Love, however, is wild, untamed, and beyond law. Schmitt’s bitterness is toward the former, not the latter. His words teach us that one may reject the institution without rejecting the essence of human connection. It is a reminder that love must not be reduced to signatures on paper or rituals of tradition—it must breathe freely, or it will suffocate.

The lesson for us is clear: do not cling to forms when the spirit has fled. If marriage becomes a cage, do not fear to walk away; if union becomes poison, better to drink solitude than despair. But also, do not carry hatred forever. As Schmitt shows us in his final words, one must learn to say, “It’s okay now.” Acceptance is the gateway to freedom, and freedom is the soil from which new beginnings grow.

Therefore, take this teaching into your own life. Enter relationships not for appearances, not for tradition’s sake, but for truth and love. If they flourish, honor them with care; if they wither, release them with dignity. Guard against bitterness, and seek instead the peace of acceptance. For the ancients remind us: every ending, if embraced with wisdom, becomes the seed of renewal.

Thus, Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt’s words carry both the sting of disillusionment and the balm of healing. He shows us that it is possible to lose faith in marriage, to even hate what it became, and yet still find peace. And in this paradox lies a great wisdom: life does not end with loss, but continues with the courage to accept, to heal, and to begin anew.