Kimora Lee Simmons is officially done. Tim Leissner, her husband of more than a decade and the former Goldman Sachs banker at the center of the multibillion-dollar Malaysian fraud case (1MDB), filed for divorce just as he reported to prison to begin a two-year sentence. The timing is brutal. The optics are messier. And the internet, predictably, has opinions.
Some of those opinions are loud. “She’s leaving him because he’s locked up.” “He filed first to save face.” “This was always going to end.”
Maybe. Or maybe the gossip take is missing the actual story. Because what looks like a clean break almost never is, and the real ending of a marriage usually happened a long time before anyone signed anything.
The Story That Started Years Before the Filing
Here is what I want to say gently, as someone who sits with couples through the worst stretches of their lives: a divorce filed in a week like this one was not decided in a week like this one.
By the time a long marriage reaches the paperwork stage, the relationship has typically been in a slow erosion for years. There were conversations that did not happen. There were attempts to reach each other that landed badly. There were nights one of them lay in bed wondering if this was still the person they thought they married, and went to sleep without saying it.
Tim Leissner pleaded guilty in 2018. That means Kimora has been the public face of a private catastrophe for seven years. Seven years of headlines, court dates, asset forfeiture fights, raising children through it, and trying to hold a household together while the man she married was being slowly, legally dismantled in public.
You do not stay neutral inside that. Even the most loving partner gets tired. Even the most loyal partner starts protecting themselves in small, quiet ways. The marriage that walks into a courtroom is rarely the marriage that started. It is the marriage that survived, or did not survive, a thousand small ruptures that nobody outside the home ever saw.
So when people say “she left him because he went to prison,” I would offer this. She did not leave him because he went to prison. She made a decision that was probably years in the making, and the prison sentence is simply the moment the public got to see it.
The Layer the Hot Takes Always Miss
Here is what makes this so much harder than the comments section thinks.
When one partner has been through something genuinely shameful in public, the other partner is in an impossible bind. Stay, and you are loyal but also seen as enabling. Leave, and you are seen as abandoning him at his lowest. There is no version of this where Kimora is read generously by strangers, and she knows it.
In my office, I see this dynamic in less dramatic forms all the time. One partner has a financial collapse, an addiction relapse, a betrayal that becomes the story of the marriage. The other partner is then expected to perform a kind of emotional sainthood. Stay forever, never resent it, never need anything for themselves. Real humans cannot do that. They try, and they get depleted, and one day they realize the marriage they are fighting for is not actually the marriage they are inside of anymore.
If you are reading this and recognizing a flicker of your own situation, it is worth a few minutes to discover your attachment dynamic. Not because your story is theirs. Because the patterns underneath are remarkably consistent across very different lives.
The other thing the hot takes miss: a divorce is not a verdict on whether two people loved each other. Plenty of marriages end between people who still, in some real way, do. Loving someone and being able to stay married to them are two different questions, and conflating them is one of the cruelest things our culture does to people in Kimora’s position.
What an Ending Like This Could Actually Look Like
The conventional wisdom on celebrity splits is to lawyer up, lock down the press strategy, and never speak again. That works for the tabloids. It does not work for the children, and there are children here.
What actually helps in a separation like this is not communication in the abstract. It is something much more specific. It is what I would call a repair attempt, which sounds soft but is the hardest thing on earth to do mid-conflict. It is one partner saying, in effect, this is painful and I do not want it to become permanently ugly between us, even if we cannot stay married.
For couples in the Bay Area working through the long tail of a public rupture, this is exactly the territory of couples therapy in San Francisco, and it is also the territory of co-parenting work after the marriage itself is over. Either way, the move is the same. Stop building the case against the other person. Start building the smallest possible bridge across which your kids can walk safely.
If you want the underlying skill in plain English, I wrote about the single most important skill in your relationship, and it applies just as much to endings as to ongoing marriages. Endings have a tone. The tone is something you choose, even when nothing else feels chosen.
What better looks like here is not reconciliation. It is a divorce that does not require the children to pick a parent.
The Part No One Tweets About
Somewhere this week, two people who once stood at an altar together are sitting in very different rooms, processing the fact that the life they built is officially over. One of them is in a cell. One of them is signing papers in a house that used to feel like a beginning.
Neither of them is the villain of this story. They are just two people whose marriage could not survive what was asked of it. That is not a scandal. That is a quietly common human ending, made loud by their last names.
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Figs O’Sullivan is a couples therapist and relationship expert to the Stars and Silicon Valley, founder of Empathi, and built Figlet, an AI relationship coach trained on his clinical work.
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