I’ve been married for ten years now. In the beginning, it felt like a whirlwind—young love, spontaneous decisions, the kind of heady romance that sweeps you off your feet and convinces you that love conquers all. But the reality was much different. My husband, the man I thought was my forever, started showing sides of himself that I never saw coming. He treated me poorly, and worse, he was unfaithful. It crushed me, but I was young, and I loved him with a kind of naive intensity that made forgiveness seem like the only option. So I forgave him, again and again. I told myself that things would get better, that this was just a rough patch we had to go through, that our love was strong enough to survive.

We moved forward, had children, and built a life together. Outwardly, everything seemed fine—a nice home, beautiful kids, the semblance of a happy family. But deep inside, the scars of his betrayals never truly healed. Each time he would promise to change, each time he’d apologize and shower me with empty words, a small piece of my trust would crumble away, until eventually, there was nothing left but resentment simmering under the surface. I held it all in, though. I buried it deep, convincing myself that for the sake of the family, I had to keep going.

But as the years went by, that resentment grew. It became a shadow, following me everywhere, a constant reminder of the times he broke my heart. Five or six years into our marriage, the weight of it all became unbearable. I started to feel an emptiness, a hollowness that no amount of pretending could fill. And with that emptiness came urges—dangerous urges. I found myself longing for attention, for affection, for something to make me feel alive again. I wanted to be seen, desired, and appreciated in a way my husband never did. And soon, I found myself seeking it in the wrong places.

It started small. A harmless message to an old friend, a flirtatious text to a distant acquaintance—tiny sparks of validation that made me feel wanted, even if only for a moment. I would delete the messages, erase the evidence, and return to my role as the dutiful wife and mother. But it wasn’t enough. The more I suppressed those urges, the stronger they became, until they were all I could think about, even in moments when I should have felt closest to my husband.

I felt trapped—trapped in a marriage that I chose to save, in a life I had built around a man I no longer trusted. Every time he touched me, I thought about the betrayals, about the lies, about the moments he broke my heart and I let him get away with it. It all replayed in my mind like a cruel movie on repeat. I couldn’t shut it off. And so, when I was with him, my mind would wander to someone else, someone who might treat me differently, someone who might see me for who I really am.

As the years passed, the moments of temptation became more frequent. I would fantasize about reaching out, about escaping, about finding someone who would appreciate me, who would make me feel valued in ways my husband never had. But every time I got close to crossing that line, I pulled back, guilt and fear holding me in place. I thought about the kids, about the life we had built, about the consequences of my actions. And so I stayed, caught in this endless cycle of resentment and longing, living a lie while trying to convince myself that I was doing the right thing.

I wish I could say that things got better, that my husband realized how much he had hurt me, that we found a way to rebuild the trust and move forward. But the truth is, I don’t know how to let go of the pain. I don’t know if I ever will. It’s not just about what he did; it’s about the woman I became because of it—the secretive, resentful version of myself that I never wanted to be. I feel like a stranger in my own life, living behind a mask that’s slipping more and more with each passing day.

I still love him, in my own way. Or maybe I love the memory of who I thought he was, who we were supposed to be. But the damage has been done, and I don’t know how to fix it. The thought of leaving terrifies me, but so does the idea of staying and living with this resentment that has become a constant companion. I’m stuck between the life I chose and the life I secretly crave, unable to decide which version of me is the real one.

I look at my children, and I wonder what kind of example I’m setting, if they can sense the distance between us, the unspoken words, the hidden pain. I try to be strong for them, to shield them from the cracks in our marriage, but I know that kids are perceptive. They see more than we give them credit for, and I’m terrified that one day, they’ll understand the truth—that their parents were never as perfect as they seemed.

So here I am, caught in a life I chose to save, with a husband I no longer fully trust and a heart that feels like it’s lost somewhere between resentment and longing. I’m not sure what comes next, but I know that something has to change. I can’t keep living in the shadows of the past, hiding my pain behind a forced smile. But for now, I take it day by day, hoping that someday I’ll find the strength to make the choice that will set me free—whatever that choice may be.