It’s been ten years since I said ‘I do,’ but the weight of the past hasn’t faded. In the beginning, I thought I could handle it. I forgave my husband’s betrayals, convincing myself that love could conquer everything, that the wounds would heal with time and that our life together would make up for the hurt. We had children, built a home, and from the outside, our family looked picture-perfect. But around the fifth year, something changed in me. The bitterness I had tried to bury began to seep through the cracks. Little moments of anger, quiet resentments that I’d pushed aside, suddenly felt impossible to ignore.

It started subtly—a distance growing between us, almost unnoticeable at first. I would lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, feeling more like a stranger than a wife. The intimacy we once shared had become routine, a checklist of obligations rather than a connection of hearts. I didn’t want to feel that way, but every touch reminded me of the trust that had been broken, and every embrace felt like an echo of a time when I had been naive enough to believe his promises. That’s when the thoughts began—the quiet, guilty fantasies of someone else, anyone who might see me differently, who might make me feel whole again.

They were fleeting at first, these thoughts. Moments where I would find myself wondering what it would be like to start over, to be free of the past that weighed so heavily on my shoulders. I told myself it was just my imagination running wild, a harmless escape from the reality I was living. I started exchanging innocent texts with old friends, flirting in ways that felt exhilarating and wrong all at once. It was a rush—a reminder that I was still desirable, that there were still parts of me untouched by the years of frustration and disappointment.

But the guilt came quickly after. I would delete the messages, push the thoughts away, and promise myself that I would try harder to fix what was broken between us. Yet, every time we were alone together, the gap between us felt wider. I wanted to feel close to him, to regain the intimacy we had lost, but a part of me had shut down, refusing to reopen. It wasn’t that I stopped loving him, but the trust that had once been the foundation of our relationship had crumbled, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t rebuild it.

We had moments of happiness, of course—days where everything felt almost normal. Family vacations, laughter over dinner, and quiet evenings with the kids filled our home with warmth. But even in those moments, there was a shadow, a part of me that remained detached, observing from a distance. I wanted so badly to feel what I used to feel, to erase the doubts that circled in my mind. But the scars of his betrayals hadn’t faded; they had only settled deeper into my heart, and they twisted every moment we were supposed to be close.

It became worse during our intimate moments. What should have been times of connection felt empty and forced. I would go through the motions, but my mind would wander, my heart aching for a love that felt honest and true. I tried to rekindle the passion between us, but it was like striking matches that refused to light. I knew he sensed it—the distance, the coolness that had taken over me. He would reach out, trying to make things right, but it always felt too late, like an apology for a hurt I couldn’t name, a wound that never fully healed.

Now, ten years into this marriage, I feel like I’m standing at a crossroads, torn between the life we’ve built and the longing for something more. I’ve given so much to this relationship—my forgiveness, my effort, my hope. But I can’t shake the feeling that the part of me that trusted him, the part that believed in forever, has been lost somewhere along the way. I don’t know if I can ever get it back, or if I even want to try. A decade has passed, and I’m left wondering if love is enough, if it can ever truly survive the damage of broken trust.