Our ten-year marriage appears solid from the outside. We have children, a beautiful home, and a life that many would envy. To the world, we are the picture of success—a happy family navigating the ups and downs of life. But underneath it all, the scars of my husband’s past mistakes are buried deep within me, scars that have never quite healed. I forgave him, or at least, I told myself I did. But as the years went on, it became harder and harder to ignore the truth of how his actions had changed me. The trust we had once built together was cracked, and it seemed like no amount of time could ever put the pieces back together again.

About five years into our marriage, something shifted. The man I had married no longer felt like the same person. I began to feel like I was living with a stranger, someone who couldn’t possibly understand how deeply his past betrayals had hurt me. We would go through the motions of our daily lives—raising our children, managing the house, sharing the responsibilities of our routine. But when it came to us, there was a disconnect that felt impossible to bridge. It was as though the space between us had grown so vast that we couldn’t find our way back to each other.

My mind, once so focused on building our family and making our life work, began to wander. I started to notice things—small details that would have never crossed my mind before. I longed for attention, the kind of attention that made me feel seen, wanted, and valued. It wasn’t about being unfaithful or dissatisfied with my marriage in the traditional sense; it was about wanting something that had been missing for so long—the validation that I was still desirable, that I was more than just a wife and mother. I found myself daydreaming, wondering what it would be like to feel truly appreciated, to experience the kind of connection that seemed so distant in my own home.

I tried to ignore these feelings, tried to bury them under the responsibilities and commitments of our life. But the yearning didn’t go away. It crept into my thoughts, into my conversations, into every moment of quiet. I found myself entertaining small interactions with other men—innocent flirtations, harmless compliments, and fleeting exchanges that made me feel something I hadn’t felt in years: noticed. I never acted on these urges, but they were there, constantly nagging at me. They were a reminder that I was more than just a wife; I was a woman with desires, with needs, with a life outside of the roles I had assumed.

Even in our most intimate moments, when we were supposed to be connecting, I couldn’t escape the feeling of disconnection. The touch of his hand, the way he looked at me, the words he whispered—they all felt like they belonged to someone else. It was as if he was physically there, but emotionally, I had already checked out. I would lay awake at night, wondering how we got here, how we had drifted so far apart. I loved him, I always had, but the emotional intimacy that had once been the foundation of our relationship had eroded over time, and no amount of physical closeness could fill the void.

There were times when I tried to speak up, to explain how I was feeling, but it always seemed to fall on deaf ears. He didn’t seem to understand that his past actions had left a permanent mark on me, one that couldn’t just be erased with apologies or promises. I had hoped that, with time, things would improve, that we would find a way back to each other, but it felt like I was the only one trying. The more I withdrew, the more he seemed content to live in the comfort of our routine, oblivious to the emotional distance that was growing between us.

Now, ten years in, I find myself standing at a crossroads. I have everything I ever wanted—a family, a home, a life. But inside, I feel a longing, a deep ache that won’t go away. I wonder if it’s too late to rebuild what we once had, or if I’ve simply outgrown the person I was when we first met. I don’t know what the future holds, but I know that I can’t keep pretending that everything is fine when I feel so disconnected. The love I have for him is real, but I’m beginning to wonder if love alone is enough to heal the wounds that have festered for so long.