I’ve been his wife for a decade now, and through it all, I’ve tried my best to make it work. After the lies and deceit in our early years, I did everything I could to hold our family together. I forgave him when he asked for forgiveness, believing that with time, the wounds would heal, and the love we once shared could return. We built a life together—children, a home, and a routine that masked the cracks in our foundation. But around the halfway point, when the years of trying to move on had piled up, I couldn’t ignore the hurt any longer.

The resentment had settled in like an unwelcome guest, quietly but steadily taking root. At first, I tried to push it away, convincing myself that we were stronger than this. We had survived so much already, and I didn’t want to be the one to tear everything down. But the anger festered, hidden behind the smiles, the polite conversation, and the daily responsibilities. It became harder to hide the bitterness that had grown within me, especially during those moments when he would reach for me. The touch that once felt loving now felt suffocating, like a reminder of everything I had buried deep inside.

It wasn’t just the emotional distance; it was the feeling of being stuck, trapped in a life that no longer felt like my own. I found myself searching for an escape, looking for something, anything, to make me feel alive again. The temptation to reach out to others became harder to resist. I would catch myself thinking about old friends—people I hadn’t seen in years—wondering what they were doing, who they had become. Sometimes, I would find myself drawn to strangers, people I would never have given a second glance before, simply for the attention, for the possibility of feeling wanted and valued in ways my husband no longer made me feel.

There were moments when I thought about reconnecting with these old friends, exchanging messages, maybe even going further. It wasn’t about trying to leave my marriage or to betray him in some grand gesture. It was about filling the emptiness I couldn’t explain. The desire to feel something different, something more, was like a constant hum in my thoughts. I would tell myself it was harmless, that it didn’t mean anything, but deep down, I knew it was a sign that something was wrong, that I was no longer the woman I once was.

Even in our most intimate moments, I couldn’t shake the feeling of disconnect. When he held me, I didn’t feel the closeness that should have been there. Instead, it was as if my body was present, but my mind and heart had already checked out. I would wonder if this was the life I had truly chosen, if this was the love I had worked so hard to preserve. I questioned whether I had made the right choice all those years ago when we said our vows. I had believed in us, believed that we could weather any storm, but now, the storm felt unending.

There were days when I would try to push these thoughts aside, convincing myself that I was overthinking, that I was just tired or stressed. But deep down, I knew that the foundation of our relationship had been cracked in ways I couldn’t fix on my own. I had tried, and I had loved him, but something had been lost—something that I wasn’t sure could ever be found again. As much as I wanted to believe in the promise of our vows, the reality of my feelings made it hard to hold on to the hope that things would ever truly be the same.

Now, ten years in, I find myself standing at a crossroads, unsure of where to go next. I love him, and I’ve invested so much of myself into our life together. But there’s a part of me that wonders if we’ve both changed so much over the years that we’re no longer the people we were when we first met. I don’t want to give up on us, but I don’t know how to keep pretending that everything is fine when the hurt still lingers, when the longing for something more has become a part of me. The question I keep asking myself is whether I can find a way to heal what has been broken or if it’s too late for us to ever be the couple we once were.