My love for my husband hasn’t changed. He’s been my partner through so much—life’s joys, its struggles, the quiet moments in between. But as the years have passed, I’ve felt a growing emptiness, a sense that a piece of me has gone dormant. I’ve become the woman who takes care of everyone else, the one who’s always there to hold things together. But what about me?

When I met him, it wasn’t about love or escaping my marriage. It wasn’t about what he could give me that my husband couldn’t. It was about finding a space that belonged only to me, a place where I could rediscover the woman I used to be—the one who laughed too loudly, chased her own dreams, and felt alive in ways she’d almost forgotten.

With him, it’s not about titles or obligations. It’s about freedom. He doesn’t see me as a wife or a mother or someone tied down by responsibilities. He sees me. And in those moments we share, I see myself again too. Not as someone defined by others, but as the vibrant, passionate, and fearless woman I once was.

I know this isn’t the kind of story people celebrate. Some would call it selfish, even cruel. But it’s not about choosing one life over another. It’s about creating a space where I can breathe, where I can remember that I’m more than what I’ve become. A space where I can be wholly, unapologetically me.