Loving my husband doesn’t mean I can’t crave something more for myself. Our love is real—it’s steady, dependable, and has weathered the highs and lows of life. But over the years, I’ve found myself longing for something that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me. It’s not about dissatisfaction with him or our life together. It’s about a deeper hunger—a need to reconnect with the parts of myself I thought were gone.

I used to be someone who lit up a room just by walking in, someone whose laugh came easily and whose dreams felt boundless. But somewhere along the way, I let that version of me slip away. I became the reliable partner, the responsible adult, the one who holds everything together. And while I take pride in those roles, I’ve come to realize they don’t tell the whole story of who I am.

When I’m with him—the other man—it’s like stepping into a mirror that reflects the woman I used to be. He doesn’t see the tired wife or the overextended caregiver. He sees the adventurous, passionate, curious person I’d nearly forgotten. With him, I’m not weighed down by the expectations of my life. I’m free to simply be.

I know the world would judge me for this. They’d call it betrayal or selfishness. But in these moments, I’m not running away from my life—I’m running back to myself. Because loving my husband doesn’t mean I can’t love me too.