Growing up, I always envisioned adulthood as the time when I’d share my life—and my bed—with someone I deeply loved. To me, it represented comfort, connection, and the absence of loneliness. But here I am, living that reality, and feeling lonelier than I ever imagined.
The past few days have been especially isolating. A sense of betrayal has compounded the loneliness I’ve carried for so long. I opened up to my mom, sharing deeply personal details about my struggles. I trusted her, but that trust was misplaced. She took screenshots of our texts and sent them to my partner. The fallout has left our home environment tense and awkward.
Right now, both of us are walking on eggshells. I don’t think he understands my intentions—I’m not trying to ruin his life. I do, however, find myself wishing he could feel some of the hurt he’s caused me. Does that make me a bad person? Maybe it does, but it’s hard to deny how much pain can change your perspective.
Today, for the first time in two weeks, I didn’t cry. That feels like progress, even though I’m still grappling with a lot of unease. I’m six days late on my period, and while I know the odds are slim—given his vasectomy—I can’t help but panic. A baby was the catalyst for the situation I’m in now, and I don’t think I’m ready to face that possibility again. All I can do is hope that tomorrow brings clarity, even if it’s in the form of a messy relief.
We did have a family photo shoot today. Our daughter wasn’t in the mood to cooperate, so the photographer shifted focus to my partner and me. I won’t lie—standing there with him, pretending everything was fine, felt uncomfortable. Yet, somehow, we laughed. That laugh was the only genuine connection we’ve shared in days. It was a bittersweet reminder of why I feel so torn. I love him, but I also feel like leaving might be the only way to heal.
Is it crazy to feel this conflicted? To long for love from someone who has caused so much pain? To want to feel normal again?
I don’t know the answers, but I do know this: these feelings are messy, raw, and real. If nothing else, I’m holding onto the hope that things will eventually make sense. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday. For now, I’m just taking it one moment at a time.
And if you’re reading this and feeling a similar kind of loneliness—whether in a crowded bed or an empty one—know you’re not alone. We’re all just trying to find our way back to ourselves.
The Fourth Trimester 