Loving him didn’t mean I had to stay, and leaving didn’t mean I had stopped loving him. It had taken time and therapy for that truth to settle without guilt.
I still remember the first time I sat in Dr. Bonnie’s office. It didn’t feel like a medical space at all. There was only a soft gray sofa, two chairs facing each other, a wooden bookshelf with a small plant tucked into the corner, and a wide window that let the afternoon light spill in without any sense of hurry.
It was a few weeks after I returned from Florida—after the decision had been made, after the divorce process had begun—when silence started to feel heavier than conflict itself.
I still remember how Dr. Bonnie sat across from me, without a clipboard, without taking notes. She simply observed me, not in a way that felt intimidating, but not in a way that allowed me to hide either.
“This is your first session,” she said gently. “We don’t have to talk about everything today.”
I knew I was supposed to begin, but for some reason my throat felt tight.
“Then,” she continued, without pressing, “may I ask you one simple question?”
I looked at her. “What is it?”
“What made you come here now?”
The question sounded light, the answer wasn’t.
I took a deep breath. “Because... I’m tired.”
“Tired how?” she asked softly.
I let out a small laugh—reflexive, not because it was funny. “Tired of pretending I’m okay.”
Dr. Bonnie nodded slowly. “Since when have you been pretending?”
I stayed quiet for a long time.
“Since I decided to give him another chance,” I finally said. “After everything happened.”
My fingers tightened around the arm of the sofa.
“My husband—my ex-husband—cheated while I was pregnant,” I said flatly, like I was reading a financial report. I waited for something to come—anger, tears, anything. But all that surfaced was the emptiness I had grown too familiar with.
“And after that?” Dr. Bonnie asked.
“After that, I chose to stay.” I gave a small shrug. “I told myself we could fix it. That the love was still there. That forgiveness meant endurance.”
My fingers tightened. “I needed to be strong. As a wife. A mother. A worker. And because I chose to stay… I felt like I had to be.”
She leaned forward slightly. “Was there any space for you not to be strong?”
The question cut deeper than I expected.
I shook my head. “No. If I stopped, everything would fall apart. My child needed me. My job needed me. And he needed me to keep choosing him.”
I exhaled slowly. “So I shut myself down.”
“Shut down how?”
“I stopped letting myself feel anything,” I answered honestly. “Or at least, I stopped showing it. I stopped hoping for more. I stopped being angry. I stopped asking.”
Dr. Bonnie was quiet for a moment before saying, “That’s a survival response.”
The words tightened something in my chest.
“You didn’t process your pain,” she continued gently. “You postponed it. And your body learned how to function while carrying it.”
