I’ve been with my wife since I was a teenager, married for 15 years, and we have two kids. But deep down, I’ve known for a long time that I wasn’t truly in love. I stayed because I was too afraid to leave, too unsure of how to have the hard conversation. I convinced myself that what I wanted in a relationship—romance, intimacy, spontaneity—was just a fantasy.
She’s never been affectionate, never initiated intimacy, never surprised me or made me feel desired. Over the years, I told myself things would improve: her health, her depression, her anxiety. But they didn’t. She’s been diagnosed with cPTSD, ADHD, and autism, and while I feel for her struggles, it’s been exhausting. She spends her days watching TV and scrolling on her phone, while I work, cook, clean, and care for the kids. I feel more like her caregiver than her partner.
I checked out of this marriage five years ago. It was painful to admit to myself that nothing would change. I grieved for the life I missed, the love I never had, and the person I’ve become. I’m not in love with her, but I care about her and our kids. She’s an okay mom, but as a partner, she’s absent. I’m starved for intimacy, affection, and connection.
I’ve tried to talk to her, but nothing changes. She dismisses how unhappy I am, and I think she believes I won’t leave. Financially, I don’t know how I could, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like this—just going through the motions, feeling alone, unseen, and unloved. I crave more. I wanted more. But I don’t know how to move forward.
Alright, let’s get real. What you’ve described isn’t a marriage—it’s a slow, painful coexistence. And I need to be honest with you: this isn’t sustainable. Not for you, not for her, and definitely not for your kids. But before you make any drastic moves, we need to take a hard look at where you are, how you got here, and what comes next.
You’ve spent years bottling up your pain, holding everything together, and hoping things would magically change. But here’s the hard truth: silence breeds resentment. And resentment? That will slowly suffocate whatever connection is left in any relationship. You’ve already grieved this marriage in private because, deep down, you know it’s been over for years. You’ve been doing all the work—emotionally, physically, and mentally—while she’s checked out. That’s not partnership; that’s martyrdom.
And yet, here you are, carrying all this weight while convincing yourself it’s noble to keep going for the sake of stability. But stability at what cost? Your self-worth? Your mental health? Your ability to be the best dad you can be? You feel unseen, untouched, and unloved. Those aren’t petty desires—they’re fundamental human needs. You’re craving intimacy and connection because you’re wired for it, and denying that doesn’t make you strong; it makes you slowly wither.
I’m not here to tell you to pack your bags tomorrow, but I am here to tell you this: you need to stop lying to yourself. Stop telling yourself you can keep this up, because you can’t. It’s time for honesty—not just with her, but with yourself. This isn’t just about her shortcomings; it’s about your inability to confront the hard truths and set boundaries long ago. That’s where the healing starts.
You owe it to yourself and to your kids to model what a healthy life looks like, even if that means making tough, painful decisions. You can’t control her actions, her diagnoses, or her willingness to change. But you can control what kind of life you choose to live moving forward. Whether that means getting into therapy, having one final honest conversation with her, or creating an exit strategy, you need to take that first step. You’ve already admitted you’re unhappy and checked out. Now it’s time to decide if you’re brave enough to take the next step toward something better—for yourself and for the people who depend on you.
It’s okay to want more. It’s okay to say, “This isn’t enough.” But you have to own that decision. Be clear, be kind, and be honest. That’s how you’ll begin to reclaim yourself, no matter what happens next.