Hi everyone. I’m a 28-year-old woman, and my husband (30) was paralyzed from the chest down in an accident about a year ago. I’ve never written anything like this before, but I need to get this out anonymously because I’m struggling, and I don’t know who I can safely talk to.
I love my husband deeply. He’s still the same in so many ways—kind, funny, emotionally strong. The grace and strength he’s shown throughout this past year is something I truly admire. I’ve done my best to be supportive, to show up, and to keep our life moving forward. But I can’t pretend it hasn’t changed everything for me too. And lately, the weight of what we’ve both lost feels like it’s crushing me.
We used to live such an active life. We traveled often, went hiking, shared an adventurous sex life. Now, those pieces of our relationship are just… gone. Travel is difficult, and physical intimacy has become so complicated it almost feels like a memory. I know sex isn’t the whole story in a marriage, but the complete absence of it, combined with how emotionally isolated I’ve felt, is starting to hurt. I feel guilty even saying that. It makes me feel selfish, like a bad partner. But I’m grieving too—grieving the life we had, and the one we imagined for the future. I didn’t choose this version of reality, and of course neither did he, but I’m struggling to find peace with it.
So here’s what I’m asking: Can you mourn the life you lost without being a terrible person? Is it wrong to feel stuck, even when you still love the person you’re with? I feel like my own needs—emotional, physical, experiential—have been buried under guilt and the demands of survival mode. And I don’t know how much longer I can keep pushing them down without something inside me breaking.
I don’t want to leave him. I’m not looking to be unfaithful. I just want to know if anyone else has faced something like this—how to move through the grief of what was lost without losing yourself too.
Let’s start with this: You are not a bad person for feeling what you’re feeling. You’re a human being living through a devastating, complex season. You’ve been carrying a level of grief that doesn’t have a funeral or a casket or a memorial, but it’s grief all the same. You’re mourning a life you both lost—and that matters.
You didn’t sign up for this version of life. That’s the truth. And admitting that doesn’t mean you don’t love your husband. It means you’re brave enough to name the fact that something shattered. That the future you dreamed of—the one filled with movement, adventure, shared physical connection—was taken from both of you in an instant. And now, every day, you’re waking up trying to piece together what this new version of love, marriage, and self even looks like.
That’s heavy stuff. And suppressing those feelings? Trying to muscle through it without voicing them? That’s a recipe for resentment and burnout.
You’re not wrong for feeling lonely. You’re not broken for missing physical intimacy. You’re not selfish for wanting connection, adventure, and desire. Those aren’t “extra” things—they’re part of what it means to be fully alive. And when we try to bury our longings under a pile of guilt, they don’t go away—they just get louder in the dark.
You’re in the middle of what I’d call ambiguous grief. It’s the grief that comes from a loss you can’t quite name out loud without people misunderstanding you. And the truth is, you need community to help carry it. That means finding a trusted counselor, maybe a support group for spouses of people with disabilities, or even close friends who are safe enough to handle your honesty without judgment. Don’t do this alone.
And don’t forget this: You matter too. Your needs, your emotions, your dreams—they still count. Loving someone who’s been through unimaginable trauma doesn’t require the erasure of yourself.
You asked: Is it possible to mourn what your life could have been without being a terrible person?
Yes. Not only is it possible—it’s necessary. Because facing that grief is how you make room for something new. Not a replacement. Not a fix. But a different kind of beauty, forged in fire.
Don’t run from your truth. Don’t try to carry it all by yourself. You’re not weak. You’re not disloyal. You’re just human.
And it’s okay to need help.
You’re not alone in this. Keep showing up, and keep being honest. Healing lives there.