My girlfriend recently cheated at a party, but I didn’t feel angry or want to break up. That reaction confused my closest friends, who think I’m making a big mistake by staying.
For context, I’m introverted and have always preferred a small circle, coding, and anime over big social expectations. I’ve never dreamed of marriage or kids, and I believe a relationship is worthwhile as long as it makes you happy. I would never cheat, but I also don’t feel the deep sense of betrayal others describe.
We met in college, connected over shared interests, and have been together for years. When I confronted her about what happened, she apologized and promised to change. My main concern was honesty and safety.
My friends think I’m settling or lack self-esteem, and one even called me spineless. Their criticism comes from concern, but their traditional views don’t match how I experience relationships. Still, their reaction planted a small doubt: am I ignoring a major problem, or is it okay to stay simply because I’m happy?
Look, cheating isn’t just some minor blip you casually sweep under the rug. It’s a giant flashing sign that the relationship you think you’re in might not be the one she thinks she’s in. Pretending you’re totally fine with it doesn’t make you enlightened—it just means you don’t want to deal with the uncomfortable parts of being in a relationship.
Not feeling anger doesn’t automatically make you emotionally evolved. Sometimes it means you’ve numbed yourself so well that you don’t even register when your boundaries get stomped on. That’s not Zen. That’s disconnection.
You say you’re happy. Cool. But plenty of people are “happy” in situations where they’re quietly eroding their own dignity, because avoiding pain feels easier than speaking up. And the whole “I don’t really believe in betrayal” philosophy? That’s just a convenient shield to avoid saying, “Hey, I deserve better than this.”
Your friends aren’t attacking you—they’re reflecting something you don’t want to see: you’re shrinking instead of standing up for what you need. They see you bending over backwards to justify staying comfortable rather than setting a real boundary.
Here’s the truth you’ve got to face: boundaries aren’t selfish. They’re the guardrails that keep relationships from turning you into emotional Jell-O.
You’ve got two paths:
One, raise the standard. Have the hard, ugly, honest conversation about what you need to rebuild trust. If she balks, minimizes, or dodges, there’s your answer.
Or two, admit you don’t actually care about monogamy and renegotiate the terms openly—with expectations, transparency, and health precautions. But don’t pretend it’s something it’s not.
Sitting in the mushy middle while shrugging at disrespect? That’s how people wake up years later realizing they slowly taught someone that they’ll tolerate anything.
You don’t have to explode. But you do have to give a damn about yourself. Pick a standard. Set the boundary. Because if you don’t choose now, life will choose for you—and you won’t like the consequences.