I’ve been in a happy, consensually non-monogamous marriage for over a decade. My husband and I deeply love and support each other. From the beginning, our shared commitment to radical honesty and autonomy made it possible to build a connection that defies many traditional relationship norms.
We’ve navigated the terrain of multiple loves, passionate adventures, and emotional entanglements with care, curiosity, and open communication. It hasn’t always been easy—but it’s worked for us.
That’s what makes this moment so painful.
Lately, I find myself hollowed out by the very pursuit that once filled me with life. I feel discouraged, depressed, and disconnected. I’ve started wondering if I should give up on finding new connections. And though my husband assures me I’ve made a sincere effort—and he sees the toll it’s taken—I can’t help but feel a gnawing sense of failure.
More than that, I’m afraid. Afraid that my fading enthusiasm will quietly erode something precious between us. He’s always been inspired when I’ve had a strong, fulfilling connection with another partner. It lit something in him. It affirmed something in me. It was part of our shared story, our shared pleasure. I feel like a dimmed light in a once-vibrant house when that energy is missing.
But I’ve done the work. I’ve searched, swiped, flirted, tried to stay open—and repeatedly, I’ve run headfirst into a wall of mindlessness. I can’t count how many times I’ve been treated like a sexual vending machine, expected to light up for the price of a few emojis and a barely coherent “U up?” text.
These are men who lead with their erections as though that’s enough.
It’s not.
It never was.
But I used to think it could be.
The Mirage of Meaning
I was a pretty girl. I still am, depending on who you ask. In my twenties, I worked as a Playboy Bunny—a time I remember with mixed feelings: empowerment on the one hand, objectification on the other. Even now, decades later, people routinely assume I’m twenty years younger than I am. For better or worse, my looks have always been a currency I could trade.
And I did.
I traded them for attention. For approval. For connection.
For what I mistook for, if not love, at least genuine interest in who I was.
The revelation hit me recently—not as a gentle whisper of insight, but as a gut punch. I was scrolling through a particularly bleak stretch of dating messages, feeling invisible even while being bombarded by men, when it finally landed:
I’ve spent most of my life believing that sexual availability was synonymous with emotional value. That if someone wanted me, it meant they cared. That desire equaled caring.
I admit I was proud of how “liberated” I was—proud of being open, adventurous, and nontraditional. I thought I was claiming power in a culture that’s long tried to strip it from women. But underneath that pride was something rawer and much more fragile: need.
Not sexual hunger. Emotional hunger.
The hunger of a baby who didn’t grow up feeling fully loved or seen. A girl who learned early that her worth had to be earned—by being pleasing, pretty, and easy to want. And so I carried that wound into adulthood, thinking I was choosing freedom when, in truth, I was packaging my pain more attractively.
When Attraction Is Not Affection
There’s a strange cruelty to this dynamic—how easy it is to confuse being pursued with being cared for, especially when the pursuit is often transactional, fleeting, and hollow.
I told myself I was empowered, but often I was just available. I told myself I was discerning, but I was too often charmed by chemistry, seduced by attention, and flattered into false intimacy. The bar was low. I considered progress if a man seemed vaguely sentient and didn’t immediately disappear.
Over and over, I’ve gotten caught in the cycle of disappointment—believing this time might be different, only to find that the depth I longed for was nowhere in sight. My therapist would likely call it an “attachment wound.” I call it a soul ache.
What’s worse is that I’m not alone in this. I talk to bright, beautiful, powerful women who are constantly dismayed by the emotional laziness of modern dating. Women who are told they’re too intense, too picky, too much, when all they want is to be met with presence, effort, and care.
And let me say this plainly: I’m not blaming men for everything. I’ve seen my patterns clearly in this season of soul-searching. I’ve participated in the dynamic I now resent. I played a role in attracting men who weren’t interested in knowing me because I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to be known.
Being known means being vulnerable.
Being vulnerable means risking rejection.
And rejection, for someone who equated attention with affection, feels like annihilation.
A Mirror I Didn’t Want
Here’s the paradox I’ve been sitting with: even though I’m happily married, I’ve long sought emotional validation from others. Not because my husband wasn’t giving it to me—he was—but because no amount of love from one person can fill a hole you won’t admit is there.
I gathered love like scraps, grateful for any momentary high. I accepted the bare minimum and spun it into fantasy. I kept trying to win something I didn’t know I already had.
It’s humbling, heartbreaking work—uncovering the stories we’ve told ourselves to survive. But I’ve learned that true liberation isn’t about attracting many partners. It’s about how deeply you can love yourself—even when no one else is looking.
And that’s the work I’m finally doing now, not out of defeat, but out of determination.
The Cost of Confusing Attention for Care
I’m sharing this not to wallow but to witness. To say the quiet parts out loud. Because I know I’m not the only woman in this space—someone who grew up believing that her value was in her desirability. Who thought liberation meant constant affirmation? Who confused excitement with connection, sex with love, validation with intimacy.
I want us to wake up.
The real danger isn’t in being non-monogamous or sexually adventurous or emotionally open; the danger is in thinking that these things will fix a hole that was never about sex in the first place.
I still believe in connection and love beyond monogamy. Still, I no longer believe that being wanted is the same as being loved.
The attention economy we live in—fueled by porn, dating apps, and performance-based social media—has convinced too many people that effort is optional and depth is unnecessary. That women should be grateful for any interest at all that the burden of connection falls on the one who wants it more.
We deserve better.
And we begin by giving ourselves better.
A New Kind of Freedom
I don’t know what the future holds for me regarding outside relationships. Maybe I’ll meet someone who shows up with presence, integrity, and intention. Perhaps I won’t. But what I do know is this:
I’m done performing.
I’m done chasing.
I’m done mistaking the thrill of being chosen for the peace of being cherished.
What I want now is intimacy rooted in truth, not fantasy. Desire that flows from knowing, not guessing. Presence that costs something. I want conversations that last past the dopamine hit. I want effort, attention, and thoughtfulness.
And I want that from myself, too.
So to any woman reading this—especially those who, like me, have worn “liberated” like armor while ******* inside—let me say this:
You are not needy for wanting to be seen.
You are not broken for wanting more than a body.
You are not unworthy because they couldn’t meet you there.
Let your heartbreak become your awakening. Let it carve out the space where something deeper can grow. Let it teach you that absolute freedom is not being wanted by many but being loved—first and foremost—by you.
That’s the kind of liberation I’m claiming now.
And I promise, it’s worth the fight.
We’ve navigated the terrain of multiple loves, passionate adventures, and emotional entanglements with care, curiosity, and open communication. It hasn’t always been easy—but it’s worked for us.
That’s what makes this moment so painful.
Lately, I find myself hollowed out by the very pursuit that once filled me with life. I feel discouraged, depressed, and disconnected. I’ve started wondering if I should give up on finding new connections. And though my husband assures me I’ve made a sincere effort—and he sees the toll it’s taken—I can’t help but feel a gnawing sense of failure.
More than that, I’m afraid. Afraid that my fading enthusiasm will quietly erode something precious between us. He’s always been inspired when I’ve had a strong, fulfilling connection with another partner. It lit something in him. It affirmed something in me. It was part of our shared story, our shared pleasure. I feel like a dimmed light in a once-vibrant house when that energy is missing.
But I’ve done the work. I’ve searched, swiped, flirted, tried to stay open—and repeatedly, I’ve run headfirst into a wall of mindlessness. I can’t count how many times I’ve been treated like a sexual vending machine, expected to light up for the price of a few emojis and a barely coherent “U up?” text.
These are men who lead with their erections as though that’s enough.
It’s not.
It never was.
But I used to think it could be.
The Mirage of Meaning
I was a pretty girl. I still am, depending on who you ask. In my twenties, I worked as a Playboy Bunny—a time I remember with mixed feelings: empowerment on the one hand, objectification on the other. Even now, decades later, people routinely assume I’m twenty years younger than I am. For better or worse, my looks have always been a currency I could trade.
And I did.
I traded them for attention. For approval. For connection.
For what I mistook for, if not love, at least genuine interest in who I was.
The revelation hit me recently—not as a gentle whisper of insight, but as a gut punch. I was scrolling through a particularly bleak stretch of dating messages, feeling invisible even while being bombarded by men, when it finally landed:
I’ve spent most of my life believing that sexual availability was synonymous with emotional value. That if someone wanted me, it meant they cared. That desire equaled caring.
I admit I was proud of how “liberated” I was—proud of being open, adventurous, and nontraditional. I thought I was claiming power in a culture that’s long tried to strip it from women. But underneath that pride was something rawer and much more fragile: need.
Not sexual hunger. Emotional hunger.
The hunger of a baby who didn’t grow up feeling fully loved or seen. A girl who learned early that her worth had to be earned—by being pleasing, pretty, and easy to want. And so I carried that wound into adulthood, thinking I was choosing freedom when, in truth, I was packaging my pain more attractively.
When Attraction Is Not Affection
There’s a strange cruelty to this dynamic—how easy it is to confuse being pursued with being cared for, especially when the pursuit is often transactional, fleeting, and hollow.
I told myself I was empowered, but often I was just available. I told myself I was discerning, but I was too often charmed by chemistry, seduced by attention, and flattered into false intimacy. The bar was low. I considered progress if a man seemed vaguely sentient and didn’t immediately disappear.
Over and over, I’ve gotten caught in the cycle of disappointment—believing this time might be different, only to find that the depth I longed for was nowhere in sight. My therapist would likely call it an “attachment wound.” I call it a soul ache.
What’s worse is that I’m not alone in this. I talk to bright, beautiful, powerful women who are constantly dismayed by the emotional laziness of modern dating. Women who are told they’re too intense, too picky, too much, when all they want is to be met with presence, effort, and care.
And let me say this plainly: I’m not blaming men for everything. I’ve seen my patterns clearly in this season of soul-searching. I’ve participated in the dynamic I now resent. I played a role in attracting men who weren’t interested in knowing me because I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to be known.
Being known means being vulnerable.
Being vulnerable means risking rejection.
And rejection, for someone who equated attention with affection, feels like annihilation.
A Mirror I Didn’t Want
Here’s the paradox I’ve been sitting with: even though I’m happily married, I’ve long sought emotional validation from others. Not because my husband wasn’t giving it to me—he was—but because no amount of love from one person can fill a hole you won’t admit is there.
I gathered love like scraps, grateful for any momentary high. I accepted the bare minimum and spun it into fantasy. I kept trying to win something I didn’t know I already had.
It’s humbling, heartbreaking work—uncovering the stories we’ve told ourselves to survive. But I’ve learned that true liberation isn’t about attracting many partners. It’s about how deeply you can love yourself—even when no one else is looking.
And that’s the work I’m finally doing now, not out of defeat, but out of determination.
The Cost of Confusing Attention for Care
I’m sharing this not to wallow but to witness. To say the quiet parts out loud. Because I know I’m not the only woman in this space—someone who grew up believing that her value was in her desirability. Who thought liberation meant constant affirmation? Who confused excitement with connection, sex with love, validation with intimacy.
I want us to wake up.
The real danger isn’t in being non-monogamous or sexually adventurous or emotionally open; the danger is in thinking that these things will fix a hole that was never about sex in the first place.
I still believe in connection and love beyond monogamy. Still, I no longer believe that being wanted is the same as being loved.
The attention economy we live in—fueled by porn, dating apps, and performance-based social media—has convinced too many people that effort is optional and depth is unnecessary. That women should be grateful for any interest at all that the burden of connection falls on the one who wants it more.
We deserve better.
And we begin by giving ourselves better.
A New Kind of Freedom
I don’t know what the future holds for me regarding outside relationships. Maybe I’ll meet someone who shows up with presence, integrity, and intention. Perhaps I won’t. But what I do know is this:
I’m done performing.
I’m done chasing.
I’m done mistaking the thrill of being chosen for the peace of being cherished.
What I want now is intimacy rooted in truth, not fantasy. Desire that flows from knowing, not guessing. Presence that costs something. I want conversations that last past the dopamine hit. I want effort, attention, and thoughtfulness.
And I want that from myself, too.
So to any woman reading this—especially those who, like me, have worn “liberated” like armor while ******* inside—let me say this:
You are not needy for wanting to be seen.
You are not broken for wanting more than a body.
You are not unworthy because they couldn’t meet you there.
Let your heartbreak become your awakening. Let it carve out the space where something deeper can grow. Let it teach you that absolute freedom is not being wanted by many but being loved—first and foremost—by you.
That’s the kind of liberation I’m claiming now.
And I promise, it’s worth the fight.
