When my husband and I opened our marriage in 2017, my intention was to have a lot of sex with men who were not him. I thought I was seeking novelty and variety, and I certainly found those. But there were so many unintended consequences; I truly had no idea what I was getting myself into.
Until we started seeing other people, I didn’t know that I had an unhealed attachment wound from childhood, nor that opening our marriage would activate it in all kinds of ways. This left me spinning and desperate for distraction (more dates) or escape (more substances)…anything to provide quick relief and spare me having to feel the sadness, shame, and unworthiness I had unwittingly been trying to paper over my whole life.
Thus I found myself on a hero’s journey that was as accidental as it was enduring—eight years that have impacted virtually every aspect of my life: intimate relationships, health, career, home, finances, and family of origin. It has been harrowing, painful, and transformative.
In the past several months, I’ve noticed a shift. A lightening, a clearing, an elevation. My hero’s journey has finally reached something of an end. And it’s a happy ending!
The reason things finally shifted is not that Prince Charming showed up on a white steed to carry me into the sunset. The stars did not miraculously align overhead with me at their center. I did not find a magical potion deep inside some hidden cave that made my life perfect.
The reason things shifted is that, after close to forty years of seeking my security and worthiness in men, I made a decision to give up any pursuit of a partner. I have (finally) surrendered my will in regard to my romantic life.
This means no more dating apps. No more flights of fantasy. No more pining for the guy to whom I have felt deeply, psychically connected for going on five years. No more abandoning myself, second-guessing my instincts, ignoring my knowing, or diminishing my capacity for the sake of partnership.
WHAT A RELIEF.
How did I arrive at this recent clarity? I’d love to think it was a product of enlightenment but in fact, I think these epiphanic feelings are the product of my decision, not the impetus behind it.
The reason I finally stopped seeking is just plain, simple, heart-aching FATIGUE.
If you’ve ever tried online dating, you know the many ways it can be challenging. So often, the result is disappointing. There are conversations that never get anywhere, and those that start off well but fizzle. Lots of men report out about themselves but never engage in the mutual aspect of conversation (i.e. ASK A QUESTION). And there is plenty of strangeness…I “met” one guy who hearted or “liked” every single text I sent, and then apologized when he didn’t heart one because “the app wouldn’t let him for some reason.”
Huh?
Other conversations might seem to get traction and may even lead to a scheduled date, but “something comes up.” I’ve been stood up entirely, had dates cancel at the last minute, and had a guy swear to me, unprompted, that he wasn’t being a typical online flake and that he was merely sick but that he would definitely call me when he felt better (I never heard from him again.) Another guy messaged me from a different phone number after I stopped responding to his sexually forward messages so that he could insult me about how immature I was for a 50-year-old (I’m 46) in ALL CAPS.
These negative interactions take a toll, and I haven’t even mentioned the actual dates.
Some are a simple mismatch, whether it’s a lack of attraction or chemistry, weird pheromones or bad breath…not much you can do about these things (although representing oneself accurately in the profile would save us all time).
Other dates are more outrageously bad, like the guy who downed three drinks in an hour or the one who made homophobic and racist remarks on our second date after a pleasant first. Another guy told me he liked that I was closer to his age (50) but “still hot” because he’d been dating 20-somethings and they “seemed like they were at a different place in life” than he was. I had a man tell me once as we cuddled that he felt like a little boy next to me. Another man started crying about his divorce as he was laying on top of my naked body.
And then there was the guy who interrupted me nearly every time I spoke, who at the end of the night sort of stole a kiss goodnight and dashed off—he was ten feet away before I quite realized what happened. I texted him later that I didn’t care to see him again. A week later he messaged: Minda, when are you gonna crack and decide to come over, share a bottle of wine, get into a terrific convo, and then make out with me?
This is just the tip of the iceberg, all examples from the last year or so. I’ve been dating since 2017.
I guess you can chalk it up to my determined (stubborn?) nature—for so long my thinking was that if I wanted a partner, I should work toward that end. I imagined it was a numbers game: the more contacts I made, the more dates I had, the more likely it was that I would find my Dream Guy.
I used to carry him—my Dream Guy—on a list in my wallet: self aware, active, affectionate, honest, intelligent, tall, sexually compatible, good-humored, sociable, trustworthy, lives close to the natural world, fit, spiritual, loves music, creative, has curated interests, highly competent. It went on.
I thought this was a way of manifesting him, but I’ve come to realize that it was just another fantasy—a hologram—that I had become attached to. And, attached to that illusion, I was not free. It was the moral equivalent of having an AI boyfriend, except the “intelligence” was of my own mind. A figment of my imagination. And these days, I’m interested in reality, not perpetuating fairy tales.
For me, online dating created a massive energy leak. Apps became black holes through which my time, attention, energy, and hope were disappearing. So I decided, once and for all, to stop.
The first and most obvious change has been that I feel deeply—almost extravagantly—peaceful. My relationship to myself now feels abiding (“to dwell,” “be present,” “be held and kept”), whereas, if I had asked myself this question even a couple years ago, I think I would have said, “tenuous” or “uncertain,” because I didn’t have a deep sense of trust in myself yet. I lacked the faith that I had my own back.
(I wonder how many people would be surprised by their own answer to this question: How would you describe your relationship to yourself?)
Another consequence of reclaiming my energy from the bane of pursuing a man is that I am free to pursue other things that delight me. I have been having more fun this summer than any time I can remember in my adult life: camping, SUP boarding with my dog, hiking, riding my bike, sailing, ziplining with my family, connecting with friends, going to shows. Most of these are things I’ve done before but the quality of my energy is so much greater.
Other shifts in my awareness or experience:
I am embracing my life as it is instead of existing in some to-be state, as if my “real” life, or the life I actually want to live, hasn’t arrived yet
I feel emotionally present to my relationships to a greater degree than I was before—to friends, family, and most especially, my son
I am free from the bondage of the belief that I could only be happy, or fulfilled, with a partner
I feel assured that I can provide a decent standard of living for myself without financial dependence on a partner
I now have an alternative to the way I used to exist in the world, and a broader lens through which to perceive it
Most surprising to me is the realization that I now feel like I am operating at full strength versus partial—I had no idea until I surrendered my attachment to the idea of partnership how much energy I had been holding in reserve.
Almost certainly this was a way of keeping myself small, lest my fullness make anyone uncomfortable and earn me a label like opinionated, full of myself, or bitchy. Which is especially problematic because the attributes I pushed to the back are those that are most critical to forging an equitable society for women. For example, strong opinions. Direct communication. Autonomy. Assertiveness. Anger. In other words, typically masculine qualities that might make me seem “difficult.”
Instead I have favored the qualities that earn me favor and attention: beauty, warmth, flexibility, nurture, willingness, a friendly disposition. This was not difficult to do—I am these things, too—but it wasn’t always honest. Perhaps I perceived that holding back from my fullest expression—in other words, being less differentiated as myself—would make me more suitable for a broader range of partners.
One more reason I know I have held back is that I am a little afraid—sometimes a lot afraid—of my own power.
I was around 11 when I realized how my power can harm. I was riding the bus home from school and one of the boys was being mean. I’d had enough of it. So I lashed out and named every insecurity I perceived about him. I don’t remember what I said but I do remember feeling absolutely clear, as if I possessed some sort of preternatural perception. When I was done, he was sobbing, and I felt horrible. (A quote I heard recently: Use your power to warm, not to burn.)
Another significant memory of fearing my power related to studying abroad in Costa Rica, which was somewhat anomalous for someone in my rural hometown, much less my family of origin. It felt extraordinary that I had the opportunity, and it was such a positive experience. There were a few significant challenges, and a moment of legitimate concern, but I made my way there and back all by myself. I studied Spanish and biology and lived with a local family and made friends from other parts of the world and I had the best time. I was so proud of myself! I felt so capable, brave, and confident.
I was still feeling the glow shortly after my return when I had what I would now call an expansion contraction one morning as my mom and I set out for a walk. True, I had grown in profound ways, but the equal and opposite response was a shrinking fear. Somehow our conversation surfaced my concerns, and I started to cry, which grew into marrow-rooted sobs. I doubled over, hands on my knees, snot and tears streaming off my face.
My mom faced me, alarmed by the sudden dramatic outburst, waiting for an explanation.
“I’m afraid…” I began.
“I’m…afraid…” I could hardly breathe. It was such a vivid feeling.
Eventually I got it out. “I’m afraid I’ll never meet a man with the capacity to meet me.”
It was a relief to be able to tell her—and my mom might have been the only person I would have told—because I didn’t want to sound conceited. In fact, the sentiment was no conceit, merely a reflection of my lived experience. As a precocious, faintly world-weary 17-year-old, I had surely never met any boy that seemed to have a capacity to match me. No wonder my first real boyfriend was six years older.
Now here I am, nearly 30 years later, having concluded that, while there is almost certainly a man out there for me, he is exceedingly rare, and very possibly not the type to shop for eternal partnership on an app owned by Match Group.
One gift of getting over the fear of being alone is that I can now relish the mystery of how and when and where someone significant might appear in my life. It’s fun to live in a state of curiosity! It also creates a thrilling forward feedback loop: by releasing the requirement of partnership, I know I will never have to settle. This builds my esteem in myself, which makes me feel capable and bold.
In the meantime, I can use my energy for learning (I’ve been listening to this series), nurturing new interests (I bought a handpan!), and reciprocal relationships—no more wasted time and energy, no more dispersed attention, no more constantly dashed hopes.
In this way, prioritizing my peace over partnership feels like radical self care. Sure, there are things I miss about being in a relationship that I can't do for myself, like sex, physical affection, and general companionship. I deeply miss sleeping with a partner every night. But knowing that I am offering myself the best I can give is a balm for that longing, and I imagine I will appreciate a companion that much more (when and if) for having been without one.
Demonstrating my value in one area of life seems to be spilling over into other areas of my life, and I am finding it quite easy to take exquisite care of myself. For example, I have been flossing regularly—my least favorite personal hygiene task. And I bought a Waterpik!
I started making a huge salad from veggies I get at the neighborhood farmers market on Saturdays (a delight in itself) and pull from it every day, adding to it for variation and added nutrition. This saves a ton of time and ensures I eat the way I prefer, without turning to convenience foods because I didn’t plan ahead. It’s such a simple thing—why didn’t I think of it before? My attention was elsewhere.
My relationship to substances has also changed quite naturally. Cigarettes, which I romanticized for years, hold no appeal. Alcohol rarely sounds good, either.
I’ve also been connecting more deeply within, which has led to new realizations. For example, I realized that I often feel overwhelmed in large social situations—this was a huge surprise to me since I used to identify as an incurable extrovert. I also value deep conversations versus small talk; not everyone does. Thus, in the presence of a lot of people, or in the absence of a substantive conversation, I feel a low level of anxiety. In order to cope, I used to get a little drunk or a little high. Sure, it quieted the anxious feelings, but it also left me completely disconnected from myself. I suppose that was the (unconscious) point.
My self care now looks like avoiding social situations where I’m likely to feel overwhelmed. I might get FOMO at times, but giving up the social butterfly shtick means I can be who and how I really am: a deeply sensitive person who values meaning and connection and likes to make purposeful use of my time. Call me intense—I’m kind of intense! So what? I am me. And I’m done trying to be whatever I thought I was supposed to be in order to be pleasing or acceptable.
The relief of this, and the embrace of my whole self, brings tears to my eyes. I have finally achieved a feeling—a reality—I didn’t ever imagine would be mine: personal sovereignty. I feel whole. I feel trustworthy. I feel unfuckwithable. Finally, I belong to myself.
Something else I try to keep in mind is that being single also comes with plenty of perks, like not having to do the work of relationship with another person. Last weekend a girlfriend shared about a frustration in her marriage and joked, “Being in love is awful.”
It may have stung a little to hear—I would, after all, love to love and be loved by a man who offers companionship, shared ambitions, and a perfect cup of coffee every morning—but I heard what she was saying: she is a married person, and she has married person problems. I am single, and I have single person problems. No matter what our state of being, there will be always be “problems.” This is LIFE. It’s a relief to no longer interpret single person problems as evidence I need to run out and date.
This is not about shunning men—I love men, and male energy. And I am still open to it. I am merely learning to honor myself, and to give myself permission to be expressed and embodied at full strength.
It feels important to share this perspective because I know I am not alone in the ways I have sought my worth and security in men. We are all aware of the state of the world today, and it sure seems obvious that patriarchal dynamics led us here.
How is the world going to heal if the predominance of women are afraid to claim authority over their own lives?
Change will come when women rise.