How I Learned to Stop Hiding the Truth About My Relationship

I was married for 10 years. I married the first person I ever dated.

We started dating when I was 18, and right off the bat there was no real attraction on my end. But I was completely new to dating — away at college for the first time — and my parents never had conversations with me about relationships or sexuality. So, of course, I deferred to my friends. Dating was what you were supposed to do by 18, right?

They told me, “He’s not a bad guy. He dresses nice. Give him a shot.”So I did.

Looking back now, I can say this clearly: there was never any romantic attraction. But at 18, I didn’t trust my own instincts. I listened to everyone else instead.

We ended up being together for 15 years. I know — wild. Once we got married, I felt this sinking feeling in my stomach, like this was it. The end-all, be-all. That my life was done in terms of freedom and exploration. I felt trapped.

And I remember calling my mom one day, asking, “How did you and Dad have fun when you were married?” They had been together for years and would still be if my dad hadn’t passed. She laughed and said, “We drank.”

Now, my parents weren’t alcoholics — she meant that when they spent time together, they let themselves relax and indulge. Karaoke nights at El Torito, margaritas, laughter. But even after trying to find our version of that, I still wasn’t happy.

I blamed myself for not knowing what I didn’t know. I was frustrated for landing in this position and didn’t have the language to explain it. You can’t say I lost my voice if you never knew what your voice felt like.

So again, I deferred to others. And the stories I heard — especially from women — were that all my frustrations were normal.

I was frustrated that once we got married, cleaning automatically became my job. Frustrated that every time I suggested something new, he’d whine or complain. The sex was terrible. But it was my first relationship, my first everything, so I had nothing to compare it to. And woman after woman told me, “That’s just marriage.”

I wish those women had been more honest. I wish they had told the whole truth so I could have learned from their stories.

Over the years, the relationship continued to sink. Which makes sense — it was never built on anything solid. After his father passed away, things got really bad.

At that time, I was in my PhD program, still teaching full-time, and running a small beverage company on the weekends. My schedule was full, but I was happy. I loved creating new recipes, selling at the farmers market, learning, forming new friendships.

And that seemed to bother him. He found ways to insert himself into everything I did. And when I asked him to stop, it turned into a blame game — constant complaints, victimhood, and guilt-tripping.

It started to suck the joy out of everything that made me happy.

If he went over his budget on a shopping spree, it was my fault for not stopping him.If I forgot to preheat the oven before he got home, I’d “ruined” his night.

After a while, those moments started to blur together. I stopped recognizing what was normal and what wasn’t. I was walking on eggshells every day — quiet, careful, trying not to make things worse.

And I never told anyone. Ever.

The truth? I didn’t share it because I was protecting his image. I didn’t want people to think he was a bad person — because then they’d ask why I stayed. And I didn’t have the courage to say, “Because our lives are so tangled that leaving feels impossible.”

So I made him look good. I painted him as this funny, charismatic, kind man — hoping that if the world saw him that way, maybe he’d start to believe it too. Maybe if he got that validation from others, he’d finally love himself.

I think, deep down, I was just trying to make things livable. To find some version of peace inside a relationship that rarely felt peaceful. Making him look good was my way of keeping the chaos quiet — convincing myself that if everyone else saw the best in him, maybe I eventually would too.

I knew he was insecure. I knew he had childhood trauma.

Looking back now, I can honestly say I had love for him — but I was never in love with him. It was the kind of love one human has for another when you see their pain and want them to know it doesn’t have to define who they are. I wanted him to see himself the way I saw him: that he could be funny, kind, and brilliant — even if those moments felt few and far between, buried under what honestly felt like a shit salad most days.

But here’s the truth: you can’t heal someone by protecting their image.

And let me be clear — getting to the point where I can say that out loud took work. Real, heavy, gut-deep work.

Filing for divorce wasn’t easy. It wasn’t this snap of the finger moment where I suddenly woke up brave. Things actually got far worse after I filed. Retaliation became his love language. He wanted me to pay for choosing myself. He wanted me to walk away with “nothing.”

It was wild. Painful. Exhausting.

Reading became my lifeline. I was a voracious reader, especially during 2020 — sometimes finishing a book a week. Each one helped me understand something new about myself, about boundaries, about what love should actually feel like.

Therapy came later, thanks to a gentle nudge from a friend who saw through my “I’m fine.” And that promise — the one I made with one of my closest friends — came around that same time.

She had just filed for divorce too. And that’s when I learned about the horrific things happening in her marriage — things she hadn’t told a soul. It was like looking in a mirror. Both of us had been protecting someone else’s image while quietly falling apart behind the scenes.

Now, I’ve made a pact with one of my best friends: I’ll always be honest with her about who I’m dating. If there’s ever a twinge of doubt or discomfort, I’ll say it. Because keeping those things secret is one of the most dangerous decisions we can make.

I used to wish other women had been more honest with me.So this — right here — is me breaking that cycle.

I used to wish other women had been more honest with me.So this — right here — is me breaking that cycle.

I’m not embarrassed. I’m not ashamed. In fact, I feel normal. Because I know I’m not the only one.

Somewhere along the way, we were taught that it’s a woman’s job to protect everyone else’s image — to make things look fine, peaceful, and put together. To smile through it and say I’m okay even when we’re not.

But I don’t want anyone doing that anymore.

I want us to be more honest with each other. We don’t have to run off and tell the whole world everything we’re thinking or feeling — but we do need our trusted people. The friends and family we can go to and say,

“This is me being raw. This is me being completely honest. I don’t know if I’m okay, but I need to say it out loud.”

That kind of truth changes things. It heals. It teaches. It makes us braver.

And I think that’s where we start.

---

And if you want to hear me unpack this idea a little more — the conversation that inspired it and the lessons that followed — I talk about it in this video: https://youtu.be/PH7B26v2uQ0

Cheers!

Jessica Nichole