I am 41 years old and have been married to my husband since I was 22. About two months ago, I started thinking about something Id never dared to say aloud: I dont think Ive ever truly fallen in love with him the way people describe love. It was just an ordinary eveningI was sitting in our living room, watching the tellywhen I wondered why Ive never felt what other women call butterflies, that sweet nervousness or urge to run and embrace someone. The thought lingered and everything began to make sense.
My childhood was quite tough. My dad drank heavily, came home drunk, spent his wages on booze and caused trouble. Mum worked as a cleaner to make up for what he didnt provide. I grew up among arguments, exhaustion, and tension. As a teenager, my only wish was to get out, to have my own space, to sleep peacefully, and not hear shouting first thing in the morning. I didnt dream of romanceI dreamed of escape.
When I met my husband, I was 22 and he was ten years older than me. Only a month after we started dating, he talked about us moving in together, that he would help me out, and that he wanted something serious with me. I didnt stop to consider whether I was in love. I saw it as a chance to leave home, to start anew. I accepted quickly, packed my things and left. No deep reflection, no second thoughtsjust a burning desire to get away.
I cant say Ive had a bad life. Hes a good husbandhardworking and responsible. Weve never wanted for food, weve paid rent, later bought our own house. He adores our kids and takes care of everything. Theres never been any evidence of cheating or shouting matches. From the outside, my marriage looks perfect. And thats what confuses me the most, because theres no big reason for this strange emptiness I feel.
I care for him. I respect him. Im grateful to him for so much. He gives me peace and stability. But when I look back, I realise that Ive never felt that passionate, fiery love other women talk about. Ive never felt intense jealousy, or the fear of losing him, or that thrill when I wait for him to come home. My love has been more habit, partnership, gratitudebut not a blazing flame.
Im not thinking about leaving. Im not seeking someone else. I dont want to break up my family. Im simply reflecting on something Ive never allowed myself to admit: that maybe what Ive called love all these years is really need, security, and a longing to escape a difficult life. And now, at 41, with grown children and a settled home, Im realising it.
Sometimes I feel guilty just for thinking like this. I tell myself, How dare you question whats given you stability? But at the same time, I sense its honest to admit. Maybe my way of loving is different. Maybe I learnt to survive first, and loving was secondary. Im not sure. All I know is that this thought has stirred up so many things inside me, things Ive carried since I was that little girl who only wanted to run away from home.
What would you do in my place?
Id really like some advice.
