The Golden Cage: How I Lost Myself in Marriage
When I was born, my mum named me Ellen. She believed the name was bright and joyful, that her daughter would be smiley, happy, and loved. Little did anyone know that as the years passed, my smile would become increasingly rare, and happiness would turn into just a facade for others to see.
It all started when I met Him. James. Tall, handsome, with a confident voice and a gaze that seemed to make butterflies flutter in my stomach. He was every bit the real man—exactly how I’d imagined the perfect partner to be. I didn’t see the cold control lurking behind his outward confidence. I didn’t see the unwavering will hidden behind his polite gestures. I simply fell in love. Foolishly, naively, with wide-open eyes and a trusting heart.
We got married rather quickly. I thought then—if a man loves you, he hurries to make you his wife. How mistaken I was… He truly wanted to make me “his”—in every sense. His. Subservient. Obedient.
At first, everything seemed wonderful. Restaurants, trips, expensive gifts. Holidays in the mountains in winter, beaches in summer, parties with his friends. From the outside—it was idyllic. Envy from my friends, likes on social media. But inside—emptiness. Because with all this external glitter, I was losing myself more and more.
Decisions were made without me. He chose where we’d go, what we’d have for dinner, how we’d spend weekends. But even worse was how he decided how I should look, what I should wear, how I should style my hair, and even the tone I should use when speaking.
— Darling, that dress is too plain, don’t embarrass me.
— Why jeans again? A woman should be feminine.
— You’re not working in a factory, so don’t wear a t-shirt.
I tried joking, persuading, but I always hit a cold wall. He didn’t yell. He didn’t hit. He just looked at me like I was a disappointment. And I felt ashamed. I wanted to be good. I tried. And without noticing, I stopped being myself.
But the hardest thing was when I brought up having a child. I’m 30. I’ve long felt a longing to become a mum. Not just a desire—I yearn for it. But he seems to have always known he would not allow it. His answer stunned me:
— Why do we need a child? You’re enough for me. I love you. I don’t want anyone to interfere with our lives.
Love… Yet I feel like a prisoner. He doesn’t want to share my love. He wants to own it. He doesn’t want me to be a mum. He wants me to just be a wife. Convenient. Beautiful. Obedient.
I’m increasingly finding myself feeling suffocated. Despite the comfort and outward brightness, I am not free. Every step I take is monitored, every glance observed. I shouldn’t want my own things. I shouldn’t feel differently. I can only be “his.”
One day, I tried talking to him seriously. I said I wanted children, that I was tired of being a doll in a pretty house. He listened silently, then hugged me. He said I was overthinking. That everything was fine. That I was his happiness. His treasure. And if I had a child, this treasure would be taken from him.
Hearing this was terrifying. In his voice—not anger, not pain. But fanatical determination. As if he truly believed he had the right to decide for both of us. That I was his possession. Loved, but still a possession.
Since then, I haven’t raised the subject again. But the fear that I will forever remain a captive of this love doesn’t leave me. I’m 32. I want a child. I want a family where I can breathe. Where I am heard. Where I have the right to an opinion. Where I am needed not as a picture but as a person.
I’m writing this because I don’t know what to do. I still love him. Or maybe I love who he was at the start. Or who I wanted him to become. I don’t know. But I certainly feel: if this continues, I will break. I will simply stop existing as a person.
Tell me… how can I explain to a man that love is not a cage, even if it’s made of gold? That family is not domination but a partnership? That I shouldn’t have to choose between “loving” and “living”? How do I speak when he only listens to himself?
I don’t want to leave. But I can’t keep living like this.
