Greg and I have been married for 26 years, and we have four mostly grown kids—a daughter who is graduated and married, a son who just graduated and is job hunting, another daughter finishing college and a son just starting college. We love our marriage and our family, but there have been many struggles along the way.
If you’d asked me at the beginning of our marriage, I would have said we loved each other deeply. And we did. But love alone doesn’t come with a handbook on how to navigate the tangled patterns we found ourselves in. Greg was the pursuer in our relationship—always reaching for me physically and emotionally—and I was the distancer. He was the high-desire partner, and I was the low-desire one. He thought my love and validation would fulfill his every need, and I thought he would magically take care of my emotional world. We were both needy but in very different ways.
For me, any time emotions ran high, I pulled away. Whether it was trouble with the kids, anxiety about money, or insecurities about my body—those all became reasons to create distance, especially from intimacy. The more I distanced myself emotionally, the more Greg pursued, desperate to feel validated and wanted. It was a vicious cycle. He felt rejected, and I felt smothered. We were stuck!
About ten years into our marriage, we hit an atomic bomb moment. After the birth of our fourth child, I slipped into a deep depression. My desire for intimacy evaporated. I was overwhelmed by everything—motherhood, my emotions, my lack of self. Greg, feeling utterly rejected, turned to pornography which use he had been hiding since before we were married. I discovered it one night while nursing our son, and it felt like everything shattered because the meaning of his viewing was equivalent to infidelity. (To be clear I don't feel viewing porn is true infidelity now- but that's how it felt at the time) It was devastating for both of us.
At the time, I thought that bomb would blow us apart. But instead, it exposed all the cracks in our foundation, the areas we desperately needed to grow. It was painful, yes, but it was also the catalyst for change.
What Did That Atomic Bomb Expose?
For me, it became clear that I had to figure out my own emotions and sexuality. I had lost myself in the roles of wife, mother, and caretaker. I was constantly anxious and second-guessing myself, looking to Greg to validate me in ways that no one else could. I expected him to solve my sadness, my anxieties, my insecurities, but that’s not a role anyone can fill. Resentment built up because I felt unsupported, and that left me with zero bandwidth for intimacy. When you’re emotionally drained, there’s no space for sexual connection.
For Greg, it exposed the unhealthy way he sought sexual validation. His need for intimacy wasn’t just about sex—it was tied to his feelings of rejection and failure. Porn had become an escape, a buffer against the weight of rejection and stress. He was trying to carry both our emotional burdens, believing it was his job to keep me happy. When he failed at that, the shame pushed him further into his unhealthy coping mechanisms.
What we realized is that intimacy doesn’t solve emotions—it exposes them. That revelation was the first step toward healing.
How Did You Work Through the Atomic Bomb?
The next few years were tough. I was on a high horse, thinking Greg was the problem, that he was shameful for turning to porn, and that I was somehow morally superior because of my lower desire. We even saw a therapist who labeled Greg as an addict, saying he’d never recover. That was our last session with that therapist.
We went through a painful cycle—Greg trying to stop viewing on willpower alone, me trying to control his behavior by checking his devices, and both of us feeling even more disconnected. I was trying to "fix" him by offering duty sex, thinking that if I met his needs, he wouldn’t look elsewhere. It was a disaster. Neither of us understood that this wasn’t about willpower or moral failing—it was about a broken system in our relationship.
Things began to shift when I came across a book (I can’t remember the title) that changed my perspective on sex. It challenged the belief that lower desire made me more moral or “good,” and it opened my eyes to the possibility that sex could be for me too, not just something I did for Greg. But even with this new revelation, we were still stuck in a pattern of duty sex and servicing him, which left us both unfulfilled.
We started seeing another therapist who helped us unpack the shame and betrayal. We learned that Greg wasn’t an addict, that the porn was a symptom of deeper emotional struggles, not some moral failing. But even with that progress, I still didn’t understand how to connect sexually, and I kept asking Greg, "Did you choose me today?"—a question that only deepened the rift between us.
Eventually, we immersed ourselves in learning about marriage, intimacy, and sexuality. We listened to podcasts, took classes, and read books. At first, we weaponized the information against each other, pointing out where the other was falling short. It was a disaster—again. But gradually, we began to realize that the patterns we were experiencing weren’t unique to us. Many couples struggled with the same dynamics: differences in desire, emotional disconnection, and the pressure of sexual validation.
We started to have real, honest conversations. And as we dug deeper, we started dismantling the old, broken patterns in our relationship, bit by bit.
The Shift
The real turning point came when Greg gave me an incredible gift. He told me he didn’t want duty sex anymore—he wanted to be chosen. He gave me the space to figure out my own desire, without pressure or expectation. He stepped back, and in that space, I had to confront my own feelings and choices about intimacy. I had to own my sexuality and decide what I truly wanted.
It was during this time that I began to let go of the anxieties and fears that had been driving my decisions. I started to fall in love with myself again—my body, my desires, and my sexuality. I realized that my worth wasn’t tied to my body size or my ability to meet some unrealistic standard. I learned how to relax, be present, and actually enjoy intimacy.
For Greg, the shift came when he realized his sexuality wasn’t something shameful or broken. He began to see his desire as a good thing, not something to be fixed or hidden. That realization was incredibly healing for him, and it allowed us to start connecting in a deeper, more honest way.
What Did You Learn?
Anxiety is the enemy of eroticism. I had to confront the anxieties I had around my body, my desires, and my life. I had to create a loving, accepting relationship with myself and my emotions. Greg couldn’t solve my anxieties for me—that was my work. But as I moved toward my anxieties instead of away from them, I found space for pleasure and intimacy. You can’t feel pleasure and anxiety at the same time.
I also learned to trust myself and, in turn, trust Greg. I stopped asking if he was choosing me and started asking if I was choosing him. That shift put the responsibility back in my hands, and it allowed me to truly engage in our relationship on my own terms.
Moving Forward
Today, our marriage is stronger than ever, but it’s still a work in progress. We’ve learned to communicate openly, to listen without trying to fix each other, and to create space for both of our desires. We’ve learned that intimacy isn’t about obligation or validation—it’s about choice. And we choose each other every day.
Our journey has been long and painful at times, but it’s also been incredibly rewarding. We’ve learned that real intimacy—emotional and physical—comes from being honest, vulnerable, and willing to grow. And that’s something I wouldn’t trade for anything.