For the longest time, I believed that merely having a roof over my head, food on the table, and a partner who did not walk away was enough. I convinced myself that happiness was a luxury reserved for those who enjoyed freedoms I did not possess. Survival, I told myself, was the accurate measure of success.
When I first set foot in America, I was young, uncertain, and burdened by the hopes of my entire family. I did not come in search of love. My journey was for a better future—for myself and for those who depended on me back home. My marriage was a decision borne of duty rather than desire, a bridge toward stability rather than a dream of passion. I attempted to cross that bridge in silence, even as the weight in my heart grew heavier with every step.
Years slipped by in muted quietude. I raised my children, tended the household, folded laundry, prepared meals, and ensured everyone else’s needs were met. Yet, I neglected the most important person—I neglected myself. I smiled when expected, apologized when undeserved, and gradually ceased to ask what I truly wanted. Days blurred into one another, like chapters in a book I never intended to write.
I never dared utter the word “unhappy,” not even in my own mind. What right did I have to complain? So many longed for what I had. But beneath the surface, an indefinable ache persisted—a quiet loneliness that clung to me even when laughter filled the house. I told myself that this was simply the way life was meant to be.
Until everything changed.
I returned to school. I embraced the pursuit of knowledge once more. I sat in classrooms where people looked at me, truly looked, not through me. My words were met with attention rather than impatience. I encountered individuals who made space for me, who listened without interruption, who acknowledged that I had something of value to say.
And then, I met my professor.
He did not attempt to rescue me. He was unaware of the burdens I carried. Yet, in his attentive listening, in his calm and measured responses, and in the quiet respect he showed, something inside me stirred awake. I had not sought this awakening, nor expected it. But in that moment, I glimpsed the woman I once was—the woman I still was beneath the layers of silence.
One conversation with him offered more comfort than a decade spent sharing space with my husband. That revelation unsettled me profoundly. Tears welled without cause as I questioned myself: How could I feel more understood in a few discreet exchanges with a stranger than in a lifetime of marriage?
It was then that I finally granted myself permission to say aloud: “I am not happy.”
This was not the professor’s fault. He did nothing improper. He simply treated me with dignity. For the first time in years, I felt seen, not merely as a wife or mother, but as a woman. As for myself.
That clarity transformed everything. It did not render me fearless, but it bestowed upon me a newfound strength. I began to comprehend that what I had endured was not living—it was merely surviving. And there is a profound difference between the two.
For years, I believed that being a “good woman” meant silence, that remaining was an act of nobility, and that endurance equated to strength. I now recognize that endurance without love is but self-sacrifice. When sacrifice becomes the narrative of your entire existence, it is time to question whether you are truly living at all.
I do not pretend the path ahead will be simple. The word “divorce” still strikes a chord of fear and sorrow. There are nights when I lie awake, uncertain if I am making the right choice. Yet each morning, a stronger feeling rises within me: truth. A truth I can no longer deny.
I want to raise my children unburdened by resentment. I want to construct a life that does not require me to diminish myself. I want to love freely, with joy, not out of obligation, guilt, or fear. Even if it means beginning anew, alone, I will do so with honesty and with freedom.
I harbor no regrets for the years spent struggling to survive. But now, I stand ready for something more.
Not fantasy. Not escape.
Simply peace.
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