I was married for nearly a decade when I made the choice that would shatter the life I’d built I had an affair with another married man. From the outside, it looked like betrayal. And in many ways, it was. But underneath the mess, it was also a rescue mission one I didn’t know my heart was begging for.
Back then, I couldn’t find the answers I needed. I searched online, desperate to read something that would help me climb out of the shame, but everything told me I was broken beyond repair. No one talked about what came after a woman breaks everything — how you rise from your lowest place and try to rebuild.
I’d been a committed, outspoken Christian most of my life. My husband and I met on a mission base in Kansas City I was convinced it was God’s plan for us. We married quickly, as many do in that circle, and had our first child just two months later. Even when I saw red flags early on, I quieted them. I believed questioning the relationship meant I was questioning God, and I didn’t want to be someone who lacked faith.
Looking back, I was taught not to trust myself. Not my feelings, not my body, not even the quiet voice that warned me to slow down. I thought obedience meant denying what I felt and holding tight to what I believed God wanted. I longed to do the “right” thing to be the faithful wife, the godly mother. So, I stayed. Through the growing distance. Through the silence that echoed louder than any argument. I buried myself in motherhood, telling myself this is what sacrifice looked like. I believed it was holy.
But it wasn’t holy it was hollow.
For years, we drifted, quietly lonely in the same room. My husband poured himself into degrees — bachelor’s, master’s, PhD while I poured myself into raising kids and building a home that looked warm from the outside. I hosted dinners, planned birthdays, and filled our world with noise so we didn’t have to hear the ache of what we were missing. I was loyal. I stayed. I tried. And then, one day, I couldn’t anymore.
I was bleeding out emotionally, and I didn’t know how to stop it. I tried all the things — prayer, therapy, asking for another baby, more prayer. But the truth was, I was already slipping away. And then I met someone. And the affair began.
A semen analysis revealed my husband had azoospermia, meaning he was sterile and would not be able to biologically father children. Our infertility was male factor, something we later learned so many people know little about.
For some, that kind of diagnosis might pause everything.
For us, it only shifted the path forward.
We gave ourselves time to grieve. Time to sit with the loss of the life we thought we’d have. Then, we began to explore our options. We looked into sperm banks and donation—but quickly discovered how few African American donors there were, especially those who allowed for contact with children once they turned 18.
No, the affair wasn’t the cause it was the symptom. The fire that finally forced me to walk away from a version of myself I didn’t recognize anymore.
And I did. I walked away from my marriage. I walked away from my reputation. From the woman I had tried so hard to be. I burned it all down.
People called me names homewrecker, selfish, immoral. And I get it. I hurt people. I own that. The guilt of breaking someone else’s heart especially when they didn’t deserve it — is a weight I’ll carry forever. But even through the wreckage, I found something sacred: myself. For the first time in my adult life, I stopped looking outward for answers. I listened to the voice inside me the one I’d silenced for so long.
I’m not happier because I left. I’m not happier because I fell in love again. I’m happier because I finally came home to myself.
If there’s one truth I’ve learned, it’s this: sometimes, saving yourself makes you the villain in someone else’s story. But that doesn’t make it the wrong choice. I can live with being the “bad guy” — if it means I’m finally living a life that’s real.
