I didn’t want to start the new year this way—not with a vent, not with a rant. But if you’ve been following me for a while, you know this is how I process things. This journal, this podcast, it’s my therapy. It’s the only way I can make sense of what’s going on inside my head. And, honestly, it’s the only space where I feel like I can let it all out. So, yeah, I guess this is how I’m kicking off the year. Authentic, raw, unfiltered—just like always.
New Year’s Eve was predictable in the worst way. I wanted to believe it would be different, but deep down, I knew it wouldn’t be. When you’ve been married for over a decade, you start to learn the patterns, the routines, the disappointments. We’ve been inseparable for eleven years. And I don’t mean that lightly—we’ve spent every single day together. I work from home, writing, creating, doing my psychic readings, and he’s always been there. But somewhere along the way, the connection that used to be electric started to feel like static. Like a signal we both want to tune into but can’t quite reach.
We have eight dogs. Eight. They’re like our children, our pack, our constant companions. But let’s be honest—they’re also part of the problem. There’s no alone time, no privacy, no quiet moments that don’t include paws scratching at the door or someone barking for attention. It’s chaos, and while it’s a kind of chaos we’ve chosen, it’s also a kind of chaos that’s killed our sex life. Or maybe I’m just using the dogs as an excuse because the truth is harder to admit.
The truth is, we have all the time in the world. Time isn’t the issue. It’s something deeper, something that feels like it’s rotting from the inside out. I keep making excuses for him because I love him, because he’s my husband, because I don’t want to believe that what’s happening is really happening. But when I strip all the excuses away, I’m left with this gaping hole where our intimacy used to live. And it’s not just about sex—it’s about feeling wanted, feeling special, feeling like I matter to him in ways that only I can.
I know some people might say that airing this out isn’t fair to him, that it’s not loving, that it’s not ethical. To those people, I’d say: every relationship is different. Every person is different. This is my therapy. This is how I survive the weight of these feelings without letting them crush me. I don’t talk to anyone else about this. He’s the only other human being in my life aside from my clients, and those interactions are completely different. My world is small—just him and our dogs. And while I’ve made peace with that in most ways, this…this is the part I can’t seem to reconcile.
Our sex life has never been great, but at least it existed. Now, it feels like a memory. We’ve both changed, physically and emotionally. Neither of us is in the shape we used to be. Stress has worn us down in ways we didn’t see coming. But I’ve tried—God, have I tried. I’ve tried everything in the book. Inviting him into the shower, cuddling up in ways that make it clear what I want, wearing new outfits, changing my appearance, trying new scents. I’ve even put myself out there in ways that feel painfully vulnerable, only to be met with indifference. Like tonight, for example. New Year’s Eve.
I set the stage. I put on his favorite music—K-pop, full blast. I turned on the strobe lights. I did it all fifteen minutes before midnight, hoping he’d walk in, see the effort, and feel inspired to connect. But he didn’t. He stayed in the other room. The only reason I saw him at midnight was because the fireworks outside drew him to the window, which happens to be in my office. Thirty seconds before midnight, he walked into the kitchen to grab a candy bar. A fucking candy bar. That was my New Year’s kiss.
I told him earlier today that I feel like we’re losing something. That I don’t feel attractive to him anymore. That I don’t feel loved in the ways I need to. And I’ve told him before—so many times—that I feel like a burden when I bring this up. But at some point, it stops being about what I’ve said or haven’t said. At some point, the pattern speaks for itself. The excuses stop holding weight, and all that’s left is the reality I don’t want to face.
Seven months. That’s how long it’s been since we’ve had sex. And even then, it felt like something I had to beg for, something that didn’t come from a place of mutual desire but from obligation. I didn’t get a Christmas present this year. I didn’t get a birthday present. And I’m not saying that gifts are the answer, but they’re a symptom of the same problem—a problem that makes me feel like I’m not special, not seen, not loved in the ways I need to be.
This year, I’m choosing differently. I’m choosing not to beg, not to plead, not to force myself into a role that makes me feel small. Instead, I’m writing. I’m putting it all here, in this journal, because I need to get it out of my head and into the light. I don’t want to burden him with my feelings anymore. I don’t want to feel rejected anymore. I’ll settle for what we have because losing it completely would be worse. But I hope—God, I hope—that someday, he’ll see me again. Really see me.
So, happy New Year, right? Here’s to survival, to hope, and to the possibility of change.