This isn’t the past. This isn’t something I’m reliving. This is now.

The trauma just keeps going. When will it stop?

The phone rang at 8:38 this morning. Confirming what I subconsciously already knew. I can’t even type the words. I haven’t come to term with this yet.

So if I knew, why do I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach?

If there was a knife, it would be twisting.

I’m forever connected to him. Not for 18 years, like having a child. A lifetime. I will carry a part of him with me for eternity. Until I take my last breath.

Yes, I am angry.

But more than anything… I am humiliated.

Not only did I have this news hit me like a ton of bricks…

I also went back to my old rush of dopamine. It’s like taking a hit. So I inhaled as hard as I could, waiting for the high to take place….

And before I knew it,  I was sitting in front of his computer.

I always swear I’m done investigating. But I go back to it. It’s an addiction. And every time I dig deeper I find out more and more.

He isn’t home. He is off on another gig. But this is the life I signed up for.

If I wasn’t afraid of him finding this article, I would share what I searched. But it would expose him. Expose me. Too many of his friends would know. They know the names. They pleaded with him to not drag me along. They warned him not to play me. That I wasn’t that type of girl.

I don’t know right now. I feel like I have whiplash. The past decade+ has sent me spinning into dissociation. With fragmented memories popping up. My scars… they keep bleeding.

This story isn’t over…. Sadly….

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But that morning, as I sat in the waiting room while he was have a procedure done, something chipped away at me, refusing to let go. I can still feel my hands trembling, my heart racing as I reached for his phone. I don’t know what I expected to find. Maybe I thought I’d open it and see nothing out of the ordinary—texts to family, work emails, the usual bullshit. But what I saw would shatter me in ways I still haven’t been able to put back together.

Her name jumped out at me first: Ashley.

There they were—message after message, like a trail of breadcrumbs leading me straight into a nightmare. I remember scrolling, my breath coming in shallow gasps as my eyes skimmed over the words, the exchanges, the innuendos, the easy familiarity. They laughed and joked, shared things I didn’t even know he’d want, a whole side of him I had never seen, never imagined. And in the middle of it all, he called her his “Sacramento girl.” That phrase seared itself into my mind, the way it sat so casually on the screen, like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.

I couldn’t stop reading. Every word felt like a cut, deeper and deeper, slicing through everything I thought I knew about him, about us. This wasn’t just flirting; this was something darker. He was practically begging her to come see him. The same man who would look at me with convincing eyes was pleading with someone else, asking for pieces of her that he should have saved for me. I read every word, each message tearing apart the image of him I’d held close to my heart.

Ashley: Is it bad that I want to fuck my best gay friend? Lol.

Him: No. If he’s hot, I would too. Wanna have a threesome?

Ashley: Is it cheating if he’s gay? Lol. Wait. You’d have a threesome with me & him?

Him: Yeah. And is it cheating ever??? “Yeah” was in response to doing you both.

Ashley: Lol idk.

Him: Would you be down?

Ashley: I think it would be interesting.

Him: What would you want me to do?

I could barely breathe. I felt like the walls were closing in, like everything around me was crashing down. He wanted to do things with her that he hadn’t even told me about, things he’d never once mentioned. It was as if he had this hidden world I’d never been invited into. And the worst part? He was offering himself up to her in ways that felt like a betrayal of every promise he’d ever made to me.

The texts kept going, turning darker, the flirtation shifting into something twisted and raw.

Ashley: Idk lol…what are u willing to get into?

Him: Prob anything. I would def want to fuck both of you in the ass.

I dropped the phone for a moment, recoiling, feeling as though I’d been slapped. This man—the one I was supposed to spend my life with… I felt hollow, my chest aching as if my heart was splintering inside of me. But still, I picked up the phone and kept reading.

She was taken aback, as shocked by his boldness as I was.

Ashley: What?! Have you been with a guy before? Alone? Or only in threesomes?

Him: Nope. Never. Totally would though, especially with you.

Ashley: Uh no. I’m fine with two guys. But not two guys fucking in front of me.

Him: Well, we won’t do that in front of you.

Even as I read his reassurances to her, promising things he’d never even hinted at with me, my stomach churned. I wanted to scream, to throw the phone across the room, but I couldn’t look away. Each message was a new stab, each line a fresh betrayal, each joke a reminder that there was a part of him that I’d never known. I was finding pieces of him he’d kept locked away, hidden behind layers of lies and half-truths.

As if that wasn’t enough, he was relentless, pushing for a meeting, pushing to see her. Two weeks before he introduced me to his family, he was still begging her to meet up.

Him: I’ll be in Sac twice in December. Will I get to see you at least once?

Ashley: Maybe. When?

He gave her dates, gave her his schedule, practically mapping out how they would meet. While I sat at home waiting for him to come back, he was out there, waiting for her.

Days would go by, and he would message her again, the desperation seeping into his words.

Him: Hey.

Silence.

Him: I’ll be in Sac tonight. You gonna see me?

Ashley: I have to be in bed early tonight. Nail appointment tomorrow at 10, then a photo shoot with PhilM at 11:30. Then I’m free for a little bit.

Him: So come see me tonight for a few. And maybe again tomorrow. And then again on the 6th. ;-)

She told him she couldn’t do it, that she wasn’t interested in being unfaithful anymore. This seemed to be a thing between the two of them? “How many times has he seen her over the past year?” I wondered..

But he didn’t give up.

Him: Sad day but that’s good for you. And still come see me. I love seeing you anyway, even if all your clothes are on.

That was when I felt something break inside me. My trust, my love, my sense of safety—all of it shattered with those words. “I love seeing you anyway, even if all your clothes are on.” How many times had he told me he loved me? How many times had I believed him? Did he love her too? Or just loved fucking her?

It didn’t end there. He begged her to find him a “replacement,” someone just like her.

Him: Now you have to find me a new chick in Sac…but she has to be as close to you as possible because you set the standard high.

2 months later:

Ashley: Congratulations! Can’t believe you’re engaged before me lol. That’s awesome!

Him: Thanks. I’m sure you’ll be there soon. Still miss ya though. Glad to see you’re doing well and TAKING CARE OF YOURSELF!!! I’m proud of you.

Ashley: Thanks :) . When’s the wedding?

Him: February 2015.

Ashley: So far lol.

Him: Will I see you before then, Miss Busy Busy?

Ashley: Lol are you coming to Sacramento anytime soon?

Him: Probably. And hopefully. Ha.

Ashley: Lol k. Well let me know when you come here.

When I finally put down the phone, I felt empty. Empty from within. I sat in silence, the weight of everything I’d read settling over me like a suffocating fog. I couldn’t unsee the messages. I couldn’t unhear the words. They echoed in my mind, over and over, each one ripping through me like broken glass.

And then I felt shockwaves…

Less than a year ago he went to Sacramento to hang out with a friend “and help them buy a car”. But he never text me while he was there….

I was dizzy.

I took screenshots, sent them to myself. Proof, I thought. Proof that I wasn’t crazy, that he’d really done this. But holding those screenshots felt like clutching the ashes of a life that had just gone up in flames.

When he got home, I confronted him, threw the evidence in his face. He looked stunned, maybe even a little scared, but then the remorseful mask slipped into place. He told me it was all a joke, a mistake, that it was before he realized he loved me, before he knew I was “the one.” He pleaded, told me he was ashamed of that version of himself, that he’d changed, that I was his choice, his future. He cried and said he was fucked up.

“I chose you,” he said. “It was a joke. You’re the one I want. I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe every word, to trust that it was all in the past, that the man I loved was real, not the stranger in those messages. But as he spoke, I could still see his words to her flashing in my mind. I could still feel the raw pain in my chest, the suffocating weight of his lies pressing down on me.

“It’s you now. It’s always been you.”

But how could I ever believe that again? The crack in the mirror was there, all I saw was a distorted view of myself… and no amount of promises could put it back together.

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Welcome to my Substack—a journal of broken pieces and brutal honesty, where I will share the stories I never thought I’d have the courage to tell.

This is a place for the secrets I kept even from myself, the moments I ignored red flags because I was desperate to believe in love, the times I silenced my intuition to hold onto the fairy tale that was slipping away. It’s a space where the truth will be messy and uncomfortable, where I won’t shy away from the pain I carried or the lies I told myself to survive.

For years, I lived with the hollow ache of betrayal, a constant gnawing feeling that something wasn’t right. I thought I could change him. I thought I could be enough. But the lies were sharp, and they cut deeper than I wanted to admit, leaving scars that I am only now learning how to tend to. Each time I found another secret, another piece of the truth he hid behind his smile, I felt another part of myself fracture—until I was a stranger in my own life, reflecting back pieces of a woman I didn’t recognize.

I’m not here to tell you that I’ve healed or that I’ve figured it all out. I’m still picking up the pieces, still learning how to stitch together a version of myself that feels whole. But what I have found, in this process, is the power of sharing—of speaking the truth that I buried for so long, of refusing to be ashamed of the brokenness that betrayal left behind. I am here to give a voice to the silence I once kept, to the questions I was too afraid to ask, to the doubt that became a part of me when I loved someone who didn’t deserve the pedestal I put him on.

This journal is a reflection of all the moments I tried to bury—the times I gaslit myself into believing it was okay, that I was overreacting, that if I just loved him harder, everything would be fine. It’s a space to share the heartbreak of finding out about “the other vices in his life,” the exhaustion of pretending to be okay when I was anything but, and the slow, painful realization that healing doesn’t come in a neat package. It’s jagged. It’s raw. It’s real.

Here, I will write about the nights I spent scrolling through his phone, desperate for the truth even though I knew it would break me. I’ll share the way his words twisted around my heart until I couldn’t tell where his lies ended and my self-doubt began. I’ll talk about the moments I stayed when I should have left, the way I let my own boundaries blur to keep him close, and the aftermath of learning to trust myself again, one shattered piece at a time.

If you’re here, maybe you’ve been broken too. Maybe you’ve felt the sting of betrayal, the confusion of loving someone who keeps secrets, the shame of losing yourself in someone else’s lies. Maybe you’ve looked in the mirror and wondered who the woman staring back at you has become, feeling like the reflection you see is a stranger wrapped in the wreckage of what was supposed to be a happy ending.

This Substack is a space to explore those questions, to find solidarity in the shared experience of losing and rebuilding yourself. It’s about the raw, messy process of unlearning the lies we were told, of reclaiming the pieces of ourselves we gave away, and of finding the courage to see beauty in the broken places.

I won’t promise neat conclusions or perfect resolutions. This isn’t about tying a pretty bow around a painful story. It’s about the journey—the moments of clarity that come after sleepless nights, the strength that emerges when you least expect it, and the quiet bravery of choosing to step away from what shatters you, even when you don’t have all the answers.

So, if you’ve ever felt fractured, if you’ve ever wondered how to navigate the jagged edges of betrayal, if you’re searching for a space where honesty and vulnerability are the only rules—this is for you. This is for all of us who are learning to see ourselves through the cracks, who are piecing together a new reflection, one that doesn’t shy away from the scars but embraces them as proof that we survived.

This is my story. This is our story. Welcome to the journal of fractured reflections. Let’s pick up the pieces together.

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