I wake up every morning with a knot in my stomach, and it has nothing to do with what’s on my calendar. It’s this low, constant fear that one day I’m going to find out my husband has cheated on me. The fear meets me before my alarm does. It follows me into the shower, into the kitchen, into my car on the way to work. It’s like a shadow I can’t shake.
The sad thing is, if you looked at my life from the outside, you might think I had it together. Married, kids, decent job, church on Sundays. But inside, I feel like I’m one hard conversation away from everything falling apart.
How I Got So Tired
I used to think “worn out” meant a busy day and going to bed late. Now I know it means something else entirely. It’s not just being tired in my body; it’s being tired in my soul.
My days feel like a relay race that never stops. I go from work to errands to homework help to laundry to dishes to answering emails I forgot about. I put one kid in the bath while the other one is crying about a missing shoe. The dog needs to go out. The sink is full again. Somebody needs a snack, and it’s usually not me.
By the time the kids are finally in bed, I’m done. I don’t mean “a little sleepy.” I mean my brain is mush, my patience is gone, and my body feels like a heavy backpack I can’t take off. That’s usually the moment my husband will come close and touch my shoulder or kiss my neck. And all I feel is dread.
Not because I don’t love him. I do. I really do. But in that moment, all I can think is, “I have nothing left to give.”
And then the guilt hits. Because I know he wants me. I know he feels the distance. And if we go another week or two without sex, I see it in his eyes. The disappointment. The frustration. The quiet.
I Feel Fat
If you want the full picture, you have to know the other part: I don’t like my body very much.
Pregnancy, stress, late-night snacking, no time for the gym—it’s all left its mark. My clothes fit tighter than they used to. When I look in the mirror, I don’t see “beautiful” or “fearfully and wonderfully made.” I see every lump, every stretch mark, every place I wish were smaller or smoother.
I know the theology. I know my body is a gift from God, that it’s His creation. But knowing those verses and believing them when I’m standing under harsh bathroom lighting in my underwear are two very different things.
So when my husband reaches for me, I feel exposed, not cherished. I feel inspected, not adored. I worry what he’s thinking. Does he notice how much weight I’ve gained? Does he wish I still looked like I did when we got married? Does he compare me to women online? To women he works with?
Sometimes I think it would be easier just to hide. Put on an oversized T-shirt, roll over, and pretend I’m already asleep.
Weeks Without Sex
If I’m honest, we can go weeks without having sex. It’s not intentional at first. It’s just that one night I’m exhausted, and then he works late another night, and then the kids get sick, and then I’m on my period, and before I realize it, three weeks have gone by.
I notice the shift in him. He gets quiet. He stays up later. He seems less playful with me, more distant. When we do talk, it’s about logistics, not about us. Who’s picking up the kids. What bills are due. Who’s going to the parent-teacher conference.
Underneath all of that, I feel this growing guilt. I know physical intimacy is a real part of marriage. I know he has needs. I know my body is not just my own; it belongs to him too, just like his belongs to me. I’ve heard those verses and nod along when I hear teaching about them. But living them out when I’m exhausted and insecure is a different story.
I start telling myself he must be miserable. That any man in his position would be tempted.
The Pornography Question
There’s another layer I haven’t spoken out loud to anyone: I suspect he might be looking at pornography and masturbating.
I don’t have hard proof. But there are hints. The way he stays on his phone a little longer after he thinks I’m asleep. The quick way he switches screens sometimes. The slight gap between us in bed and the tension in the air. The fact that he seems more irritated and less present when we haven’t been intimate for a while.
I hate that my mind goes there. I don’t want to believe he’s doing that. I want to believe he’s fighting temptation, honoring the Lord, and waiting for me. But I live in the real world. I know how common pornography is. I know how easily accessible it is. And I know he’s a man with a sex drive and a wife who keeps saying, “Not tonight.”
I’ve never confronted him. The words freeze in my throat. Part of me is scared of the answer. What if he says yes, he is? What if he has been for a long time? What if he has already crossed lines I can’t accept?
And the other part of me is scared he’ll get angry and accuse me of nagging, of being suspicious, of not trusting him. So instead of asking, I just live with the question. It hangs in the air between us even when we’re laughing at something the kids did. It’s like a fog I can’t clear.
Afraid He’ll Cheat
The fear that haunts me most is that he’ll cheat. Not with some random stranger, but with a co-worker. Someone who sees him rested, dressed, and focused—his best self. Someone who isn’t worn out by bath time and homework and laundry. Someone who laughs at his jokes and listens to his stories without a toddler interrupting.
Sometimes I imagine her. She’s thinner than me, of course. Put together. Fun. She makes him feel appreciated and admired. Maybe their conversations started innocent enough—projects, deadlines, shared frustrations. But then they started talking about their marriages, and she listened when he said things weren’t great at home.
I picture him comparing my messy hair and sweatpants to her polished look. My constant “I’m tired” to her interested eyes. My insecurity to her confidence.
When he works late or mentions her name more than once, my stomach tightens. When his phone lights up and he flips it face down, I feel a rush of heat in my chest. I find myself asking subtle questions. “Who was that?” “How late will you be?” “Who’s going to that conference with you?”
Sometimes he answers quickly, and everything sounds normal. Other times he goes very quiet or gets defensive. “Why are you asking?” “Don’t you trust me?” “I’m not doing anything wrong. Why do you always assume the worst?”
I don’t always “assume the worst.” Honestly, I’m just scared. It feels like I’m standing on a bridge that’s starting to crack, and I’m trying to see if it’s still safe to stay on it. His anger and silence make me feel even more alone.
Where Is God in This?
I wish I could say I always respond like a strong, faith-filled woman who immediately runs to Scripture and prayer. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I cry out to God, begging Him to protect our marriage, to strengthen my husband, to help me change. I know God cares about faithfulness, truth, and covenant. I know He’s near to the brokenhearted.
But other times I just sit on the bathroom floor, scrolling, comparing, and spiraling. I compare my body to women I follow. I measure my worth by the world’s standards. I start to believe that if I were just prettier, thinner, more exciting, more “fun,” my husband wouldn’t be tempted.
Deep down, I know that’s not fully true. Affairs are not just about looks; they’re about hearts drifting, sin growing, boundaries being erased. Pornography is not my fault. His choices are his responsibility before God. I could be a size two with perfect hair and never have a stretch mark and he could still choose sin. I know that in my head.
Still, the enemy whispers that it’s all on me. That I’m failing as a wife. That I’m the reason he’s unhappy. That if he ever did cheat, everyone would secretly nod and say, “Well, what did she expect? She never wanted to have sex.”
I Don’t Know What to Do
The hardest part of all this is that I don’t know what to do next.
Do I sit him down and tell him everything—my fear, my guilt, my suspicions? Do I ask him directly if he’s looking at pornography, if he’s attracted to anyone at work? The thought of that conversation makes my chest tighten. I can imagine his face, the hurt, the anger, the defensiveness. Or the confession. I’m not sure which I’m more afraid of.
Do I just focus on changing myself? Try to lose weight, buy new clothes, schedule sex, push through exhaustion, and hope that if I “fix” me, it will fix us? That doesn’t sit right with me either. I know marriage is more than that. I know I’m more than that.
I know the “right” answers I would probably give someone else if I were the one doing the counseling. I would say things like:
You need to bring your fears into the light, not let them grow in the dark.
You and your husband need honest, humble conversation, not silent assumptions.
You need wise, godly counsel and accountability, not isolation and shame.
You need to remember who you are in Christ, not who you are in the mirror.
All of that is true. I believe it. I just don’t quite know how to take the first step from where I’m sitting, in the quiet of my bedroom, listening to my husband’s breathing beside me and wondering what’s really going on inside his heart.
What I Do Know
Even in the middle of the fear, there are a few things I cling to.
I know God sees me. He sees the dishes in the sink and the bags under my eyes, but He also sees the fears I don’t say out loud and the tears I cry in the shower. He sees every insecure thought and every anxious question. He is not shocked by my mess.
I know God sees my husband. He knows his temptations, his frustrations, his disappointments, the battles he fights that I don’t see. God’s call to him is faithfulness and purity, whether sex is frequent or not. He is accountable first to the Lord.
I know God cares about our marriage. He designed it. He honors the covenant we made before Him. He is not indifferent to the cracks I feel in the foundation. He invites both of us to confess, to repent, to forgive, and to rebuild.
I know I can’t control him. I can’t control whether he looks at porn or not, whether he cheats or not, whether he chooses honesty or hiding. But I can choose what kind of woman and wife I will be in the sight of God—honest, repentant, prayerful, willing to change, and willing to speak truth.
And maybe, just maybe, the first brave step is to stop living in silent fear, and bring the whole mess—my exhaustion, my guilt, my body image, my suspicions, my marriage—out of the shadows and into the light of God’s presence and, in time, into a real conversation with my husband.
I’m not there yet. But tonight, instead of rehearsing worst-case scenarios, I whisper a simple prayer: “Lord, help me trust You more than I fear him failing. Help me believe Your truth more than I believe my insecurities. Show me what to do next.”
I don’t have all the answers. I still feel the knot in my stomach. But I also know the One who holds my husband, my marriage, and my future in His hands. And that’s the only place I have any hope of real peace.