When You Want Sex More Than Your Husband

April 15, 2026 in Marriage & Love | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

After twenty years of marriage, people tend to assume they know what love looks like. Comfort. Familiarity. Quiet evenings and shared routines that no longer need much explanation.

In many ways, they’re right. My husband and I have built a life that feels steady. We talk easily. We enjoy driving places together and filling the time with conversation. We can sit in the same room without needing constant attention from each other. There’s a deep friendship in that kind of marriage, and in many ways, it’s good. Very good.

But that isn’t the whole picture.

Last week made that quite clear. Every day that week, I wanted to have sex with my husband. Not in a vague, romantic sense. I mean I wanted sex. I thought about it. I went to bed expecting there was a fair chance it would happen.

Some nights I curled up next to him, waiting to see if he would turn toward me. Other nights I put my hand on his leg so it was obvious where I stood. There was nothing particularly subtle about it.

And every night, there was a reason it didn’t happen. He didn’t feel well. He was sore from working out. He was exhausted. It was late. All of those things were true. None of them were unreasonable.

And yet I still wanted sex.

Not because anything was wrong between us. Not because I felt unloved. I wasn’t lying there wondering if he cared about me. I knew he did.

But being loved and being wanted sexually are not the same thing, and I was very aware of that difference by the end of the week.

I do initiate sometimes. But if I’m honest, I prefer when he does. There’s something about being chosen in that moment that feels different. Especially now, when I am more aware of my body than I used to be. I am not the size I once was, and while I don’t spend much time dwelling on that, it sits there quietly in the background.

When he initiates, it tells me he still finds me sexy.

Not in a general, long-married way. Not in the “of course I love you” sense. It tells me he looks at me and wants sex with me. That matters more than I tend to admit.

Years ago, when we attended marriage retreats, the message for wives was always the same. Your husband has needs. Physical needs. Be attentive to them. The assumption was that men want sex more, and women respond to that.

That has never quite fit my marriage.

No one ever talks about the wife who wants sex more. The one lying there awake, fully aware of it, waiting to see if he will turn toward her. It’s a slightly awkward place to sit, if I’m honest. Not painful. Not dramatic. Just… there.

In a long marriage, desire doesn’t line up neatly. It shifts with energy, stress, health, and timing. Some nights it matches. Some nights it doesn’t.

Nothing is broken. Nothing is wrong. But the difference is still there.

You can have a good marriage—a steady one, a happy one—and still lie next to your husband wanting sex when he doesn’t.

That doesn’t simply disappear because everything else in the marriage works.

— Kate

This Time, We’re Looking for Something Different

April 3, 2026 in Faith & Church | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

There is something different about going to church now.

For years, church was simply part of our life. We went every service: Sunday school, morning service, evening service, Wednesday nights. It was what we did. And for a long time, there were parts of it we genuinely enjoyed. We looked forward to Sunday school, and I loved playing in the orchestra and singing in the choir.

But even with those things, after we left and came back things had changed. If I’m honest, looking back now I can see that we had stopped wanting to go for quite a while. We still went, but it felt more like going through the motions, something we were supposed to do rather than something we were drawn to. There was a quiet sense of obligation in it.

When our Sunday school teacher, who was also the music director, announced he was leaving, something shifted for us. It became a kind of quiet countdown. We talked about it and realised that our last Sunday would likely be his, or close to it.

Because when we really thought about it, I was only still going for Sunday school and the music, and my husband was mostly going for me.

And neither of those are reasons to stay.

After we left, I expected something to feel different. I thought Sundays might feel empty, or that I might feel like I was letting the Lord down by not being in church. But it didn’t feel that way. It felt… normal. If anything, it felt like something had been lifted.

That was one of the first things that made me realise just how much had changed before we ever left.

Since leaving, something else has stood out as well. Every time we’ve gone to a new church, we’ve been ready early, early enough that we often arrive and sit in the car for a few minutes before going in. Before, we were always rushing and running in just on time or even a few minutes late.

I used to say it was the devil hindering us, trying to keep us from getting to church. But one Sunday, sitting there early at a new church we were trying, I said to my husband:

“Maybe this should tell us something.”

And it did. Perhaps it wasn’t resistance that made Sunday mornings a rush. Perhaps it was that we simply didn’t want to go anymore.

Now, when we visit churches, we are not looking for the same things we once were. We’re not looking for activity or familiarity.

We’re looking for something harder to describe. A sense of rightness.

We notice things more now: how people interact, how the service feels, and whether the message actually reaches us. One of the things we’ve realised is that we don’t want to be overwhelmed when we walk in. Some churches were very welcoming — almost aggressively so — with people coming up immediately, asking questions, and wanting information.

There is nothing wrong with that. But for us, in this stage, it doesn’t feel right.

We are just trying to see if a place fits.

The churches we’ve returned to more than once have something in common. They let you sit. Perhaps one person says hello, and then you’re left to take it in. That feels better to us.

Recently, we visited a Catholic church, and it was completely different from what we were used to. When we walked in, it was quiet: no music, no greetings, just people sitting, praying, and reflecting.

It felt like people had come there for the right reason. To worship.

We didn’t understand everything — the kneeling, the sign of the cross, the structure of the service — but something about it drew us in.

And we found ourselves wanting to understand it.

The readings were laid out clearly, and we felt connected to what was happening. We were engaged in a way that felt different from what we had experienced before. And the message stayed with us. We talked about it afterward and found ourselves continuing those conversations during the week. That hasn’t always been the case.

The more we’ve gone through this process, the more we’ve realised something else. Our faith hasn’t changed in its foundation, but we are re-examining things we were taught, especially about other denominations. It makes us wonder if some of what we were told was shaped more by keeping people within a certain church than by truth itself.

And in a way, this has brought us closer to God. We talk about faith more now than we did before. We think about it more. We are more intentional.

We don’t know exactly where we will end up yet. But we do know what we are looking for.

And that is a place that feels right. A place that draws us closer to God.

And this time, it isn’t about what feels right for anyone else.

It’s about what is right for us.

And trusting that God will lead us there.

— Kate

I Never Wanted to Be a Mother

March 27, 2026 in Motherhood | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

There is something I have never felt comfortable saying out loud.

I never wanted to be a mother.

I knew that long before I ever became one.

When I was younger, I remember telling friends I didn’t want children. They thought I was joking. They told me I would change my mind.

I didn’t.

In university, when I started getting serious with my first boyfriend, he told me he couldn’t have children. He said it as if he was disappointing me.

I remember letting him believe that.

Not because it was true, but because I thought saying I didn’t want children at all might make him think less of me.

So I stayed quiet.

And eventually, I followed the same path most people do.

You date.
You get married.
You have children.

My husband and I did the same.

Years later, we talked about it and realised something neither of us had said at the time.

Neither of us had strongly wanted children.

If we had been honest with each other then, we likely would not have had them.

But we weren’t.

So we did what we thought we were supposed to do.

When I became pregnant, I wasn’t excited.

There was no emotional moment, no overwhelming sense of anticipation.

Even then, I knew.

After she was born, I took care of her. I did everything I was supposed to do.

But the role itself never changed for me.

I didn’t enjoy the “mother” parts of life.

I’m not a hugger.

I was the one who thought, if you’re not bleeding, you’re fine.

I avoided field trips whenever I could.

I didn’t take photos at every event or occasion.

I didn’t get emotional when she started school, went to camps, or left for university.

Those moments never felt like losses to me.

They felt like things moving forward.

That never changed.

Recently, she was home for about a week and a half over spring break. She had surgery while she was here, so I was taking care of her — making sure she was eating, taking her medication, and that she was comfortable.

And I did all of it.

But it was exhausting.

By the end of that time, I was ready for her to leave and go back to university.

Not because I don’t love her.

But because being needed in that way has always felt like work to me.

Now that she is grown, I enjoy our relationship more than I did when she was younger.

I like talking with her. I like hearing about her life.

I like the parts that feel more like friendship.

But there is still something added to it because I am her mother.

And that part has never felt natural to me.

For a long time, I thought something must be wrong with me.

Because no one says this.

No one admits they never wanted to be a mother.

But loving your child and wanting motherhood are not the same thing.

I love my daughter.

But I never wanted to be a mum.

And that has always been true.

— Kate

I Was Ready for Her to Leave

March 16, 2026 in Motherhood | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

The first time I realised I might be different from other mothers, we were standing in a driveway on prom night.

Our children were dressed up, awkward and beautiful, posing for photographs before heading off to dinner. I was chatting with another mum about university plans — where her son was looking, where my daughter was considering.

She mentioned a school in Florida her son was thinking about. A local community college her daughter might attend. Then she said, almost wistfully, “Honestly, I hope they both decide to stay here. I’d be perfectly happy if they never left home.”

I remember nodding politely.

And thinking, Why wouldn’t they leave?

I love my daughter. Fiercely. I am proud of her independence, her ambition, her willingness to move eight hours away and build a life of her own.

But I have never understood the desire to keep her close simply because it makes me feel better.

When her final year of school approached, other mothers spoke about the coming emptiness as though it were a tragedy. They asked if I was ready. If I would cry. If I would miss her terribly.

I smiled and said I would miss her.

Which is true.

But I did not feel devastation. I felt readiness.

I have always believed children are meant to leave.

Not because we want rid of them.
But because we have raised them to stand.

When she chose to stay at university for the summer, some were surprised I wasn’t heartbroken. I shrugged. She is building her life. That is the point.

Perhaps I am odd.

I did not build my entire identity around motherhood. I did not centre my world solely on her schedule. Even when she was young, I encouraged sleep-away camps and independence. She thrived. So did we.

Loving your child and longing for an empty nest are not opposites.

They can exist side by side.

Pride does not always look like tears.

Sometimes it looks like stepping back and saying, Go on then. Live.

– Kate

The Girl in the Playpen

March 13, 2026 in Reflections | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

I have been content on my own for as long as I can remember.

My grandmother likes to tell a story about me as a toddler. I was in one of those old wooden playpens, happily occupied. If I wanted out, I would remove a slat, climb out, let her into the room while my mother was napping, and then climb back in.

Not because I was trapped.

Because I was content.

My mother says I didn’t cry much. I didn’t fuss. I wasn’t dramatic. I was observant. Quiet. Self-contained.

For most of my life, I never thought much about it.

I did not feel misunderstood. I did not feel wrong. I simply assumed everyone processed the world internally the way I did.

Friendships were uncomplicated. Which was perhaps made easier since most of my friends were boys. There was very little emotional analysis, very little drama. We talked, we laughed, we moved on.

I did not unravel easily. When something hurt, I thought about it privately and then moved forward.

It wasn’t suppression.

It was regulation.

As I grew older, I began to realise not everyone moves through life that way. Some people need to speak their thoughts aloud. Some need reassurance. Some need visible affection and affirmation.

I have always needed very little.

That independence has served me well. It has made me capable. It has made me resilient. It has allowed me to stand firmly on my own two feet without demanding much from anyone else.

But I sometimes wonder what it costs.

When you are the steady one, people assume you are fine. When you do not cry, they assume nothing hurts. When you handle things quietly, they assume you prefer it that way.

And often, I do.

I am not a worrier. I do not spiral easily. I am rarely overwhelmed by emotion.

But being reserved does not mean being empty.

It simply means the waters run deep and still, rather than loud or visible.

The girl in the playpen did not need rescuing.

She was content.

The woman she became is much the same.

Independent. Measured. Observant.

Still capable of letting herself out when she chooses.

And perhaps still learning that sometimes, it is all right to let someone open the gate for her.

– Kate

When the Church You Loved No Longer Felt Like Home

March 9, 2026 in Faith & Church | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

There is a kind of grief people don’t often talk about.

The quiet grief of leaving a church you once believed would always be your church home.

For many years, our lives were deeply connected to one church. We didn’t just attend on Sunday mornings. We were there for Sunday school, morning services, evening services, and Wednesday nights. I sang in the choir, participated in specials, and played in the orchestra. Our daughter went to the school connected to the church.

In many ways, our lives were woven into that place.

And for a long time, it felt right.

We had joined not long after beginning to attend. The sermons were meaningful, the people seemed welcoming, and our daughter loved being there with her friends. After leaving another church where we no longer felt connected, it truly felt like we had found where we belonged.

For years we were all in.

But sometimes things change slowly, almost quietly, until one day you realise something feels different.

For us, that shift began with a situation involving the pastor’s family many years ago. It was handled in ways that raised questions for us. At the time, we tried to move past it and continue focusing on our faith and the good things happening in the church.

But when trust shifts even slightly, it can change how you hear things afterward.

Over time we began noticing other things more clearly.

The turning point came during our daughter’s senior year of school.

The pastor’s wife was coaching the volleyball team. Throughout that season, our daughter was placed under increasing pressure as the only senior on the team. She was told she should attend practice even when she was sick because she was supposed to be the leader.

At the first home game of the season, she was not named captain. Instead the captains were the coach’s daughter and her best friend. During that game our daughter made a diving play and was immediately criticised by the coach and removed from the game.

After the game the criticism continued.

I was so upset I had to leave the gym. My husband stepped in to support our daughter while the coach continued speaking to her.

What followed was a meeting with the pastor and his wife that felt less like a conversation and more like pressure for my husband to apologise for disagreeing with how things had been handled.

That meeting changed something permanently for him.

Respect once lost is very difficult to rebuild.

After that point, he continued attending Sunday school with me because we loved the teacher and genuinely felt we were learning there. But his trust in the pastor had been broken.

For a while we kept attending anyway.

Sometimes people stay longer than they should because leaving feels harder than remaining.

Eventually I realised something I hadn’t wanted to admit.

The only parts of church I still felt connected to were Sunday school and the music ministry I loved being part of. When our Sunday school teacher announced he would be leaving for a job out of state, it forced me to admit something to myself.

If the only reasons I was still attending were Sunday school and music, then perhaps I was no longer truly part of that church.

And church should never be reduced to a schedule of activities you feel obligated to attend.

So we left.

Looking back now, something else stands out to me that we didn’t fully recognise at the time.

Toward the end, getting to church had begun to feel like something we had to push ourselves to do. We were always there, but often rushing in at the last minute. Sometimes arriving just as things were starting.

Since leaving, something curious has happened.

On the Sundays we do attend church somewhere, we are ready early. So early that we often arrive and sit in the car for a few minutes before going inside.

Recently I mentioned that to my husband. I said perhaps that tells us something about the church we left.

He thought for a moment and said something that stayed with me.

“Toward the end it started to feel like a job. Like keeping up appearances. Not like going to worship.”

And hearing him say that made me realise he was probably right.

When we stopped attending, I assumed at least a few people might reach out.

After all, we had been deeply involved for years.

One person did.

Just one.

It was not the pastor, not the assistant pastor, and not anyone in church leadership.

Another message came months later, but it felt less like concern and more like someone confirming something they had already heard.

And that silence told us something important.

Perhaps the sense of family we believed existed there had not been as real as we thought.

Even so, leaving did not damage our faith.

If anything, it clarified it.

Our faith was never meant to be tied to one building or one group of people.

Faith is something steadier than that.

We still attend church most Sundays, visiting different congregations and learning what we can along the way.

We haven’t found a new place to call home yet.

But for now, that feels alright.

Because sometimes leaving a place is not the end of faith.

Sometimes it is simply the beginning of seeing it more clearly.

— Kate

The 9–5 Life I’m Grateful For (And Still Want to Leave)

March 6, 2026 in Work & Independence | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

I work a steady 9–5.

I am not underpaid. I am not mistreated. I am not overlooked.

In fact, I am valued.

I manage an office where I am trusted with details that matter. I am asked for my opinion. I am relied upon. There are days when I leave knowing I made someone else’s work lighter, easier, more organised.

There are parts of it I actually genuinely enjoy. Walking through properties with a notebook in hand. Taking photos. Noticing the details others might miss. Turning information into something presentable and polished.

And then there are the other moments.

The quiet stretches when there is nothing urgent to do. When I sit at my desk and feel the clock instead of the purpose. When I look out the window and think about all the things I could be doing if I weren’t here because I am “supposed” to be here.

It’s a curious tension — to be grateful and restless at the same time.

I know how fortunate I am. I know many would be thankful for the steadiness, the respect, the regular pay. I do not take that lightly.

But there is a part of me that wants more autonomy than appreciation.

I want to wake up and decide what the day will require of me. I want to work because I choose to, not because the clock says I must. I want to leave in the middle of the afternoon without calculating how it looks.

If money were not part of the equation, I would have left already.

Not out of anger.
Not out of rebellion.
But out of a quiet pull toward something self-directed.

Perhaps this is what happens at forty. You begin to notice the difference between security and freedom.

I am grateful for the life this job supports. Truly.

And yet, somewhere underneath the gratitude, there is a small voice asking,

“What would it look like to build something of my own?”

I don’t quite have the full answer yet.

But I am listening.

– Kate

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Married 20 Years — And Still Myself

March 3, 2026 in Marriage & Love | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

I married young.

Twenty felt grown at the time. It does not, in hindsight.

We did not have a dramatic love story. There were no grand gestures or cinematic moments. No lightning bolt when our hands touched. I was attracted to him, yes — but our beginning was steady, not electric.

If I’m honest, I used to wonder whether that meant something was missing.

I’ve read the novels. The ones that describe a spark so strong it feels almost violent. The kind of chemistry that consumes the room. I’m not sure we ever had that. What we had was conversation. Laughter. Ease. A shared sense that life together would be calm rather than chaotic.

Over twenty years, that steadiness has held.

We have never had a disagreement so sharp that I thought we might split. There have been seasons of distance. Moments when I wondered if we married too quickly. A period, around ten years in, when I quietly questioned whether I had mistaken comfort for compatibility.

Those thoughts did not linger. But they existed.

What we have built is something less dramatic and, perhaps, more durable.

We talk. Constantly. The best parts of our holidays are often the drives — long stretches of road where conversation unfolds without effort. We were careful, even when our daughter was young, not to lose ourselves entirely in parenting. We did not want to wake up to an empty house and realize we were strangers.

Now, with twenty years behind us, I can say this:

I am still myself.

Marriage did not swallow me. It did not shrink me. I have always known I could stand on my own two feet if I needed to. That independence has never threatened him, and his steadiness has never confined me.

Do I sometimes wish for more tenderness? Yes. I wish he would come up behind me in the kitchen and wrap his arms around me without prompting. I wish for small, unasked-for gestures. Not grand passion — just quiet closeness.

But longing for more does not mean lacking love.

It means I am still human. Still wanting. Still alive to the idea that marriage can continue growing, even twenty years in.

There is something deeply reassuring about choosing one another, again and again, without fireworks. Without spectacle.

Just two people who talk well. Travel well. Think similarly. Believe similarly.

It may not be the sort of love written about in novels.

But it is ours. It has grown with us — quieter, deeper, more certain.

And after twenty years, that feels like something rare.

– Kate

Raising Someone Nothing Like You

February 27, 2026 in Motherhood | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

I used to assume that if I ever had a daughter, she would be like me.

Quiet. Independent. Capable of sorting through her own problems without much fuss.

Instead, I was given a girl who feels everything.

She cries at sad films. At kind gestures. At disappointment. At things I would have simply swallowed and moved on from. She talks through her worries. Replays conversations. Questions herself in ways that leave me tired simply listening.

For years, if I’m honest, I mistook our differences for weaknesses — hers, not mine.

I didn’t understand the drama of secondary school friendships. I didn’t understand the tears over boys who hadn’t earned them. I didn’t understand the anxiety over grades when she was already doing well.

At her age, my friendships were uncomplicated. Mostly boys. Very little emotion. I made good grades without much effort — and when I got bored, I simply disengaged. Life felt rather straightforward.

Hers does not.

She sets impossibly high standards for herself. All A’s or nothing. Certainty or failure. Love or rejection. There is very little middle ground.

I encourage. I reassure. I tell her she is capable. Sometimes she believes me. Often she doesn’t.

And I have had to learn something uncomfortable:
Just because I do not experience the world the way she does does not mean her experience is wrong.

It is simply different.

She is in her second year at university now, eight hours away. Brave enough to build a life far from home. Strong enough to navigate things I never had to. Sensitive enough to care deeply when others might not.

I am proud of her — not because she is like me.

But because she isn’t.

Perhaps part of motherhood — even for those of us who never quite felt the instinct the way others seem to — is learning to raise someone without trying to remake them in your own image.

She is emotional. I am measured.
She is social. I am reserved.
She doubts herself. I rarely have.

And yet, somehow, we fit.

I am still learning her.
And perhaps she is still learning me.

Maybe that is the quiet work of raising a daughter — not shaping her into who you would have been, but standing steady while she becomes who she already is.

– Kate

When Home Changes

February 25, 2026 in Reflections | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

I have lived long enough in two countries to know that no place stays frozen in time.

I was fourteen when I left England. Old enough to remember the cadence of it. The quiet politeness. The way neighbors acknowledged one another, even if only with a nod. When I visit now, it feels different. Faster. Sharper around the edges.

America was the country that shaped my adulthood. I married here. Raised my daughter here. Built a life here. And for a long time, it felt steady.

Not perfect. But steady.

I remember strangers smiling in the grocery aisle. Drivers lifting a hand from the steering wheel in passing. Neighbors who disagreed about politics but still borrowed sugar and returned it with a laugh and a “thank you, love.”

We had differences. But we also had a shared understanding that the person across from us still had value.

Lately, that feels thinner.

Conversations feel guarded. Opinions feel dangerous. Disagreement feels personal. Somewhere along the way, it seems we began equating disagreement with dismissal — as though if someone does not share our view, they must lack intelligence, compassion, or character.

I don’t believe that’s true.

I was raised in a faith that taught me every person bears the image of God. Others may not use that language, but many were raised with similar foundations — respect your elders, be kind, treat people as you wish to be treated. The source may differ, but the principle was the same.

Now I sometimes wonder if we’ve forgotten how to sit across from one another without our guard up.

Perhaps every generation says this. Perhaps this is simply what change feels like when you are no longer twenty.

But I miss the wave from passing drivers.
I miss assuming goodwill.
I miss believing that disagreement did not automatically mean division.

I still love this country. I chose it. That matters to me.

But loving something does not mean pretending it hasn’t changed.

Maybe the better question is not “What happened to us?”
Maybe it’s “How do we remember who we are?”

Perhaps we begin small.
A smile. A wave. A conversation without accusation.

It’s not naïve to believe those things matter.

It might be the only place to start.

– Kate