Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

This is the hardest part to write.

Harder than the screaming.
Harder than the slamming doors and sleepless nights.
Harder even than the loneliness of parenting alone beside someone who was supposed to be my partner.

The hardest thing to revisit—what still makes my stomach turn and my chest ache—is the nights when my husband wanted sex, and I didn’t. When my body was saying no, and he refused to hear it.

I was exhausted.
Beyond exhausted.
I worked long hours in a demanding job, then came home to care for four children—homework, sports, practices, orthodontist appointments, school projects, sibling fights, the emotional weather of growing children—all of it fell to me. I carried the weight of everything and everyone. There was nothing left in me at the end of those days.

Sex was not on my mind. Rest was.

But if he wanted it, “no” was never an option. I’d try—gently at first. I’d explain that I was tired, that I needed sleep. He would brush it off. Then he’d push harder. He’d remind me how long it had been. How he “needed” it. If I resisted further, his voice would rise. He’d accuse me of being selfish. Of always putting the children first. Of not caring about him. He’d call me cold. Frigid. Ungrateful. And if I pushed back, he would escalate.

He’d yell.
He’d slam things.
And the children—already sleeping—would begin to cry out, frightened by the noise.

So I would fold. I would quiet myself. I would climb into bed. I would let it happen.

I would dissociate.
I would leave my body.
I would go sailing in my mind, wind on my face, far away on open water. Or I would imagine myself walking through the woods, feet crunching on leaves, mist cool on my cheeks. I would try to disappear.

Because I was not there, not really. Not with him.
I had learned that my peace, my children’s peace, only came when I submitted.

He said he couldn’t sleep without it.
What he meant was he couldn’t tolerate rejection.
What he meant was his needs mattered more than mine.

What I know now—but couldn’t admit then—is that this was rape.
Yes, even in marriage.
Especially in marriage, where love is supposed to mean safety.
Especially in marriage, where consent is still required.

I don’t know how many times it happened.
Too many to count.
Too many to excuse.
Once was too many.

And I never felt loved.
Not once.
Not during those nights.
I felt used. Humiliated. Silenced. Powerless.

Because it was never about us.
It was always about him—his wants, his release, his control.

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What the Law Says

According to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (NCADV):

Marital rape is non-consensual sex in which the perpetrator is the victim’s spouse. It is a form of intimate partner sexual violence and is illegal in all 50 U.S. states, though some states still have exceptions or outdated provisions.

Consent is not implied by marriage.
Consent is not owed.
Consent can be withdrawn at any time.

The Reality

• An estimated 1 in 10 women in the U.S. has been raped by an intimate partner in her lifetime (CDC, 2022).
• Marital rape is one of the least reported and least prosecuted forms of sexual violence due to stigma, fear, and societal minimization.
• Victims often feel trapped, especially when children are involved or financial dependence is a factor.

Why It’s So Hard to Talk About

Because we’ve been told it’s our duty.
Because we’ve been taught that marriage is a contract, and sex is part of the price.
Because we’re afraid no one will believe us.
Because he didn’t hit us, and that makes us question if it was abuse.
Because the shame is unbearable.

But this truth matters.
It matters because too many women are still lying quietly beside men who violate them—night after night—believing they have no choice.
Believing that what’s happening to them isn’t rape.
Believing that if they said it out loud, no one would listen.

So I’m saying it.
Out loud.
Now.

Because what happened to me shouldn’t happen to anyone.