Do I Need Multiple Men to Make All My Personalities Happy?
TikTok video from 2022-07-01
It’s one of those questions that’s meant to be funny, maybe even a little pointed:
“Do you think maybe you need this many men to make all your personalities happy?”
It made me laugh—not because it was mean-spirited, but because it actually brushed against something very real. When people hear that I’m polyamorous and in relationships with several people at once, they often imagine it as excess, or as some chaotic attempt to fill a void. They wonder: Is she not satisfied? Is she scattered? Is she just trying to collect attention?
The truth is: I’m not trying to manage multiple versions of myself.
I’m trying to honor all of me—the integrated, complex, evolving woman I’ve become after 36 years of partnership, 35 years of marriage, and a lifetime of unlearning.
And to be honest, I wasn’t always aware of what I needed.
Like many people, I entered marriage at 23 with love in my heart and hope in my bones. We had chemistry. We got along. Our families approved. The infrastructure of a successful marriage seemed to be there. What I didn’t have, though, was language or clarity around what marriage actually required over time.
Then yesterday, I listened to an episode of Libby Sinback’s Making Polyamory Work podcast, where she posited that marriage isn’t just one relationship—it’s nine distinct relationships rolled into one.
That framework helped me finally articulate what I’ve come to understand about love, partnership, and polyamory: no one person is supposed to meet every need. And we shouldn’t feel broken when they don’t.
According to Libby, a typical marriage includes nine intertwined roles: friendship, romance, sexual connection, shared household management, financial partnership, familial bonding, co-parenting (or co-pet-parenting), caregiving, and bed-sharing.
When I got married, I didn’t know to think about financial compatibility, sleep preferences, or how romantic gestures—or the lack of them—would affect me over time. I didn’t question whether we were compatible in our physical intimacy style or whether we’d want to raise pets, children, or emotional standards the same way. I didn’t know to ask: Will I want someone who shares my kink? My communication style? My need for solitude?
We were two 20-somethings, horny and hopeful, figuring it out as we went.
And for a while, it worked. We raised kids. We built a home. We stayed married.
But with time, we changed.
Life expanded.
So did we.
My husband and I are still deeply compatible in many ways. We’re strong co-parents. We manage a home together with ease. We share family bonds. We show up as caregivers when needed. And after decades of trying to make one bed work for both of us, we happily sleep in our own spaces. (That, for us, was one of the most liberating decisions.)
But other areas faded, not out of neglect, but simply because we’re different people now.
He’s not romantic. I am.
He enjoys spiritually-infused sexual connection. I prefer power dynamics and kink.
He’s a spender. I’m a saver.
He flails in his sleep. I’m a light sleeper who loves stillness and silence.
We tried for years to adjust, to bend, to find middle ground in these areas. Sometimes we succeeded, other times we white-knuckled it. But eventually, we reached a point of truth: we don’t have to force each other into roles we don’t naturally inhabit.
That’s when we stopped trying to be “everything” for one another.
And that’s when we started living with more grace, peace, and honesty.
Polyamory didn’t arrive as an escape hatch. It wasn’t our last resort. It was a doorway into self-honesty and relational abundance.
It allowed me to stop asking one person to meet all nine of my core relational needs.
It gave me space to explore what different relationships could offer—without guilt, without betrayal, and with full transparency.
I have a romantic partner with whom I go on dates, dress up, hold hands, and be seen.
I have a lover who shares my kink, who meets me in power and play.
I have a non-sexual partner who cuddles me weekly and tells me I’m cherished.
I have a long-distance soulmate who texts me every few months and grounds me spiritually.
I have a past partner who loved me enough to choose monogamy with someone else—and that was a kind of love, too.
All of them contribute to a life that feels whole. Not because they fill holes inside me, but because they each allow me to show up as I am—with full presence, without compromise.
So when someone asks whether I need “this many men” to satisfy me, the answer is:
No. But I do need freedom. I do need variety. I do need permission to be fully, wholly myself.
Polyamory gives me that.
Not everyone needs multiple partners.
Not everyone will resonate with this model.
And for some, one person truly can meet all nine roles across a lifetime—that’s worth celebrating.
But for the rest of us?
For those who feel too big, too multi-faceted, too longing to fit into a traditional model?
You are not broken. You are just ready to expand.
Whether that expansion looks like polyamory, creative friendships, conscious co-living, or emotional clarity within monogamy—what matters most is that your life reflects your truth.
For me, that truth includes a husband, a bedmate, a kink partner, a romantic companion, a soulmate, a girlfriend, and a few occasional flirts.
And no, it’s not because I have too many personalities.
It’s because I’ve finally made peace with having one—and she’s no longer shrinking to fit anyone’s definition of love.
