The Day My Husband Said He Doesn’t Love Me—And Why It Brought Us Closer
TikTok video from 2023-08-02
There are moments in every long-term relationship that take your breath away—not because they’re romantic or dramatic, but because they peel away the comfort, the routine, the assumptions, and they drop you right into the raw heart of truth.
This was one of those moments.
My husband and I were watching a video by Hope Pedler—one that explores the difference between love, care, and chi (that vibrant, energetic life force that animates connection). When the video ended, he turned to me and said:
“I don’t think I’ve been loving you. I think I’ve just been caring for you.”
And just like that, the ground beneath me shifted.
In fact, it was the most honest, clarifying, and connective thing he’s said to me in a very long time.
It wasn’t an accusation.
It wasn’t a withdrawal.
It was a confession of self-awareness—and it cracked something open in both of us.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
For years, my husband has shown me care.
He makes sure the house is clean.
He prepares meals.
He helps with the practical things that make our shared life run smoothly.
He does what needs to be done.
But love—the kind that fuels spiritual growth, sensual intimacy, and a deep desire to elevate one another’s soul—that kind of love had gone missing. Not intentionally, not maliciously… just quietly, slowly, as we settled into the predictable rhythm of life together.
And for a while, I confused his caretaking for love.
Because I was afraid to name the emptiness that had crept in.
But in that moment, as we sat in silence after his words, I felt relief.
He saw it.
He named it.
And for the first time in years, we were standing in the same truth.
This moment also gave me something else—a reflection of how I have been loving him.
I’m someone who leads with growth.
My love language isn’t flowers or foot rubs—it’s evolution.
It’s “Read this book.”
It’s “Change that word.”
It’s “Don’t say ‘I’m an idiot,’ say, ‘I didn’t know that until now.’”
I’ve been the spiritual accountability partner. The language editor. The emotional excavator. The one always reaching for the next level—for myself and for him.
And while that, too, is a form of love, I can see now that it’s been heavy. Sometimes invasive. Sometimes more about my need to transform than his readiness to receive it.
In trying to pull him forward, I forgot to ask if he felt safe exactly where he was.
Then, just yesterday, we had a conversation that reminded me of who we are when we both show up.
He sensed I’d been angry with him. And instead of ignoring it or walking on eggshells, he asked:
“Why are you angry?”
And I realized… I wasn’t anymore.
I had moved through the anger.
I had done the work—internally. Quietly. In the dark.
So I told him:
“I was angry. But I’ve already processed it. And I still want to talk about it—not from a place of blame, but from a place of truth.”
And he listened.
Not defensively. Not with fear. But with presence.
He allowed me to express.
He acknowledged my experience.
And then—he thanked me.
That simple act of mutual regulation, of slowing down enough to meet in a moment of softness instead of reaction, reminded me of something so important:
We’re still in this together.
Even if we’ve been loving each other imperfectly.
Even if we’ve mistaken care for intimacy.
Even if we’ve lost our way a little.
We’re still here.
So yes, my husband told me he doesn’t love me—not in the way he thought love should be.
He saw that he’s been caring, not elevating.
That he’s been supporting the structure of our life, but not actively tending to the emotional and spiritual fire that burns beneath it.
And in saying that, he opened the door for something new.
A redefinition.
A re-engagement.
A conscious choice to do love differently.
For me, this is the most polyamorous part of our story—not the multiple partners or open dynamics, but the willingness to examine our connection without clinging to a fixed identity.
We’re not who we were ten years ago. Or even last year.
We’ve changed. And polyamory has allowed us to keep discovering each other, again and again, through honest conversations that would have never happened in the version of us that chose silence over disruption.
Now, instead of resenting what’s missing, I speak it.
Instead of measuring love in tasks completed, I ask for presence.
Instead of assuming he knows what I need, I name it—without shame, without apology.
And I’m learning to love myself better, too.
Not just by how I care for others, but by how I allow myself to receive.
Love evolves.
It contracts. It stretches.
Sometimes it rests in the quiet comfort of care.
And sometimes it needs to burn a little hotter to remind us we’re still alive.
When my husband told me he doesn’t love me—not in the way I need to be loved—it wasn’t the end of our story.
It was the beginning of a more honest chapter.
And honesty, for me, will always be love’s truest form.
