The Ache Between Freedom and Attachment

I woke up feeling pissy — restless in a way that made no logical sense.

The limerence had me by the throat again.

This wasn’t jealousy. I’m not wired that way. I’ve always believed that love should breathe, that connection should be chosen, not contained. But there it was — a low hum of irritation vibrating under my skin, an energy that felt both ancient and childish.

He told me about two of his new hookups this week. Casual, he said. Nothing serious.

And I wanted to believe I could be indifferent — the evolved, self-assured woman who celebrates her lover’s freedom.

But something inside me clenched.

Maybe it was fear. Fear that he wasn’t using condoms. Fear that he wasn’t telling them about me.

Or maybe it was the quiet injustice of it all — the double standard that’s older than my body.

Because I’m open and notorious with my non-monogamy, I’m the one who risks being branded.

The one whispered about.

The one whose erotic honesty becomes a character flaw.

While men — even those newly initiated into this world — are allowed to explore without scrutiny.

I wanted to be his cheerleader. I wanted to be the woman who could hold his freedom in one hand and my trust in the other. But my body didn’t get the memo. It wanted to curl around him, mark him, pull him back into orbit.

We’ve already said I love you. I believe him when he says it. I feel it when he holds me — the way his breath slows when mine does, the way he looks at me like he’s memorizing a language he’s still learning.

We’ve worked through conflict. He’s chosen me, consciously, repeatedly.

So why do I still feel so unsettled?

Maybe it isn’t fear so much as ache — the ache of wondering whether loving freely means loving in the shadows.

Openness can sometimes feel like invisibility.

He moves through the world unmarked by judgment, while I’m left holding the weight of other people’s projections — the slut, the siren, the lesson.

It isn’t the sex that stings.

It’s the silence that follows — the kind that makes me wonder if my love can ever be seen in daylight.

The way society still writes different stories for men and women who dare to live beyond monogamy.

And yet, I wouldn’t trade this ache. It reminds me that love isn’t meant to be tidy or symmetrical. It’s meant to stretch us — to pull against the skin of our expectations until something new emerges.

So I breathe.

I let the jealousy, the fear, the tenderness all sit at the same table.

Because this is what freedom really looks like: not the absence of feeling, but the willingness to feel it all.