I need to tell you something I’ve never said out loud.
For the last three years, I’ve been faking it. Not orgasms — closeness. Warmth. The
willingness to be touched. Every time my husband reached for me in bed, something
inside me flinched. Not because I didn’t love him. Not because I didn’t want him.
Because I knew what was coming.
The dryness. The friction. That burning, sandpaper feeling where there used to be
softness. The sting that would last hours afterwards and make me dread the next time
before this time was even over.
So I started making excuses. “I’m tired.” “My back hurts.” “Let’s just watch something.”
At first he understood. Then he stopped reaching. And the space between us — not just
physical, emotional — started growing wider every week.
I was 51 years old and quietly grieving a part of myself I thought menopause had
permanently erased.