We Just Had a Baby. Then She Told Me She Wanted to Sleep With a Stranger.
A story about choosing curiosity over escape, and what happened next.
A few months ago, the mother of my daughter, the love of my life, the Mayor of Babe Town, came home from a walk and said, “Every part of me wanted to go get drunk at a bar and fuck a random stranger.”
She wasn’t joking.
Her eyes told me she was serious.
In that moment, time slowed, and I noticed a fork in the road ahead, reminding me that life is a choose-your-own-adventure experience. Her tender share presented an opportunity, asking, “How do you want to handle this? Which way do you want to go next?”
There were a few options.
I could choose insecurity and tell myself I wasn’t good enough for her, shrink in sorrow, freak out, or run away.
Alternatively, I could choose anger and shame her honesty, lash out at her for even thinking such a blasphemous thing, and shout at her to protect my sadness from being seen.
I could also choose avoidance, shut down, numb out, and get drunk, gamble, or go look at some porn.
But I didn’t choose any of those things.
Instead, I chose compassionate inquiry, smiled big, and said, “Uhhhhhh, don’t do that! Don’t do that.”
Then I asked questions.
I held space for her to vent. I reminded myself that we just had a baby, and she was exhausted with raging hormones fluctuating wildly. I realized this idea wasn’t from her; it was from a younger, more immature version who had temporarily hijacked her system. And it wasn’t about her wanting to cheat on me. It was about her wanting to escape from her overwhelming feelings.
I also did something powerful.
I chose to connect by accepting her invitation to vulnerability. I did this by saying, “Do you want to hear my version of this?” and then, as her surprised eyes widened, I told her about how I’ve been pondering my own escapist daydream to fake my death, change my name, and walk off into a forest, alone, forever - not because I wanted to leave her or didn’t love my life, but because sometimes everything feels like too much.
Looking back, it wasn’t about faking death or banging some stranger at a bar. It was about desiring relief from a relentlessly challenging time. It was about wanting a break from our ongoing initiation into parenthood. It was about our shadow selves grabbing the microphone in our minds and shouting outrageous suggestions at us. It was about wanting to get off the operating table mid-surgery. It was about pushing the escape button. It was about stress and fear and a deeper longing to connect in an isolating moment.
When I discuss the idea that Writing Is Healing, I mean that choice is a creative endeavor, so every moment is malleable. The raw, messy, human moments are where we get to choose how our story goes.
Suffering is a story. Regret is a story. Insecurity is a story.
Our past is a story.
Every moment is a blank page waiting for us to pick up the pen and decide what will happen, and we can live different lives when we choose different actions.
It’s that simple, that sacred, and also the work of a lifetime.