Why Was I the Secret?

Why Was I the Secret?

I can’t stop thinking about why I was the secret—but she wasn’t. What made being with me something to hide?

I’ve spent a lot of the last year trying to understand what dating, friending, and honestly everything even looks like after my life has taken this upside down flip. They say to wait a year after your divorce is finalized before you even think about dating, but it’s lonely sometimes. So, I’ve dabbled.

For the record? I’m terrible at it. I meet someone, I start to care, I let them in… and then I find out they’ve been lying. About something. About me. About us. And I don’t know. I just know one thing—I don’t want to be the secret anymore.

And it’s not just that—I don’t want any secrets anymore. At all. I don’t want to be the girl someone hides. I don’t want to be someone people pretend they don’t know when it’s convenient. If the truth makes us a little uncomfortable, then so be it. I’d rather sit in the discomfort than live in the dark.

Because honestly? It’s getting a little ridiculous. And this whole ‘pairing up in your laters’ thing? Bruh—this is for the birds.

I tried to come up with reasons why men keep secrets at this age. Maybe they’ve been just as hurt as we have. Maybe they’re afraid of something. Maybe they don’t know how to be honest with themselves, let alone with me.

But the more I tried to justify being the secret, the more I saw the truth.

And the truth is simple.

Shame.

I was the secret because he wasn’t ashamed of her. He was ashamed of me.

She was worthy. I wasn’t.

I don’t know how to handle someone else’s shame about me. Or what it looks like to make someone see that knowing me—being with me—isn’t something to be ashamed of.

But maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe I don’t believe it myself.

Because if I did…

Would I even be asking this question?