In this regard, let me share my personal experience with you.
It isn’t a universal or divine law, just a part of my own life story that I want to share.
And as you know by now, I tend to speak openly and frankly, without taboos. I don’t fear judgment or criticism.
Why am I telling you this?
Because it might help someone. Especially those men who have been left after being cheated on. It is certainly a painful situation; there is no denying that.
What I’m sharing isn’t meant to justify the act of cheating itself, because it causes real pain.
But perhaps it can offer a different perspective—one that is, hopefully, a bit easier to understand.
Let me start by saying that I have always been very steadfast in love. I’ve always tried to be loyal. The idea of juggling multiple relationships or having a foot in two camps isn't in my nature. When a relationship ends, the most natural thing for me to do is to close that chapter.
But once in my life, I made a choice I hadn’t foreseen.
It happened after years in a relationship that was probably the most significant of my life.
At a certain point, I met someone else.
And I made a very deliberate choice—though it was still an act of infidelity: I left a significant relationship to embark on another one that was just as important.
Why did I do it?
Here’s the thing.
When many men are cheated on, the deepest wound comes from the belief that their woman chose another man over them.
But the truth isn’t always that simple.
Sometimes, you don’t choose one man over another.
Sometimes, you choose something different. There are women—myself included—who don’t choose a man.
They choose a different version of themselves.
Sometimes, a woman doesn’t leave a man.
She leaves the person she had become in order to stay with him.
And that is exactly what happened to me.
We were two people with vastly different inner worlds.
I came from an artistic background. I am a creative, intuitive, extremely sensitive, and passionate person.
He, on the other hand, had a much more analytical mind. His work required him to interpret data, observe facts, and reason in a rational, concrete way. He was a very balanced person—a creature of habit who preferred to stick to a precise schedule.
We were like two completely different software programs.
His software couldn't read my emotional world. To him, I was incomprehensible! He couldn't fully grasp my sensitivity, my intensity, or the way I experienced emotions; he struggled to understand my moments of being moved—whether by a movie, a song, or simply an emotional state.
I certainly couldn't say he criticized this side of me—he never scorned or belittled it—but he tended to rationalize everything. Often, when I cried, he would react with a smile that was tender yet filled with disbelief.
My "operating system," however, was able to read his.
That is why I adapted.
I adapted to the way he functioned, to his worldview and his way of experiencing emotions.
For years, I had to translate my vulnerabilities into logic so he could understand them—and I did this even when life plunged me into total darkness, a darkness he, alas, could not comprehend!
He simply couldn't perceive what wasn't visible! He was someone who loved in a balanced way. He measured his words. Even when he got angry, he remained composed. He wasn't an impulsive or passionate person; he was always in control. To him, every problem—whether practical or emotional—was a "problem-solving" task to be analyzed and recalibrated! That certainly made him an absolutely reliable, upright, and grounded man!
At first, I loved that!
It’s just a shame that the human soul isn't a corporate "problem-solving" exercise!!!
I, on the other hand, am someone who experiences everything intensely.
When I love, I love with passion.
When I get angry, I get truly angry.
When I feel desire, I experience it without filters.
I don't view love as something governed by patterns, routines, or habits. I need spontaneity and intensity; I need to be free of rigid structures—to be a feeling that is *felt*, not analyzed and calculated!
At the beginning, his balance made me feel good; it provided stability.
I felt like I had improved. He had taught me to pause before reacting, to weigh my words more carefully.
But over time, something happened—something I only understood later...
To adapt to him, I had started to smooth out the edges of my personality.
I had learned to measure my words, my gestures, and my love.
To measure out even the sex!
That intense, spontaneous side of me had become more controlled, more measured.
And without realizing it, over time, I had lost touch with my true self.
Not because he was the wrong person...
...
And not because I was in the wrong!
Simply because we had two completely different ways of experiencing emotions.
When you’re in a long-term relationship, you get so used to who you’ve become that you no longer notice the transformation.
Until, at some point, something happens.
I met someone who allowed me to be exactly who I am.
With him, I didn’t have to be guarded to be understood.
I didn’t have to...
I didn’t have to make myself less intense or less spontaneous.
He likes me just the way I am: sensitive, creative, irreverent, intense, spontaneous, unfiltered, and free of taboos.
And so, yes—at that point, I started asking myself some questions.
What was it that I truly fell in love with?
What was I choosing?
I didn’t fall in love with one man over another.
I fell in love with how that person made me feel.
With what he was able to bring out in me.
Because sometimes, you don’t choose a man.
You choose the version of yourself you love the most.
And he brought out the Selenia I love.
The one I respect today.
The one I no longer want to change for any reason.
