By the end of our drive through Sicily, I was sitting with a question I’ve asked myself more times than I want to admit: Do I still want this?
Not the marriage, exactly, but this version of it. This dynamic where silence feels like distance, and I’m the one who has to bridge it.
Here’s what I’ve been afraid to say out loud: I chose well, and I still sometimes feel alone.
This week, my husband and I spent hours driving through the rolling hills of Sicily. One morning we were speaking about how we each process the world: him through his camera, capturing light and composition, me through words and questions, turning observations into frameworks I might use in my facilitation and coaching.
It felt good recognizing this about us. We’re different, and it works.
Then we fell into our familiar pattern. The conversation ended, and we settled into silence. Miles and miles of quiet.
I felt it start, that tightness in my chest, the familiar ache of feeling disconnected even though he was right there. And then came the pressure I always feel: to bring the conversation back, to ask the next question, to fill the space between us.
I’m good at questions. It’s literally what I do for a living. But in those quiet moments, it stops feeling like a gift and starts feeling like a burden, like I’m responsible for keeping us connected, and if I stop trying, the connection will disappear.
We’re taught that feeling alone in a relationship is a warning sign. A signal that something’s wrong, that you chose poorly, that you should leave or at least seriously reconsider.
But what if that feeling doesn’t always mean you chose wrong? What if sometimes it just means you chose someone whose way of being doesn’t perfectly match yours, and that gap creates occasional distance, and that’s part of what you chose?
He’s told me that for him, the silence IS connection. A different form of it. He experiences our time together as energy, presence and shared emotion, things that don’t need words. The quiet, for him, is full. It’s companionship.
For me, silence is loud. It amplifies every doubt, every distance, every question about whether we’re actually together or just occupying the same space. I channel emotion through language, and without words, I can’t find the thread between us. What feels like intimacy to him registers as absence to me.
We’re not just different. We’re speaking different languages of connection, and neither of us is wrong.
This is the man I chose. This actual person who sees the world through a lens and finds his peace in stillness. Who experiences our drives together as full of something I’m still learning to feel.
And sometimes, in those long silences, I feel alone.
I used to think those two things couldn’t both be true. That if I felt disconnected, it meant I’d chosen wrong. That choosing someone well meant the distance would eventually disappear.
Now I’m learning they can coexist: I chose well. And sometimes I feel alone. That feeling doesn’t negate the choice.
What makes this so hard to accept is that we’re conditioned to see disconnection as a problem to solve. If you feel distant, something needs to change. Either he needs to change, or the relationship needs to change, or you need to leave.
But what if that distance is just the natural friction between two different ways of being? What if it’s not a sign that something’s broken, but simply the space between his way of experiencing connection and mine?
This doesn’t mean I should ignore how I feel or pretend it doesn’t matter. It’s real. It’s uncomfortable. Some days it feels unbearable.
But it also doesn’t mean my choice was wrong.
I could be with someone who processes the way I do, who fills the space with words instead of leaving it quiet. That person exists. And I’d probably feel less disconnected in certain moments.
But I’d also lose this man who I chose for reasons that go deeper than compatibility. I’d lose the way he sees beauty I’d miss on my own. The steadiness of his presence. The peace he’s taught me to value, even when I can’t fully inhabit it.
The question I’m sitting with isn’t “Did I choose wrong?” It’s whether the distance can exist without making it mean something catastrophic about my choice.
This requires something I’m not naturally good at: letting the feeling exist without making it mean something about my choice. Feeling it, honoring it, and also remembering that it’s just one part of a much more complex truth.
Some days I feel the weight of being the one who always initiates. Some days the silence feels unbearable. And some days I wonder what it would be like to never feel this particular ache.
But then I remember: I chose this man. Not just once, but continuously. Not because he’s perfect for me, but because he’s who I want beside me, silence and all.
Maybe the work isn’t making the distance disappear. Maybe it’s learning to let it be there without letting it tell me my choice was wrong.
If you’ve ever felt a form of tension in a relationship with someone you genuinely chose, you might recognize this. We’re taught that ongoing discomfort means something’s wrong, that you picked poorly, that you should reconsider.
Maybe it’s feeling alone like I do. Maybe it’s feeling misunderstood by someone who loves you deeply. Maybe it’s wanting more adventure with a partner who finds peace in routine. Maybe it’s needing more space with someone who thrives on togetherness.
Maybe it’s the particular restlessness that comes from being with someone whose pace of life doesn’t match yours, or the specific frustration of loving someone whose way of showing care doesn’t register as care to you.
But sometimes that tension is just the cost of choosing someone whose way of being creates occasional friction with yours. And that friction doesn’t mean the choice was wrong. It just means you’re two different people trying to be together, and sometimes the gap between you feels uncomfortable.
I chose him. I still choose him. And sometimes I feel alone.
All three are true, and I’m learning to let them be.
P.S. If this letter found you holding multiple truths about your own relationships—that you chose well and still feel disconnected sometimes, or that love doesn’t always feel the way you thought it would—here are ways I can support you:
- Schedule a Momentum Experience – When you’re trying to hold complex truths about your choices without making one truth cancel out the others, this session helps you find clarity about what’s actually yours to carry. [Book your session]
- Read The Book of Choice – Discover how the choices you make—including choosing to stay when it’s not always comfortable—create the life you’re living. [Get the book]
- Take The Choice Quiz – Your approach to honoring hard truths in relationships often mirrors how you handle all your choices. Discover your choice-making style. [Start the quiz]
- Work with me privately – If you’re navigating the space between “I chose well” and “This is still hard,” let’s talk about what that means for you. [Let’s connect]
- Explore Choice Mapping Mastery – When you’re holding truths that seem to contradict each other, this program teaches you how to access your own knowing about what’s real for you. [Learn more]
